12753	----	Proofreaders Europe, http://dp.rastko.net. The Legends of KING ARTHUR and his KNIGHTS Sir James Knowles Illustrated by Lancelot Speed TO ALFRED TENNYSON, D.C.L. POET LAUREATE THIS ATTEMPT AT A POPULAR VERSION OF THE ARTHUR LEGENDS IS BY HIS PERMISSION DEDICATED AS A TRIBUTE OF THE SINCEREST AND WARMEST RESPECT 1862 PREFACE TO THE EIGHTH EDITION The Publishers have asked me to authorise a new edition, in my own name, of this little book--now long out of print--which was written by me thirty-five years ago under the initials J.T.K. In acceding to their request I wish to say that the book as now published is merely a word-for-word reprint of my early effort to help to popularise the Arthur legends. It is little else than an abridgment of Sir Thomas Malory's version of them as printed by Caxton--with a few additions from Geoffrey of Monmouth and other sources--and an endeavour to arrange the many tales into a more or less consecutive story. The chief pleasure which came to me from it was, and is, that it began for me a long and intimate acquaintance with Lord Tennyson, to whom, by his permission, I Dedicated it before I was personally known to him. JAMES KNOWLES. _Addendum by Lady Knowles_ In response to a widely expressed wish for a fresh edition of this little book--now for some years out of print--a new and ninth edition has been prepared. In his preface my husband says that the intimacy with Lord Tennyson to which it led was the chief pleasure the book brought him. I have been asked to furnish a few more particulars on this point that may be generally interesting, and feel that I cannot do better than give some extracts from a letter written by himself to a friend in July 1896. "DEAR ----, "I am so _very_ glad you approve of my little effort to popularise the Arthur Legends. Tennyson had written his first four 'Idylls of the King' before my book appeared, which was in 1861. Indeed, it was in consequence of the first four Idylls that I sought and obtained, while yet a stranger to him, leave to dedicate my venture to him. He was extremely kind about it--declared 'it ought to go through forty editions'--and when I came to know him personally talked very frequently about it and Arthur with me, and made constant use of it when he at length yielded to my perpetual urgency and took up again his forsaken project of treating the whole subject of King Arthur. "He discussed and rediscussed at any amount of length the way in which this could now be done--and the Symbolism, which had from his earliest time haunted him as the inner meaning to be given to it, brought him back to the Poem in its changed shape of separate pictures. "He used often to say that it was entirely my doing that he revived his old plan, and added, 'I know more about Arthur than any other man in England, and I think you know next most.' It would amuse you to see in what intimate detail he used to consult with me--and often with my little book in front of us--over the various tales, and when I wrote an article (in the shape of a long letter) in the _Spectator_ of January 1870 he asked to reprint it, and published it with the collected Idylls. "For years, while his boys were at school and college, I acted as his confidential friend in business and many other matters, and I suppose he told me more about himself and his life than any other man now living knows." ISABEL KNOWLES. CONTENTS CHAPTER I The Finding of Merlin--The Fight of the Dragons--The Giants' Dance--The Prophecies of Merlin and the Birth of Arthur--Uther attacks the Saxons--The Death of Uther CHAPTER II Merlin's Advice to the Archbishop--The Miracle of the Sword and Stone--The Coronation of King Arthur--The Opposition of the Six Kings--The Sword Excalibur--The Defeat of the Six Kings--The War with the Eleven Kings CHAPTER III The Adventure of the Questing Beast--The Siege of York--The Battles of Celidon Forest and Badon Hill--King Arthur drives the Saxons from the Realm--The Embassy from Rome--The King rescues Merlin--The Knight of the Fountain CHAPTER IV King Arthur conquers Ireland and Norway--Slays the Giant of St. Michael's Mount and conquers Gaul--King Ryence's Insolent Message--The Damsel and the Sword--The Lady of the Lake--The Adventures of Sir Balin CHAPTER V Sir Balin kills Sir Lancear--The Sullen Knight--The Knight Invisible is killed--Sir Balin smites the Dolorous Stroke, and fights with his brother Sir Balan CHAPTER VI The Marriage of King Arthur and Guinevere--The Coronation of the Queen--The Founding of the Round Table--The Quest of the White Hart--The Adventures of Sir Gawain--The Quest of the White Hound--Sir Tor kills Abellius--The Adventures of Sir Pellinore--The Death of Sir Hantzlake--Merlin saves King Arthur CHAPTER VII King Arthur and Sir Accolon of Gaul are entrapped by Sir Damas--They fight each other through Enchantment of Queen Morgan le Fay--Sir Damas is compelled to surrender all his Lands to Sir Outzlake his Brother their Rightful Owner--Queen Morgan essays to kill King Arthur with a Magic Garment--Her Damsel is compelled to wear it and is thereby burned to Cinders CHAPTER VIII A Second Embassy from Rome--King Arthur's Answer--The Emperor assembles his Armies--King Arthur slays the Emperor--Sir Gawain and Sir Prianius--The Lombards are defeated--King Arthur crowned at Rome CHAPTER IX The Adventures of Sir Lancelot--He and his Cousin Sir Lionel set forth--The Four Witch-Queens--King Bagdemagus--Sir Lancelot slays Sir Turquine and delivers his Captive Knights--The Foul Knight--Sir Gaunter attacks Sir Lancelot--The Four Knights--Sir Lancelot comes to the Chapel Perilous--Ellawes the Sorceress--The Lady and the Falcon--Sir Bedivere and the Dead Lady CHAPTER X Beaumains is made a Kitchen Page by Sir Key--He claims the Adventure of the Damsel Linet--He fights with Sir Lancelot and is knighted by him in his True Name of Gareth--Is flouted by the Damsel Linet--But overthrows all Knights he meets and sends them to King Arthur's Court--He delivers the Lady Lyones from the Knight of the Redlands--The Tournament before Castle Perilous--Marriage of Sir Gareth and the Lady Lyones CHAPTER XI The Adventures of Sir Tristram--His Stepmother--He is knighted--Fights with Sir Marhaus--Sir Palomedes and La Belle Isault--Sir Bleoberis and Sir Segwarides--Sir Tristram's Quest--His Return--The Castle Pluere--Sir Brewnor is slain--Sir Kay Hedius--La Belle Isault's Hound--Sir Dinedan refuses to fight--Sir Pellinore follows Sir Tristram--Sir Brewse-without-pity--The Tournament at the Maiden's Castle--Sir Palomedes and Sir Tristram CHAPTER XII Merlin is bewitched by a Damsel of the Lady of the Lake--Galahad knighted by Sir Lancelot--The Perilous Seat--The Marvellous Sword--Sir Galahad in the Perilous Seat--The Sangreal--The Knights vow themselves to its Quest--The Shield of the White Knight--The Fiend of the Tomb--Sir Galahad at the Maiden's Castle--The Sick Knight and the Sangreal--Sir Lancelot declared unworthy to find the Holy Vessel--Sir Percival seeks Sir Galahad--The Black Steed--Sir Bors and the Hermit--Sir Pridan le Noir--Sir Lionel's Anger--He meets Sir Percival--The ship "Faith"--Sir Galahad and Earl Hernox--The Leprous Lady--Sir Galahad discloses himself to Sir Lancelot--They part--The Blind King Evelake--Sir Galahad finds the Sangreal--His Death CHAPTER XIII The Queen quarrels with Sir Lancelot--She is accused of Murder--Her Champion proves her innocence--The Tourney at Camelot--Sir Lancelot in the Tourney--Sir Baldwin the Knight-Hermit--Elaine, the Maid of Astolat, seeks for Sir Lancelot--She tends his Wounds--Her Death--The Queen and Sir Lancelot are reconciled CHAPTER XIV Sir Lancelot attacked by Sir Agravaine, Sir Modred, and thirteen other Knights--He slays them all but Sir Modred--He leaves the Court--Sir Modred accuses him to the King--The Queen condemned to be burnt--Her rescue by Sir Lancelot and flight with him--The War between Sir Lancelot and the King--The Enmity of Sir Gawain--The Usurpation of Sir Modred--The Queen retires to a Nunnery--Sir Lancelot goes on Pilgrimage--The Battle of Barham Downs--Sir Bedivere and the Sword Excalibur--The Death of King Arthur ILLUSTRATOR'S NOTE Of scenes from the Legends of King Arthur and his Knights of the Round Table many lovely pictures have been painted, showing much diversity of figures and surroundings, some being definitely sixth-century British or Saxon, as in Blair Leighton's fine painting of the dead Elaine; others--for example, Watts' Sir Galahad--show knight and charger in fifteenth-century armour; while the warriors of Burne Jones wear strangely impracticable armour of some mystic period. Each of these painters was free to follow his own conception, putting the figures into whatever period most appealed to his imagination; for he was not illustrating the actual tales written by Sir Thomas Malory, otherwise he would have found himself face to face with a difficulty. King Arthur and his knights fought, endured, and toiled in the sixth century, when the Saxons were overrunning Britain; but their achievements were not chronicled by Sir Thomas Malory until late in the fifteenth century. Sir Thomas, as Froissart has done before him, described the habits of life, the dresses, weapons, and armour that his own eyes looked upon in the every-day scenes about him, regardless of the fact that almost every detail mentioned was something like a thousand years too late. Had Malory undertaken an account of the landing of Julius Caesar he would, as a matter of course, have protected the Roman legions with bascinet or salade, breastplate, pauldron and palette, coudiére, taces and the rest, and have armed them with lance and shield, jewel-hilted sword and slim misericorde; while the Emperor himself might have been given the very suit of armour stripped from the Duke of Clarence before his fateful encounter with the butt of malmsey. Did not even Shakespeare calmly give cannon to the Romans and suppose every continental city to lie majestically beside the sea? By the old writers, accuracy in these matters was disregarded, and anachronisms were not so much tolerated as unperceived. In illustrating this edition of "The Legends of King Arthur and his Knights," it has seemed best, and indeed unavoidable if the text and the pictures are to tally, to draw what Malory describes, to place the fashion of the costumes and armour somewhere about A.D. 1460, and to arm the knights in accordance with the Tabard Period. LANCELOT SPEED. LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS The Marriage of King Arthur Then fell Sir Ector down upon his knees upon the ground before young Arthur, and Sir Key also with him. The Lady of the Lake The giant sat at supper, gnawing on a limb of a man, and baking his huge frame by the fire The castle rocked and rove throughout, and all the walls fell crashed and breaking to the earth Came forth twelve fair damsels, and saluted King Arthur by his name Prianius was christened, and made a duke and knight of the Round Table Sir Lancelot smote down with one spear five knights, and brake the backs of four, and cast down the King of Northgales Beyond the chapel, he met a fair damsel, who said, "Sir Lancelot, leave that sword behind thee, or thou diest" "Lady," replied Sir Beaumains, "a knight is little worth who may not bear with a damsel" So he rode into the hall and alighted Then they began the battle, and tilted at their hardest against each other And running to her chamber, she sought in her casket for the piece of iron ... and fitted it in Tristram's sword By the time they had finished drinking they loved each other so well that their love never more might leave them Waving her hands and muttering the charm, and presently enclosed him fast within the tree Galahad ... quickly lifted up the stone, and forthwith came out a foul smoke "This girdle, lords," said she, "is made for the most part of mine own hair, which, while I was yet in the world, I loved full well" At last the strange knight smote him to the earth, and gave him such a buffet on the helm as wellnigh killed him Then was Sir Lancelot sent for, and the letter read aloud by a clerk But still the knights cried mightily without the door, "Traitor, come forth!" THE LEGENDS OF KING ARTHUR CHAPTER I _The Prophecies of Merlin, and the Birth of Arthur_ King Vortigern the usurper sat upon his throne in London, when, suddenly, upon a certain day, ran in a breathless messenger, and cried aloud-- "Arise, Lord King, for the enemy is come; even Ambrosius and Uther, upon whose throne thou sittest--and full twenty thousand with them--and they have sworn by a great oath, Lord, to slay thee, ere this year be done; and even now they march towards thee as the north wind of winter for bitterness and haste." At those words Vortigern's face grew white as ashes, and, rising in confusion and disorder, he sent for all the best artificers and craftsmen and mechanics, and commanded them vehemently to go and build him straightway in the furthest west of his lands a great and strong castle, where he might fly for refuge and escape the vengeance of his master's sons--"and, moreover," cried he, "let the work be done within a hundred days from now, or I will surely spare no life amongst you all." Then all the host of craftsmen, fearing for their lives, found out a proper site whereon to build the tower, and eagerly began to lay in the foundations. But no sooner were the walls raised up above the ground than all their work was overwhelmed and broken down by night invisibly, no man perceiving how, or by whom, or what. And the same thing happening again, and yet again, all the workmen, full of terror, sought out the king, and threw themselves upon their faces before him, beseeching him to interfere and help them or to deliver them from their dreadful work. Filled with mixed rage and fear, the king called for the astrologers and wizards, and took counsel with them what these things might be, and how to overcome them. The wizards worked their spells and incantations, and in the end declared that nothing but the blood of a youth born without mortal father, smeared on the foundations of the castle, could avail to make it stand. Messengers were therefore sent forthwith through all the land to find, if it were possible, such a child. And, as some of them went down a certain village street, they saw a band of lads fighting and quarrelling, and heard them shout at one--"Avaunt, thou imp!--avaunt! Son of no mortal man! go, find thy father, and leave us in peace." At that the messengers looked steadfastly on the lad, and asked who he was. One said his name was Merlin; another, that his birth and parentage were known by no man; a third, that the foul fiend alone was his father. Hearing the things, the officers seized Merlin, and carried him before the king by force. But no sooner was he brought to him than he asked in a loud voice, for what cause he was thus dragged there? "My magicians," answered Vortigern, "told me to seek out a man that had no human father, and to sprinkle my castle with his blood, that it may stand." "Order those magicians," said Merlin, "to come before me, and I will convict them of a lie." The king was astonished at his words, but commanded the magicians to come and sit down before Merlin, who cried to them-- "Because ye know not what it is that hinders the foundation of the castle, ye have advised my blood for a cement to it, as if that would avail; but tell me now rather what there is below that ground, for something there is surely underneath that will not suffer the tower to stand?" The wizards at these words began to fear, and made no answer. Then said Merlin to the king-- "I pray, Lord, that workmen may be ordered to dig deep down into the ground till they shall come to a great pool of water." This then was done, and the pool discovered far beneath the surface of the ground. Then, turning again to the magicians, Merlin said, "Tell me now, false sycophants, what there is underneath that pool?"--but they were silent. Then said he to the king, "Command this pool to be drained, and at the bottom shall be found two dragons, great and huge, which now are sleeping, but which at night awake and fight and tear each other. At their great struggle all the ground shakes and trembles, and so casts down thy towers, which, therefore, never yet could find secure foundations." The king was amazed at these words, but commanded the pool to be forthwith drained; and surely at the bottom of it did they presently discover the two dragons, fast asleep, as Merlin had declared. But Vortigern sat upon the brink of the pool till night to see what else would happen. Then those two dragons, one of which was white, the other red, rose up and came near one another, and began a sore fight, and cast forth fire with their breath. But the white dragon had the advantage, and chased the other to the end of the lake. And he, for grief at his flight, turned back upon his foe, and renewed the combat, and forced him to retire in turn. But in the end the red dragon was worsted, and the white dragon disappeared no man knew where. When their battle was done, the king desired Merlin to tell him what it meant. Whereat he, bursting into tears, cried out this prophecy, which first foretold the coming of King Arthur. "Woe to the red dragon, which figureth the British nation, for his banishment cometh quickly; his lurkingholes shall be seized by the white dragon--the Saxon whom thou, O king, hast called to the land. The mountains shall be levelled as the valleys, and the rivers of the valleys shall run blood; cities shall be burned, and churches laid in ruins; till at length the oppressed shall turn for a season and prevail against the strangers. For a Boar of Cornwall shall arise and rend them, and trample their necks beneath his feet. The island shall be subject to his power, and he shall take the forests of Gaul. The house of Romulus shall dread him--all the world shall fear him--and his end shall no man know; he shall be immortal in the mouths of the people, and his works shall be food to those that tell them. "But as for thee, O Vortigern, flee thou the sons of Constantine, for they shall burn thee in thy tower. For thine own ruin wast thou traitor to their father, and didst bring the Saxon heathens to the land. Aurelius and Uther are even now upon thee to revenge their father's murder; and the brood of the white dragon shall waste thy country, and shall lick thy blood. Find out some refuge, if thou wilt! but who may escape the doom of God?" The king heard all this, trembling greatly; and, convicted of his sins, said nothing in reply. Only he hasted the builders of his tower by day and night, and rested not till he had fled thereto. In the meantime, Aurelius, the rightful king, was hailed with joy by the Britons, who flocked to his standard, and prayed to be led against the Saxons. But he, till he had first killed Vortigern, would begin no other war. He marched therefore to Cambria, and came before the tower which the usurper had built. Then, crying out to all his knights, "Avenge ye on him who hath ruined Britain and slain my father and your king!" he rushed with many thousands at the castle walls. But, being driven back again and yet again, at length he thought of fire, and ordered blazing brands to be cast into the building from all sides. These finding soon a proper fuel, ceased not to rage, till spreading to a mighty conflagration, they burned down the tower and Vortigern within it. Then did Aurelius turn his strength against Hengist and the Saxons, and, defeating them in many places, weakened their power for a long season, so that the land had peace. Anon the king, making many journeys to and fro, restoring ruined churches and, creating order, came to the monastery near Salisbury, where all those British knights lay buried who had been slain there by the treachery of Hengist. For when in former times Hengist had made a solemn truce with Vortigern, to meet in peace and settle terms, whereby himself and all his Saxons should depart from Britain, the Saxon soldiers carried every one of them beneath his garment a long dagger, and, at a given signal, fell upon the Britons, and slew them, to the number of nearly five hundred. The sight of the place where the dead lay moved Aurelius to great sorrow, and he cast about in his mind how to make a worthy tomb over so many noble martyrs, who had died there for their country. When he had in vain consulted many craftsmen and builders, he sent, by the advice of the archbishop, for Merlin, and asked him what to do. "If you would honour the burying-place of these men," said Merlin, "with an everlasting monument, send for the Giants' Dance which is in Killaraus, a mountain in Ireland; for there is a structure of stone there which none of this age could raise without a perfect knowledge of the arts. They are stones of a vast size and wondrous nature, and if they can be placed here as they are there, round this spot of ground, they will stand for ever." At these words of Merlin, Aurelius burst into laughter, and said, "How is it possible to remove such vast stones from so great a distance, as if Britain, also, had no stones fit for the work?" "I pray the king," said Merlin, "to forbear vain laughter; what I have said is true, for those stones are mystical and have healing virtues. The giants of old brought them from the furthest coast of Africa, and placed them in Ireland while they lived in that country: and their design was to make baths in them, for use in time of grievous illness. For if they washed the stones and put the sick into the water, it certainly healed them, as also it did them that were wounded in battle; and there is no stone among them but hath the same virtue still." When the Britons heard this, they resolved to send for the stones, and to make war upon the people of Ireland if they offered to withhold them. So, when they had chosen Uther the king's brother for their chief, they set sail, to the number of 15,000 men, and came to Ireland. There Gillomanius, the king, withstood them fiercely, and not till after a great battle could they approach the Giants' Dance, the sight of which filled them with joy and admiration. But when they sought to move the stones, the strength of all the army was in vain, until Merlin, laughing at their failures, contrived machines of wondrous cunning, which took them down with ease, and placed them in the ships. When they had brought the whole to Salisbury, Aurelius, with the crown upon his head, kept for four days the feast of Pentecost with royal pomp; and in the midst of all the clergy and the people, Merlin raised up the stones, and set them round the sepulchre of the knights and barons, as they stood in the mountains of Ireland. Then was the monument called "Stonehenge," which stands, as all men know, upon the plain of Salisbury to this very day. Soon thereafter it befell that Aurelius was slain by poison at Winchester, and was himself buried within the Giants' Dance. At the same time came forth a comet of amazing size and brightness, darting out a beam, at the end whereof was a cloud of fire shaped like a dragon, from whose mouth went out two rays, one stretching over Gaul, the other ending in seven lesser rays over the Irish sea. At the appearance of this star a great dread fell upon the people, and Uther, marching into Cambria against the son of Vortigern, himself was very troubled to learn what it might mean. Then Merlin, being called before him, cried with a loud voice: "O mighty loss! O stricken Britain! Alas! the great prince is gone from us. Aurelius Ambrosius is dead, whose death will be ours also, unless God help us. Haste, therefore, noble Uther, to destroy the enemy; the victory shall be thine, and thou shalt be king of all Britain. For the star with the fiery dragon signifies thyself; and the ray over Gaul portends that thou shalt have a son, most mighty, whom all those kingdoms shall obey which the ray covers." Thus, for the second time, did Merlin foretell the coming of King Arthur. And Uther, when he was made king, remembered Merlin's words, and caused two dragons to be made in gold, in likeness of the dragon he had seen in the star. One of these he gave to Winchester Cathedral, and had the other carried into all his wars before him, whence he was ever after called Uther Pendragon, or the dragon's head. Now, when Uther Pendragon had passed through all the land, and settled it--and even voyaged into all the countries of the Scots, and tamed the fierceness of that rebel people--he came to London, and ministered justice there. And it befell at a certain great banquet and high feast which the king made at Easter-tide, there came, with many other earls and barons, Gorloïs, Duke of Cornwall, and his wife Igerna, who was the most famous beauty in all Britain. And soon thereafter, Gorloïs being slain in battle, Uther determined to make Igerna his own wife. But in order to do this, and enable him to come to her--for she was shut up in the high castle of Tintagil, on the furthest coast of Cornwall--the king sent for Merlin, to take counsel with him and to pray his help. This, therefore, Merlin promised him on one condition--namely, that the king should give him up the first son born of the marriage. For Merlin by his arts foreknew that this firstborn should be the long-wished prince, King Arthur. When Uther, therefore, was at length happily wedded, Merlin came to the castle on a certain day, and said, "Sir, thou must now provide thee for the nourishing of thy child." And the king, nothing doubting, said, "Be it as thou wilt." "I know a lord of thine in this land," said Merlin, "who is a man both true and faithful; let him have the nourishing of the child. His name is Sir Ector, and he hath fair possessions both in England and in Wales. When, therefore, the child is born, let him be delivered unto me, unchristened, at yonder postern-gate, and I will bestow him in the care of this good knight." So when the child was born, the king bid two knights and two ladies to take it, bound in rich cloth of gold, and deliver it to a poor man whom they should discover at the postern-gate. And the child being delivered thus to Merlin, who himself took the guise of a poor man, was carried by him to a holy priest and christened by the name of Arthur, and then was taken to Sir Ector's house, and nourished at Sir Ector's wife's own breasts. And in the same house he remained privily for many years, no man soever knowing where he was, save Merlin and the king. Anon it befell that the king was seized by a lingering distemper, and the Saxon heathens, taking their occasion, came back from over sea, and swarmed upon the land, wasting it with fire and sword. When Uther heard thereof, he fell into a greater rage than his weakness could bear, and commanded all his nobles to come before him, that he might upbraid them for their cowardice. And when he had sharply and hotly rebuked them, he swore that he himself, nigh unto death although he lay, would lead them forth against the enemy. Then causing a horse-litter to be made, in which he might be carried--for he was too faint and weak to ride--he went up with all his army swiftly against the Saxons. But they, when they heard that Uther was coming in a litter, disdained to fight with him, saying it would be shame for brave men to fight with one half dead. So they retired into their city; and, as it were in scorn of danger, left the gates wide open. But Uther straightway commanding his men to assault the town, they did so without loss of time, and had already reached the gates, when the Saxons, repenting too late of their haughty pride, rushed forth to the defence. The battle raged till night, and was begun again next day; but at last, their leaders, Octa and Eosa, being slain, the Saxons turned their backs and fled, leaving the Britons a full triumph. The king at this felt so great joy, that, whereas before he could scarce raise himself without help, he now sat upright in his litter by himself, and said, with a laughing and merry face, "They called me the half-dead king, and so indeed I was; but victory to me half dead is better than defeat and the best health. For to die with honour is far better than to live disgraced." But the Saxons, although thus defeated, were ready still for war. Uther would have pursued them; but his illness had by now so grown, that his knights and barons kept him from the adventure. Whereat the enemy took courage, and left nothing undone to destroy the land; until, descending to the vilest treachery, they resolved to kill the king by poison. To this end, as he lay sick at Verulam, they sent and poisoned stealthily a spring of clear water, whence he was wont to drink daily; and so, on the very next day, he was taken with the pains of death, as were also a hundred others after him, before the villainy was discovered, and heaps of earth thrown over the well. The knights and barons, full of sorrow, now took counsel together, and came to Merlin for his help to learn the king's will before he died, for he was by this time speechless. "Sirs, there is no remedy," said Merlin, "and God's will must be done; but be ye all to-morrow before him, for God will make him speak before he die." So on the morrow all the barons, with Merlin, stood round the bedside of the king; and Merlin said aloud to Uther, "Lord, shall thy son Arthur be the king of all this realm after thy days?" Then Uther Pendragon turned him about, and said, in the hearing of them all, "God's blessing and mine be upon him. I bid him pray for my soul, and also that he claim my crown, or forfeit all my blessing;" and with those words he died. Then came together all the bishops and the clergy, and great multitudes of people, and bewailed the king; and carrying his body to the convent of Ambrius, they buried it close by his brother's grave, within the "Giants' Dance." CHAPTER II _The Miracle of the Sword and Stone, and the Coronation of King Arthur--The Sword Excalilur--The War with the Eleven Kings_ Now Arthur the prince had all this time been nourished in Sir Ector's house as his own son, and was fair and tall and comely, being of the age of fifteen years, great in strength, gentle in manner, and accomplished in all exercises proper for the training of a knight. But as yet he knew not of his father; for Merlin had so dealt, that none save Uther and himself knew aught about him. Wherefore it befell, that many of the knights and barons who heard King Uther speak before his death, and call his son Arthur his successor, were in great amazement; and some doubted, and others were displeased. Anon the chief lords and princes set forth each to his own land, and, raising armed men and multitudes of followers, determined every one to gain the crown for himself; for they said in their hearts, "If there be any such a son at all as he of whom this wizard forced the king to speak, who are we that a beardless boy should have rule over us?" So the land stood long in great peril, for every lord and baron sought but his own advantage; and the Saxons, growing ever more adventurous, wasted and overran the towns and villages in every part. Then Merlin went to Brice, the Archbishop of Canterbury, and advised him to require all the earls and barons of the realm and all knights and gentlemen-at-arms to come to him at London, before Christmas, under pain of cursing, that they might learn the will of Heaven who should be king. This, therefore, the archbishop did, and upon Christmas Eve were met together in London all the greatest princes, lords, and barons; and long before day they prayed in St. Paul's Church, and the archbishop besought Heaven for a sign who should be lawful king of all the realm. And as they prayed, there was seen in the churchyard, set straight before the doorways of the church, a huge square stone having a naked sword stuck in the midst of it. And on the sword was written in letters of gold, "Whoso pulleth out the sword from this stone is born the rightful King of Britain." At this all the people wondered greatly; and, when Mass was over, the nobles, knights, and princes ran out eagerly from the church to see the stone and sword; and a law was forthwith made that whoso should pull out the sword should be acknowledged straightway King of Britain. Then many knights and barons pulled at the sword with all their might, and some of them tried many times, but none could stir or move it. When all had tried in vain, the archbishop declared the man whom Heaven had chosen was not yet there. "But God," said he, "will doubtless make him known ere many days." So ten knights were chosen, being men of high renown, to watch and keep the sword; and there was proclamation made through all the land that whosoever would, had leave and liberty to try and pull it from the stone. But though great multitudes of people came, both gentle and simple, for many days, no man could ever move the sword a hair's breadth from its place. Now, at the New Year's Eve a great tournament was to be held in London, which the archbishop had devised to keep together lords and commons, lest they should grow estranged in the troublous and unsettled times. To the which tournament there came, with many other knights, Sir Ector, Arthur's foster-father, who had great possessions near to London; and with him came his son, Sir Key, but recently made knight, to take his part in the jousting, and young Arthur also to witness all the sports and fighting. But as they rode towards the jousts, Sir Key found suddenly he had no sword, for he had left it at his father's house; and turning to young Arthur, he prayed him to ride back and fetch it for him. "I will with a good will," said Arthur; and rode fast back after the sword. But when he came to the house he found it locked and empty, for all were gone forth to see the tournament. Whereat, being angry and impatient, he said within himself, "I will ride to the churchyard and take with me the sword that sticketh in the stone, for my brother shall not go without a sword this day." So he rode and came to the churchyard, and alighting from his horse he tied him to the gate, and went to the pavilion, which was pitched near the stone, wherein abode the ten knights who watched and kept it; but he found no knights there, for all were gone to see the jousting. Then he took the sword by its handle, and lightly and fiercely he pulled it out of the stone, and took his horse and rode until he came to Sir Key and delivered him the sword. But as soon as Sir Key saw it he knew well it was the sword of the stone, and, riding swiftly to his father, he cried out, "Lo! here, sir, is the sword of the stone, wherefore it is I who must be king of all this land." When Sir Ector saw the sword, he turned back straight with Arthur and Sir Key and came to the churchyard, and there alighting, they went all three into the church, and Sir Key was sworn to tell truly how he came by the sword. Then he confessed it was his brother Arthur who had brought it to him. Whereat Sir Ector, turning to young Arthur, asked him--"How gottest thou the sword?" "Sir," said he, "I will tell you. When I went home to fetch my brother's sword, I found nobody to deliver it to me, for all were abroad to the jousts. Yet was I loath to leave my brother swordless, and, bethinking me of this one, I came hither eagerly to fetch it for him, and pulled it out of the stone without any pain." Then said Sir Ector, much amazed and looking steadfastly on Arthur, "If this indeed be thus, 'tis thou who shalt be king of all this land--and God will have it so--for none but he who should be rightful Lord of Britain might ever draw this sword forth from that stone. But let me now with mine own eyes see thee put back the sword into its place and draw it forth again." "That is no mystery," said Arthur; and straightway set it in the stone. And then Sir Ector pulled at it himself, and after him Sir Key, with all his might, but both of them in vain: then Arthur reaching forth his hand and grasping at the pommel, pulled it out easily, and at once. Then fell Sir Ector down upon his knees upon the ground before young Arthur, and Sir Key also with him, and straightway did him homage as their sovereign lord. [Illustration: Then fell Sir Ector down upon his knees upon the ground before young Arthur, and Sir Key also with him.] But Arthur cried aloud, "Alas! mine own dear father and my brother, why kneel ye thus to me?" "Nay, my Lord Arthur," answered then Sir Ector, "we are of no blood-kinship with thee, and little though I thought how high thy kin might be, yet wast thou never more than foster-child of mine." And then he told him all he knew about his infancy, and how a stranger had delivered him, with a great sum of gold, into his hands to be brought up and nourished as his own born child, and then had disappeared. But when young Arthur heard of it, he fell upon Sir Ector's neck, and wept, and made great lamentation, "For now," said he, "I have in one day lost my father and my mother and my brother." "Sir," said Sir Ector presently, "when thou shalt be made king be good and gracious unto me and mine." "If not," said Arthur, "I were no true man's son at all, for thou art he in all the world to whom I owe the most; and my good lady and mother, thy wife, hath ever kept and fostered me as though I were her own; so if it be God's will that I be king hereafter as thou sayest, desire of me whatever thing thou wilt and I will do it; and God forbid that I should fail thee in it." "I will but pray," replied Sir Ector, "that thou wilt make my son Sir Key, thy foster-brother, seneschal of all the lands." "That shall he be," said Arthur; "and never shall another hold that office, save thy son, while he and I do live." Anon, they left the church and went to the archbishop to tell him that the sword had been achieved. And when he saw the sword in Arthur's hand he set a day and summoned all the princes, knights, and barons to meet again at St. Paul's Church and see the will of Heaven signified. So when they came together, the sword was put back in the stone, and all tried, from the greatest to the least, to move it; but there before them all not one could take it out save Arthur only. But then befell a great confusion and dispute, for some cried out it was the will of Heaven, and, "Long live King Arthur," but many more were full of wrath and said, "What! would ye give the ancient sceptre of this land unto a boy born none know how?" And the contention growing greatly, till nothing could be done to pacify their rage, the meeting was at length broken up by the archbishop and adjourned till Candlemas, when all should meet again. But when Candlemas was come, Arthur alone again pulled forth the sword, though more than ever came to win it; and the barons, sorely vexed and angry, put it in delay till Easter. But as he had sped before so he did at Easter, and the barons yet once more contrived delays till Pentecost. But now the archbishop, fully seeing God's will, called together, by Merlin's counsel, a band of knights and gentlemen-at-arms, and set them about Arthur to keep him safely till the feast of Pentecost. And when at the feast Arthur still again alone prevailed to move the sword, the people all with one accord cried out, "Long live King Arthur! we will have no more delay, nor any other king, for so it is God's will; and we will slay whoso resisteth Him and Arthur;" and wherewithal they kneeled down all at once, and cried for Arthur's grace and pardon that they had so long delayed him from his crown. Then he full sweetly and majestically pardoned them; and taking in his hand the sword, he offered it upon the high altar of the church. Anon was he solemnly knighted with great pomp by the most famous knight there present, and the crown was placed upon his head; and, having taken oath to all the people, lords and commons, to be true king and deal in justice only unto his life's end, he received homage and service from all the barons who held lands and castles from the crown. Then he made Sir Key, High Steward of England, and Sir Badewaine of Britain, Constable, and Sir Ulfius, Chamberlain: and after this, with all his court and a great retinue of knights and armed men, he journeyed into Wales, and was crowned again in the old city of Caerleon-upon-Usk. Meanwhile those knights and barons who had so long delayed him from the crown, met together and went up to the coronation feast at Caerleon, as if to do him homage; and there they ate and drank such things as were set before them at the royal banquet, sitting with the others in the great hall. But when after the banquet Arthur began, according to the ancient royal custom, to bestow great boons and fiefs on whom he would, they all with one accord rose up, and scornfully refused his gifts, crying that they would take nothing from a beardless boy come of low or unknown birth, but would instead give him good gifts of hard sword-strokes between neck and shoulders. Whereat arose a deadly tumult in the hall, and every man there made him ready to fight. But Arthur leaped up as a flame of fire against them, and all his knights and barons drawing their swords, rushed after him upon them and began a full sore battle; and presently the king's party prevailed, and drave the rebels from the hall and from the city, closing the gates behind them; and King Arthur brake his sword upon them in his eagerness and rage. But amongst them were six kings of great renown and might, who more than all raged against Arthur and determined to destroy him, namely, King Lot, King Nanters, King Urien, King Carados, King Yder, and King Anguisant. These six, therefore, joining their armies together, laid close siege to the city of Caerleon, wherefrom King Arthur had so shamefully driven them. And after fifteen days Merlin came suddenly into their camp and asked them what this treason meant. Then he declared to them that Arthur was no base adventurer, but King Uther's son, whom they were bound to serve and honour even though Heaven had not vouchsafed the wondrous miracle of the sword. Some of the kings, when they heard Merlin speak thus, marvelled and believed him; but others, as King Lot, laughed him and his words to scorn, and mocked him for a conjurer and wizard. But it was agreed with Merlin that Arthur should come forth and speak with the kings. So he went forth to them to the city gate, and with him the archbishop and Merlin, and Sir Key, Sir Brastias, and a great company of others. And he spared them not in his speech, but spoke to them as king and chieftain telling them plainly he would make them all bow to him if he lived, unless they choose to do him homage there and then; and so they parted in great wrath, and each side armed in haste. "What will ye do?" said Merlin to the kings; "ye had best hold your hands, for were ye ten times as many ye should not prevail." "Shall we be afraid of a dream-reader?" quoth King Lot in scorn. With that Merlin vanished away and came to King Arthur. Then Arthur said to Merlin, "I have need now of a sword that shall chastise these rebels terribly." "Come then with me," said Merlin, "for hard by there is a sword that I can gain for thee." So they rode out that night till they came to a fair and broad lake, and in the midst of it King Arthur saw an arm thrust up, clothed in white samite, and holding a great sword in the hand. "Lo! yonder is the sword I spoke of," said Merlin. Then saw they a damsel floating on the lake in the Moonlight. "What damsel is that?" said the king. "The lady of the lake," said Merlin; "for upon this lake there is a rock, and on the rock a noble palace, where she abideth, and she will come towards thee presently, thou shalt ask her courteously for the sword." [Illustration: The lady of the lake.] Therewith the damsel came to King Arthur, and saluted him, and he saluted her, and said, "Lady, what sword is that the arm holdeth above the water? I would that it were mine, for I have no sword." "Sir King," said the lady of the lake, "that sword is mine, and if thou wilt give me in return a gift whenever I shall ask it of thee, thou shalt have it." "By my faith," said he, "I will give thee any gift that thou shalt ask." "Well," said the damsel, "go into yonder barge, and row thyself unto the sword, and take it and the scabbard with thee, and I will ask my gift of thee when I see my time." So King Arthur and Merlin alighted, and tied their horses to two trees, and went into the barge; and when they came to the sword that the hand held, King Arthur took it by the handle and bore it with him, and the arm and hand went down under the water; and so they came back to land, and rode again to Caerleon. On the morrow Merlin bade King Arthur to set fiercely on the enemy; and in the meanwhile three hundred good knights went over to King Arthur from the rebels' side. Then at the spring of day, when they had scarce left their tents, he fell on them with might and main, and Sir Badewaine, Sir Key, and Sir Brastias slew on the right hand and on the left marvellously; and ever in the thickest of the fight King Arthur raged like a young lion, and laid on with his sword, and did wondrous deeds of arms, to the joy and admiration of the knights and barons who beheld him. Then King Lot, King Carados, and the King of the Hundred Knights--who also rode with them--going round to the rear, set on King Arthur fiercely from behind; but Arthur, turning to his knights, fought ever in the foremost press until his horse was slain beneath him. At that, King Lot rode furiously at him, and smote him down; but rising straightway, and being set again on horseback, he drew his sword Excalibur that he had gained by Merlin from the lady of the lake, which, shining brightly as the light of thirty torches, dazzled the eyes of his enemies. And therewith falling on them afresh with all his knights, he drove them back and slew them in great numbers, and Merlin by his arts scattered among them fire and pitchy smoke, so that they broke and fled. Then all the common people of Caerleon, seeing them give way, rose up with one accord, and rushed at them with clubs and staves, and chased them far and wide, and slew many great knights and lords, and the remainder of them fled and were seen no more. Thus won King Arthur his first battle and put his enemies to shame. But the six kings, though sorely routed, prepared for a new war, and joining to themselves five others swore together that, whether for weal or woe, they would keep steadfast alliance till they had destroyed King Arthur. Then, with a host of 50,000 men-at-arms on horseback, and 10,000 foot, they were soon ready, and sent forth their fore-riders, and drew from the northern country towards King Arthur, to the castle of Bedgraine. But he by Merlin's counsel had sent over sea to King Ban of Benwick and King Bors of Gaul, praying them to come and help him in his wars, and promising to help in return against King Claudas, their foe. To which those kings made answer that they would joyfully fulfil his wish, and shortly after came to London with 300 knights, well arrayed for both peace and war, leaving behind them a great army on the other side of the sea till they had consulted with King Arthur and his ministers how they might best dispose of it. And Merlin being asked for his advice and help, agreed to go himself and fetch it over sea to England, which in one night he did; and brought with him 10,000 horsemen and led them northward privately to the forest of Bedgraine, and there lodged them in a valley secretly. Then, by the counsel of Merlin, when they knew which way the eleven kings would ride and sleep, King Arthur with Kings Ban and Bors made themselves ready with their army for the fight, having yet but 30,000 men, counting the 10,000 who had come from Gaul. "Now shall ye do my advice," said Merlin; "I would that King Ban and King Bors, with all their fellowship of 10,000 men, were led to ambush in this wood ere daylight, and stir not therefrom until the battle hath been long waged. And thou, Lord Arthur, at the spring of day draw forth thine army before the enemy, and dress the battle so that they may at once see all thy host, for they will be the more rash and hardy when they see you have but 20,000 men." To this the three knights and the barons heartily consented, and it was done as Merlin had devised. So on the morrow when the hosts beheld each other, the host of the north was greatly cheered to find so few led out against them. Then gave King Arthur the command to Sir Ulfius and Sir Brastias to take 3000 men-at-arms, and to open battle. They therefore setting fiercely on the enemy slew them on the right hand and the left till it was wonderful to see their slaughter. When the eleven kings beheld so small a band doing such mighty deeds of arms they were ashamed, and charged them fiercely in return. Then was Sir Ulfius' horse slain under him; but he fought well and marvellously on foot against Duke Eustace and King Clarience, who set upon him grievously, till Sir Brastias, seeing his great peril, pricked towards them swiftly, and so smote the duke through with his spear that horse and man fell down and rolled over. Whereat King Clarience turned upon Sir Brastias, and rushing furiously together they each unhorsed the other and fell both to the ground, and there lay a long time stunned, their horses' knees being cut to the bone. Then came Sir Key the seneschal with six companions, and did wondrous well, till the eleven kings went out against them and overthrew Sir Griflet and Sir Lucas the butler. And when Sir Key saw Sir Griflet unhorsed and on foot, he rode against King Nanters hotly and smote him down, and led his horse to Griflet and horsed him again; with the same spear did Sir Key smite down King Lot and wounded him full sore. But seeing that, the King of the Hundred Knights rushed at Sir Key and overthrew him in return, and took his horse and gave it to King Lot. And when Sir Griflet saw Sir Key's mischance, he set his spear in rest, and riding at a mighty man-at-arms, he cast him down headlong and caught his horse and led it straightway to Sir Key. By now the battle was growing perilous and hard, and both sides fought with rage and fury. And Sir Ulfius and Sir Brastias were both afoot and in great danger of their death, and foully stained and trampled under horses' feet. Then King Arthur, putting spurs to his horse, rushed forward like a lion into the midst of all the _mêlée_, and singling out King Cradlemont of North Wales, smote him through the left side and overthrew him, and taking his horse by the rein he brought it to Sir Ulfius in haste and said, "Take this horse, mine old friend, for thou hast great need of one, and charge by side of me." And even as he spoke he saw Sir Ector, Sir Key's father, smitten to the earth by the King of the Hundred Knights, and his horse taken to King Cradlemont. But when King Arthur saw him ride upon Sir Ector's horse his wrath was very great, and with his sword he smote King Cradlemont upon the helm, and shore off the fourth part thereof and of the shield, and drave the sword onward to the horse's neck and slew the horse, and hurled the king upon the ground. And now the battle waxed so great and furious that all the noise and sound thereof rang out by water and by wood, so that Kings Ban and Bors, with all their knights and men-at-arms in ambush, hearing the tumult and the cries, trembled and shook for eagerness, and scarce could stay in secret, but made them ready for the fray and dressed their shields and harness. But when King Arthur saw the fury of the enemy, he raged like a mad lion, and stirred and drove his horse now here, now there, to the right hand and to the left, and stayed not in his wrath till he had slain full twenty knights. He wounded also King Lot so sorely in the shoulder that he left the field, and in great pain and dolour cried out to the other kings, "Do ye as I devise, or we shall be destroyed. I, with the King of the Hundred Knights, King Anguisant, King Yder, and the Duke of Cambinet, will take fifteen thousand men and make a circuit, meanwhile that ye do hold the battle with twelve thousand. Then coming suddenly we will fall fiercely on them from behind and put them to the rout, but else shall we never stand against them." So Lot and four kings departed with their party to one side, and the six other kings dressed their ranks against King Arthur and fought long and stoutly. But now Kings Ban and Bors, with all their army fresh and eager, broke from their ambush and met face to face the five kings and their host as they came round behind, and then began a frantic struggle with breaking of spears and clashing of swords and slaying of men and horses. Anon King Lot, espying in the midst King Bors, cried out in great dismay, "Our Lady now defend us from our death and fearful wounds; our peril groweth great, for yonder cometh one of the worshipfullest kings and best knights in all the world." "Who is he?" said the King of the Hundred Knights. "It is King Bors of Gaul," replied King Lot, "and much I marvel how he may have come with all his host into this land without our knowledge." "Aha!" cried King Carados, "I will encounter with this king if ye will rescue me when there is need." "Ride on," said they. So King Carados and all his host rode softly till they came within a bow-shot of King Bors, and then both hosts, spurring their horses to their greatest swiftness, rushed at each other. And King Bors encountered in the onset with a knight, and struck him through with a spear, so that he fell dead upon the earth; then drawing his sword, he did such mighty feats of arms that all who saw him gazed with wonder. Anon King Ban came also forth upon the field with all his knights, and added yet more fury, sound, and slaughter, till at length both hosts of the eleven kings began to quake, and drawing all together into one body, they prepared to meet the worst, while a great multitude already fled. Then said King Lot, "Lords, we must take yet other means, or worse loss still awaits us. See ye not what people we have lost in waiting on the footmen, and that it costs ten horsemen to save one of them? Therefore it is my counsel to put away our footmen from us, for it is almost night, and King Arthur will not stay to slaughter them. So they can save their lives in this great wood hard by. Then let us gather into one band all the horsemen that remain, and whoso breaketh rank or leaveth us, let him be straightway slain by him that seeth him, for it is better that we slay a coward than through a coward be all slain. How say ye?" said King Lot; "answer me, all ye kings." "It is well said," replied they all. And swearing they would never fail each other, they mended and set right their armour and their shields, and took new spears and set them steadfastly against their thighs, waiting, and so stood still as a clump of trees stands on the plain; and no assaults could shake them, they held so hard together; which when King Arthur saw he marvelled greatly, and was very wroth. "Yet," cried he, "I may not blame them, by my faith, for they do as brave men ought to do, and are the best fighting men and knights of most prowess that I ever saw or heard tell of." And so said also Kings Ban and Bors, and praised them greatly for their noble chivalry. But now came forty noble knights out of King Arthur's host, and prayed that he would suffer them to break the enemy. And when they were allowed, they rode forth with their spears upon their thighs, and spurred their horses to their hottest. Then the eleven kings, with a party of their knights, rushed with set spears as fast and mightily to meet them; and when they were encountered, all the crash and splinter of their spears and armour rang with a mighty din, and so fierce and bloody was their onset that in all that day there had been no such cruel press, and rage, and smiting. At that same moment rode fiercely into the thickest of the struggle King Arthur and Kings Ban and Bors, and slew downright on both hands right and left, until their horses went in blood up to the fetlocks. And while the slaughter and the noise and shouting were at their greatest, suddenly there came down through the battle Merlin the Wizard, upon a great black horse, and riding to King Arthur, he cried out, "Alas, my Lord! will ye have never done? Of sixty thousand have ye left but fifteen thousand men alive. Is it not time to stay this slaying? for God is ill pleased with ye that ye have never ended, and yonder kings shall not be altogether overthrown this time. But if ye fall upon them any more, the fortune of this day will turn, and go to them. Withdraw, Lord, therefore, to thy lodging, and there now take thy rest, for to-day thou hast won a great victory, and overcome the noblest chivalry of all the world. And now for many years those kings shall not disturb thee. Therefore, I tell thee, fear them no more, for now they are sore beaten, and have nothing left them but their honour; and why shouldest thou slay them to take that?" Then said King Arthur, "Thou sayest well, and I will take thy counsel." With that he cried out, "Ho!" for the battle to cease, and sent forth heralds through the field to stay more fighting. And gathering all the spoil, he gave it not amongst his own host, but to Kings Ban and Bors and all their knights and men-at-arms, that he might treat them with the greater courtesy as strangers. Then Merlin took his leave of Arthur and the two other kings, and went to see his master, Blaise, a holy hermit, dwelling in Northumberland, who had nourished him through all his youth. And Blaise was passing glad to see him, for there was a great love ever between them; and Merlin told him how King Arthur had sped in the battle, and how it had ended; and told him the names of every king and knight of worship who was there. So Blaise wrote down the battle, word for word, as Merlin told him; and in the same way ever after, all the battles of King Arthur's days Merlin caused Blaise, his master, to record. CHAPTER III _The Adventure of the Questing Beast--King Arthur drives the Saxons from the Realm--The Battles of Celidon Forest and Badon Hill_ Anon, thereafter, came word to King Arthur that Ryence, King of North Wales, was making war upon King Leodegrance of Camelgard; whereat he was passing wroth, for he loved Leodegrance well, and hated Ryence. So he departed with Kings Ban and Bors and twenty thousand men, and came to Camelgard, and rescued Leodegrance, and slew ten thousand of Ryence's men and put him to flight. Then Leodegrance made a great festival to the three kings, and treated them with every manner of mirth and pleasure which could be devised. And there had King Arthur the first sight of Guinevere, daughter of Leodegrance, whom in the end he married, as shall be told hereafter. Then did Kings Ban and Bors take leave, and went to their own country, where King Claudas worked great mischief. And King Arthur would have gone with them, but they refused him, saying, "Nay, ye shall not at this time, for ye have yet much to do in these lands of your own; and we with the riches we have won here by your gifts shall hire many good knights, and, by the grace of God, withstand the malice of King Claudas; and if we have need we will send to ye for succour; and likewise ye, if ye have need, send for us, and we will not tarry, by the faith of our bodies." When the two kings had left, King Arthur rode to Caerleon, and thither came to him his half-sister Belisent, wife to King Lot, sent as a messenger, but in truth to espy his power; and with her came a noble retinue, and also her four sons--Gawain, Gaheris, Agravaine, and Gareth. But when she saw King Arthur and his nobleness, and all the splendour of his knights and service, she forbore to spy upon him as a foe, and told him of her husband's plots against him and his throne. And the king, not knowing that she was his half-sister, made great court to her; and being full of admiration for her beauty, loved her out of measure, and kept her a long season at Caerleon. Wherefore her husband, King Lot, was more than ever King Arthur's enemy, and hated him till death with a passing great hatred. At that time King Arthur had a marvellous dream, which gave him great disquietness of heart. He dreamed that the whole land was full of many fiery griffins and serpents, which burnt and slew the people everywhere; and then that he himself fought with them, and that they did him mighty injuries, and wounded him nigh to death, but that at last he overcame and slew them all. When he woke, he sat in great heaviness of spirit and pensiveness, thinking what this dream might signify, but by-and-by, when he could by no means satisfy himself what it might mean, to rid himself of all his thoughts of it, he made ready with a great company to ride out hunting. As soon as he was in the forest, the king saw a great hart before him, and spurred his horse, and rode long eagerly after it, and chased until his horse lost breath and fell down dead from under him. Then, seeing the hart escaped and his horse dead, he sat down by a fountain, and fell into deep thought again. And as he sat there alone, he thought he heard the noise of hounds, as it were some thirty couple in number, and looking up he saw coming towards him the strangest beast that ever he had seen or heard tell of, which ran towards the fountain and drank of the water. Its head was like a serpent's, with a leopard's body and a lion's tail, and it was footed like a stag; and the noise was in its belly, as it were the baying or questing of thirty couple of hounds. While it drank there was no noise within it; but presently, having finished, it departed with a greater sound than ever. The king was amazed at all this; but being greatly wearied, he fell asleep, and was before long waked up by a knight on foot, who said, "Knight, full of thought and sleepy, tell me if thou sawest a strange beast pass this way?" "Such a one I saw," said King Arthur to the knight, "but that is now two miles distant at the least. What would you with that beast?" "Sir," said the knight, "I have followed it for a long time, and have killed my horse, and would to heaven I had another to pursue my quest withal." At that moment came a yeoman with another horse for the king, which, when the knight saw, he earnestly prayed to be given him. "For I have followed this quest," said he, "twelve months, and either I shall achieve him or bleed of the best blood of my body." It was King Pellinore who at that time followed the questing beast, but neither he nor King Arthur knew each other. "Sir Knight," said King Arthur, "leave that quest and suffer me to have it, and I will follow it other twelve months." "Ah, fool," said the knight, "thy desire is utterly in vain, for it shall never be achieved but by me, or by my next of kin." Therewith he started to the king's horse, and mounted to the saddle, crying out, "Grammercy, this horse is mine!" "Well," said the king, "thou mayest take my horse by force, and I will not say nay; but till we prove whether thou or I be best on horseback, I shall not rest content." "Seek me here," said the knight, "whenever thou wilt, and here by this fountain thou shalt find me;" and so he passed forth on his way. Then sat King Arthur in a deep fit of study, and bade his yeomen fetch him yet another horse as quickly as they could. And when they left him all alone came Merlin, disguised as a child of fourteen years of age, and saluted the king, and asked him why he was so pensive and heavy. "I may well be pensive and heavy," he replied, "for here even now I have seen the strangest sight I ever saw." "That know I well," said Merlin, "as well as thyself, and also all thy thoughts; but thou art foolish to take thought, for it will not amend thee. Also I know what thou art, and know thy father and thy mother." "That is false," said King Arthur; "how shouldst thou know? thy years are not enough." "Yea," said Merlin, "but I know better than thou how thou wast born, and better than any man living." "I will not believe thee," said King Arthur, and was wroth with the child. So Merlin departed, and came again in the likeness of an old man of fourscore years of age; and the king was glad at his coming, for he seemed wise and venerable. Then said the old man, "Why art thou so sad?" "For divers reasons," said King Arthur; "for I have seen strange things to-day, and but this moment there was here a child who told me things beyond his years to know." "Yea," said the old man, "but he told thee truth, and more he would have told thee hadst thou suffered him. But I will tell thee wherefore thou art sad, for thou hast done a thing of late for which God is displeased with thee, and what it is thou knowest in thy heart, though no man else may know." "What art thou," said King Arthur, starting up all pale, "that tellest me these tidings?" "I am Merlin," said he, "and I was he in the child's likeness, also." "Ah," said King Arthur, "thou art a marvellous and right fearful man, and I would ask and tell thee many things this day." As they talked came one with the king's horses, and so, King Arthur mounting one, and Merlin another, they rode together to Caerleon; and Merlin prophesied to Arthur of his death, and also foretold his own end. And now King Arthur, having utterly dispersed and overwhelmed those kings who had so long delayed his coronation, turned all his mind to overthrow the Saxon heathens who yet in many places spoiled the land. Calling together, therefore, his knights and men-at-arms, he rode with all his hosts to York, where Colgrin, the Saxon, lay with a great army; and there he fought a mighty battle, long and bloody, and drove him into the city, and besieged him. Then Baldulph, Colgrin's brother, came secretly with six thousand men to assail King Arthur and to raise the siege. But King Arthur was aware of him, and sent six hundred horsemen and three thousand foot to meet and fall on him instead. This therefore they did, encountering them at midnight, and utterly defeated them, till they fled away for life. But Baldulph, full of grief, resolved to share his brother's peril; wherefore he shaved his head and beard, and disguised himself as a jester, and so passed through King Arthur's camp, singing and playing on a harp, till by degrees he drew near to the city walls, where presently he made himself known, and was drawn up by ropes into the town. Anon, while Arthur closely watched the city, came news that full six hundred ships had landed countless swarms of Saxons, under Cheldric, on the eastern coast. At that he raised the siege, and marched straight to London, and there increased his army, and took counsel with his barons how to drive the Saxons from the land for evermore. Then with his nephew, Hoel, King of the Armorican Britons, who came with a great force to help him, King Arthur, with a mighty multitude of barons, knights, and fighting men, went swiftly up to Lincoln, which the Saxons lay besieging. And there he fought a passing fierce battle, and made grievous slaughter, killing above six thousand men, till the main body of them turned and fled. But he pursued them hotly into the wood of Celidon, where, sheltering themselves among the trees from his arrows, they made a stand, and for a long season bravely defended themselves. Anon, he ordered all the trees in that part of the forest to be cut down, leaving no shelter or ambush; and with their trunks and branches made a mighty barricade, which shut them in and hindered their escape. After three days, brought nigh to death by famine, they offered to give up their wealth of gold and silver spoils, and to depart forthwith in their empty ships; moreover, to pay tribute to King Arthur when they reached their home, and to leave him hostages till all was paid. This offer, therefore, he accepted, and suffered them to depart. But when they had been a few hours at sea, they repented of their shameful flight, and turned their ships back again, and landing at Totnes, ravaged all the land as far as the Severn, and, burning and slaying on all sides, bent their steps towards Bath. When King Arthur heard of their treachery and their return, he burned with anger till his eyes shone like two torches, and then he swore a mighty oath to rest no more until he had utterly destroyed those enemies of God and man, and had rooted them for ever out of the land of Britain. Then marching hotly with his armies on to Bath, he cried aloud to them, "Since these detestable impious heathens disdain to keep their faith with me, to keep faith with God, to whom I sware to cherish and defend this realm, will now this day avenge on them the blood of all that they have slain in Britain!" In like manner after him spoke the archbishop, standing upon a hill, and crying that to-day they should fight both for their country and for Paradise, "For whoso," he said, "shall in this holy war be slain, the angels shall forthwith receive him; for death in this cause shall be penance and absolution for all sins." At these words every man in the whole army raged with hatred, and pressed eagerly to rush upon those savages. Anon King Arthur, dressed in armour shining with gold and jewels, and wearing on his head a helmet with a golden dragon, took a shield painted with the likeness of the blessed Mary. Then girding on Excalibur and taking in his right hand his great lance Ron, he placed his men in order and led them out against the enemy, who stood for battle on the slope of Badon Hill, ranged in the form of a wedge, as their custom was. And they, resisting all the onslaughts of King Arthur and his host, made that day a stout defence, and at night lay down upon the hill. But on the next day Arthur led his army once again to the attack, and with wounds and slaughter such as no man had ever seen before, he drove the heathen step by step before him, backwards and upwards, till he stood with all his noblest knights upon the summit of the hill. And then men saw him, "red as the rising sun from spur to plume," lift up his sword, and, kneeling, kiss the cross of it; and after, rising to his feet, set might and main with all his fellowship upon the foe, till, as a troop of lions roaring for their prey, they drove them like a scattered herd along the plains, and cut them down till they could cut no more for weariness. That day King Arthur by himself alone slew with his word Excalibur four hundred and seventy heathens. Colgrin also, and his brother Baldulph, were slain. Then the king bade Cador, Duke of Cornwall, follow Cheldric, the chief leader, and the remnant of his hosts, unto the uttermost. He, therefore, when he had first seized their fleet, and filled it with chosen men, to beat them back when they should fly to it at last, chased them and slew them without mercy so long as he could overtake them. And though they crept with trembling hearts for shelter to the coverts of the woods and dens of mountains, yet even so they found no safety, for Cador slew them, even one by one. Last of all he caught and slew Cheldric himself, and slaughtering a great multitude took hostages for the surrender of the rest. Meanwhile, King Arthur turned from Badon Hill, and freed his nephew Hoel from the Scots and Picts, who besieged him in Alclud. And when he had defeated them in three sore battles, he drove them before him to a lake, which was one of the most wondrous lakes in all the world, for it was fed by sixty rivers, and had sixty islands, and sixty rocks, and on every island sixty eagles' nests. But King Arthur with a great fleet sailed round the rivers and besieged them in the lake for fifteen days, so that many thousands died of hunger. Anon the King of Ireland came with an army to relieve them; but Arthur, turning on him fiercely, routed him, and compelled him to retreat in terror to his land. Then he pursued his purpose, which was no less to destroy the race of Picts and Scots, who, beyond memory, had been a ceaseless torment to the Britons by their barbarous malice. So bitterly, therefore, did he treat them, giving quarter to none, that at length the bishops of that miserable country with the clergy met together, and, bearing all the holy relics, came barefooted to the king to pray his mercy for their people. As soon as they were led before him they fell down upon their knees, and piteously besought him to spare the few survivors of their countrymen, and grant them any corner of the land where they might live in peace. When he thus heard them, and knew that he had now fully punished them, he consented to their prayer, and withdrew his hosts from any further slaughter. Then turned he back to his own realm, and came to York for Christmas, and there with high solemnity observed that holy tide; and being passing grieved to see the ruin of the churches and houses, which the rage or the pagans had destroyed, he rebuilt them, and restored the city to its ancient happy state. And on a certain day, as the king sat with his barons, there came into the court a squire on horseback, carrying a knight before him wounded to the death, and told the king that hard by in the forest was a knight who had reared up a pavilion by the fountain, "and hath slain my master, a valiant knight, whose name was Nirles; wherefore I beseech thee, Lord, my master may be buried, and that some good knight may avenge his death." At that stepped forth a squire named Griflet, who was very young, being of the same age with King Arthur, and besought the king, for all the service he had done, to give him knighthood. "Thou art full young and tender of age," said King Arthur, "to take so high an order upon thee." "Sir," said Griflet, "I beseech thee make me a knight;" and Merlin also advising the king to grant his request, "Well," said Arthur, "be it then so," and knighted him forthwith. Then said he to him, "Since I have granted thee this favour, thou must in turn grant me a gift." "Whatsoever thou wilt, my lord," replied Sir Griflet. "Promise me," said King Arthur, "by the faith of thy body, that when thou hast jousted with this knight at the fountain, thou wilt return to me straightway, unless he slay thee." "I promise," said Sir Griflet; and taking his horse in haste, he dressed his shield, and took a spear in his hand and rode full gallop till he came to the fountain, by the side of which he saw a rich pavilion, and a great horse standing well saddled and bridled, and on a tree close by there hung a shield of many colours and a long lance. Then Sir Griflet smote upon the shield with the butt of his spear until he cast it to the ground. At that a knight came out of the pavilion and said, "Fair knight, why smote ye down my shield?" "Because," said Griflet, "I would joust with thee." "It were better not," replied the knight; "for thou art young and but lately made a knight, and thy strength is small compared to mine." "For all that," said Sir Griflet, "I will joust with ye." "I am full loath," replied the knight; "but if I must I must." Then did they wheel their horses far apart, and running them together, the strange knight shivered Sir Griflet's spear to fragments, and smote him through the shield and the left side, and broke his own spear into Sir Griflet's body, so that the truncheon stuck there, and Sir Griflet and his horse fell down. But when the strange knight saw him overthrown, he was sore grieved, and hastily alighted, for he thought that he had slain him. Then he unlaced his helm and gave him air, and tended him carefully till he came out of his swoon, and leaving the truncheon of his spear in his body, he set him upon horse, and commended him to God, and said he had a mighty heart, and if he lived would prove a passing good knight. And so Sir Griflet rode to the court, where, by aid of good physicians, he was healed in time and his life saved. At that same time there came before the king twelve old men, ambassadors from Lucius Tiberius, Emperor of Rome, and demanded of Arthur tribute unto Caesar for his realm, or else, said they, the emperor would destroy both him and his land. To whom King Arthur answered that he owed the emperor no tribute, nor would send him any; but said he, "On a fair field I will pay him his proper tribute--with a sharp spear and sword; and by my father's soul that tribute shall he take from me, whether he will or not." So the ambassadors departed passing wroth, and King Arthur was as wroth as they. But on the morrow of Sir Griflet's hurt, the king commanded to take his horse and armour secretly outside the city walls before sunrise of the next morning, and, rising a long while before dawn, he mounted up and took his shield and spear, and bade his chamberlain tarry till he came again; but he forbore to take Excalibur, for he had given it for safety into charge of his sister, Queen Morgan le Fay. And as the king rode at a soft pace he saw suddenly three villains chasing Merlin and making to attack and slay him. Clapping spurs to his horse, he rushed towards them, and cried out in a terrible voice, "Flee, churls, or take your deaths;" but they, as soon as they perceived a knight, fled away with the haste of hares. "O Merlin," said the king; "here hadst thou been killed, despite thy many crafts, had I not chanced to pass." "Not so," said Merlin, "for when I would, I could have saved myself; but thou art nearer to thy death than I, for without special help from heaven thou ridest now towards thy grave." And as they were thus talking, they came to the fountain and the rich pavilion pitched beside it, and saw a knight sitting all armed on a chair in the opening of the tent. "Sir knight," said King Arthur, "for what cause abidest thou here? to joust with any knight that passeth by? If so, I caution thee to quit that custom." "That custom," said the knight, "have I followed and will follow, let whosoever will say nay, and if any is aggrieved at it, let him who will amend it." "I will amend it," said King Arthur. "And I will defend it," answered the knight. Then the knight mounted his horse and made himself ready, and charging at each other they met so hard that both their lances splintered into pieces. Then King Arthur drew his sword, but the knight cried out, "Not so; but let us run another tilt together with sharp spears." "I would with a good will," said King Arthur; "but I have no more spears." "I have enough of spears," replied the knight, and called a squire, who brought two good new lances. Then spurring their horses, they rushed together with all their might, and broke each one his own spear short off in his hand. Then the king again put his hand to his sword, but the knight once more cried out, "Nay, yet abide awhile; ye are the best jouster that I ever met with; for the love of knighthood, let us joust yet once again." So once again they tilted with their fullest force, and this time King Arthur's spear was shivered, but the knight's held whole, and drove so furiously against the king that both his horse and he were hurled to the ground. At that, King Arthur was enraged and drew his sword and said, "I will attack thee now, Sir knight, on foot, for on horseback I have lost the honour." "I will be on horseback," said the knight. But when he saw him come on foot, he lighted from his horse, thinking it shame to have so great advantage. And then began they a strong battle, with many great strokes and grievous blows, and so hewed with their swords that the fragments of their armour flew about the fields, and both so bled that all the ground around was like a marsh of blood. Thus they fought long and mightily, and anon, after brief rest fell to again, and so hurtled together like two wild boars that they both rolled to the ground. At last their swords clashed furiously together, and the knight's sword shivered the king's in two. Then said the knight, "Now art thou in my power, to save thee or to slay. Yield therefore as defeated, and a recreant knight, or thou shall surely die." "As for death," replied King Arthur, "welcome be it when it cometh; but as for yielding me to thee as a recreant because of this poor accident upon my sword, I had far liefer die than be so shamed." So saying, he sprang on the knight, and took him by the middle and threw him down, and tore off his helm. But the knight, being a huge man, wrestled and struggled in a frenzy with the king until he brought him under, and tore off his helm in turn, and would have smitten off his head. At that came Merlin and said, "Knight, hold thy hand, for if thou slayest yonder knight, thou puttest all this realm to greater loss and damage than ever realm was in; for he is a man of greater worship than thou dreamest of." "Who then is he?" cried the knight. "Arthur Pendragon!" answered Merlin. Then would he have slain him for dread of his wrath, but Merlin cast a spell upon the knight, so that he fell suddenly to the earth in a deep sleep. Then raising up the king, he took the knight's horse for himself and rode away. "Alas," said King Arthur, "what hast thou done, Merlin? hast thou slain this good knight by thy crafts? There never lived a better knight; I had rather lose my kingdom for a year than have him dead." "Be not afraid," said Merlin; "he is more whole and sound than thou art, and is but in a sleep, wherefrom in three hours' time he will awake. I told thee what a knight he was, and how near thou wast to death. There liveth not a better knight than he in all the world, and hereafter he shall do thee good service. His name is King Pellinore, and he shall have two sons, who shall be passing valiant men, and, save one another, shall have no equal in prowess and in purity of life. The one shall be named Percival, and the other Lamoracke of Wales." So they rode on to Caerleon, and all the knights grieved greatly when they heard of this adventure, that the king would jeopardise his person thus alone. Yet could they not hide their joy at serving under such a noble chief, who adventured his own life as much as did the poorest knight among them all. CHAPTER IV _King Arthur Conquers Ireland and Norway, Slays the Giant of St. Michael's Mount, and Conquers Gaul--The Adventures of Sir Balin_ The land of Britain being now in peace, and many great and valiant knights therein ready to take part in whatsoever battles or adventures might arise, King Arthur resolved to follow all his enemies to their own coasts. Anon he fitted out a great fleet, and sailing first to Ireland, in one battle he miserably routed the people of the country. The King of Ireland also he took prisoner, and forced all earls and barons to pay him homage. Having conquered Ireland, he went next to Iceland and subdued it also, and the winter being then arrived, returned to Britain. In the next year he set forth to Norway, whence many times the heathen had descended on the British coasts; for he was determined to give so terrible a lesson to those savages as should be told through all their tribes both far and near, and make his name fearful to them. As soon as he was come, Riculf, the king, with all the power of that country, met and gave him battle; but, after mighty slaughter, the Britons had at length the advantage, and slew Riculf and a countless multitude besides. Having thus defeated them, they set the cities on fire, dispersed the country people, and pursued the victory till they had reduced all Norway, as also Dacia, under the dominion of King Arthur. Now, therefore, having thus chastised those pagans who so long had harassed Britain, and put his yoke upon them, he voyaged on to Gaul, being steadfastly set upon defeating the Roman governor of that province, and so beginning to make good the threats which he had sent the emperor by his ambassadors. So soon as he was landed on the shores of Gaul, there came to him a countryman who told him of a fearful giant in the land of Brittany, who had slain, murdered, and devoured many people, and had lived for seven years upon young children only, "insomuch," said the man, "that all the children of the country are destroyed; and but the other day he seized upon our duchess, as she rode out with her men, and took her away to his lodging in a cave of a mountain, and though five hundred people followed her, yet could they give her no help or rescue, but left her shrieking and crying lamentably in the giant's hands; and, Lord, she is thy cousin Hoel's wife, who is of thy near kindred; wherefore, as thou art a rightful king, have pity on this lady; and as thou art a valiant conqueror, avenge us and deliver us." "Alas!" said King Arthur, "this is a great mischief that ye tell of. I had rather than the best realm I have, that I had rescued that lady ere the giant laid his hand on her; but tell me now, good fellow, canst thou bring me where this giant haunteth?" "Yea, Lord!" replied the man; "lo, yonder, where thou seest two great fires, there shall thou find him, and more treasure also than is in all Gaul besides." Then the king returned to his tent, and, calling Sir Key and Sir Bedwin, desired them to get horses ready for himself and them, for that after evensong he would ride a pilgrimage with them alone to St. Michael's Mount. So in the evening they departed, and rode as fast as they could till they came near the mount, and there alighted; and the king commanded the two knights to await him at the hill foot, while he went up alone. Then he ascended the mountain till he came to a great fire. And there he found a sorrowful widow wringing her hands and weeping miserably, sitting by a new-made grave. And saluting her, King Arthur prayed her wherefore she made such heavy lamentations. "Sir knight," she said, "speak softly, for yonder is a devil, who, if he hear thy voice, will come and straightway slay thee. Alas! what dost thou here? Fifty such men as thou were powerless to resist him. Here lieth dead my lady, Duchess of Brittany, wife to Sir Hoel, who was the fairest lady in the world, foully and shamefully slaughtered by that fiend! Beware that thou go not too nigh, for he hath overcome and vanquished fifteen kings, and hath made himself a coat of precious stones, embroidered with their beards; but if thou art hardy, and wilt speak with him, at yonder great fire he is at supper." "Well," said King Arthur, "I will accomplish mine errand, for all thy fearful words;" and so went forth to the crest of the hill, and saw where the giant sat at supper, gnawing on a limb of a man, and baking his huge frame by the fire, while three damsels turned three spits whereon were spitted, like larks, twelve young children lately born. [Illustration: The giant sat at supper, gnawing on a limb of a man, and baking his huge frame by the fire.] When King Arthur saw all that, his heart bled for sorrow, and he trembled for rage and indignation; then lifting up his voice he cried aloud--"God, that wieldeth all the world, give thee short life and shameful death, and may the devil have thy soul! Why hast thou slain those children and that fair lady? Wherefore arise, and prepare thee to perish, thou glutton and fiend, for this day thou shalt die by my hands." Then the giant, mad with fury at these words, started up, and seizing a great club, smote the king, and struck his crown from off his head. But King Arthur smote him with his sword so mightily in return, that all his blood gushed forth in streams. At that the giant, howling in great anguish, threw away his club of iron, and caught the king in both his arms and strove to crush his ribs together. But King Arthur struggled and writhed, and twisted him about, so that the giant could not hold him tightly; and as they fiercely wrestled, they both fell, and rolling over one another, tumbled--wrestling, and struggling, and fighting frantically--from rock to rock, till they came to the sea. And as they tore and strove and tumbled, the king ever and anon smote at the giant with his dagger, till his arms stiffened in death around King Arthur's body, and groaning horribly, he died. So presently the two knights came and found the king locked fast in the giant's arms, and very faint and weary, and loosed him from their hold. Then the king bade Sir Key to "smite off the giant's head and set it on the truncheon of a spear, and bear it to Sir Hoel, and tell him that his enemy is slain; and afterwards let it be fastened to the castle gate, that all the people may behold it. And go ye two up on the mountain and fetch me my shield and sword, and also the great club of iron ye will see there; and as for the treasure, ye shall find there wealth beyond counting, but take as much as ye will, for if I have his kirtle and the club, I desire no more." Then the knights fetched the club and kirtle, as the king had ordered, and took the treasure to themselves, as much as they could carry, and returned to the army. But when this deed was noised abroad, all the people came in multitudes to thank the king, who told them "to give thanks to God, and to divide the giant's spoils amongst them equally." And King Arthur desired Sir Hoel to build a church upon the mount, and dedicate it to the Archangel Michael. On the morrow, all the host moved onwards into the country of Champagne, and Flollo, the Roman tribune, retired before them into Paris. But while he was preparing to collect more forces from the neighbouring countries, King Arthur came upon him unawares, and besieged him in the town. And when a month had passed, Flollo--full of grief at the starvation of his people, who died in hundreds day by day--sent to King Arthur, and desired that they two might fight together; for he was a man of mighty stature and courage, and thought himself sure of the victory. This challenge, King Arthur, full weary the siege, accepted with great joy, and sent back word to Flollo that he would meet him whensoever he appointed. And a truce being made on both sides, they met together the next day on the island without the city, where all the people also were gathered to see the issue. And as the king and Flollo rode up to the lists, each was so nobly armed and horsed, and sat so mightily upon his saddle, that no man could tell which way the battle would end. When they had saluted one another, and presented themselves against each other with their lances aloft, they put spurs to their horses and began a fierce encounter. But King Arthur, carrying his spear more warily, struck it on the upper part of Flollo's breast, and flung him from his saddle to the earth. Then drawing his sword, he cried to him to rise, and rushed upon him; but Flollo, starting up, met him with his spear couched, and pierced the breast of King Arthur's horse, and overthrew both horse and man. The Britons, when they saw their king upon the ground, could scarcely keep themselves from breaking up the truce and falling on the Gauls. But as they were about to burst the barriers, and rush upon the lists, King Arthur hastily arose, and, guarding himself with his shield, ran with speed on Flollo. And now they renewed the assault with great rage, being sorely bent upon each other's death. At length, Flollo, seizing his advantage, gave King Arthur a huge stroke upon the helm, which nigh overthrew him, and drew forth his blood in streams. But when King Arthur saw his armour and shield red with blood, he was inflamed with fury, and lifting up Excalibur on high, with all his might, he struck straight through the helmet into Flollo's head, and smote it into halves; and Flollo falling backwards, and tearing up the ground with his spurs, expired. As soon as this news spread, the citizens all ran together, and, opening the gates, surrendered the city to the conqueror. And when he had overrun the whole province with his arms, and reduced it everywhere to subjection, he returned again to Britain, and held his court at Caerleon, with greater state than ever. Anon he invited thereto all the kings, dukes, earls, and barons, who owed him homage, that he might treat them royally, and reconcile them to each other, and to his rule. And never was there a city more fit and pleasant for such festivals. For on one side it was washed by a noble river, so that the kings and princes from the countries beyond sea might conveniently sail up to it; and on the other side, the beauty of the groves and meadows, and the stateliness and magnificence of the royal palaces, with lofty gilded roofs, made it even rival the grandeur of Rome. It was famous also for two great and noble churches, whereof one was built in honour of the martyr Julius, and adorned with a choir of virgins who had devoted themselves wholly to the service of God; and the other, founded in memory of St. Aaron, his companion, maintained a convent of canons, and was the third metropolitan church of Britain. Besides, there was a college of two hundred philosophers, learned in astronomy, and all the other sciences and arts. In this place, therefore, full of such delights, King Arthur held his court, with many jousts and tournaments, and royal huntings, and rested for a season after all his wars. And on a certain day there came into the court a messenger from Ryence, King of North Wales, bearing this message from his master: That King Ryence had discomfited eleven kings, and had compelled each one of them to cut off his beard; that he had trimmed a mantle with these beards, and lacked but one more beard to finish it; and that he therefore now sent for King Arthur's beard, which he required of him forthwith, or else he would enter his lands and burn and slay, and never leave them till he had taken by force not his beard only, but his head also. When King Arthur heard these words he flushed all scarlet, and rising in great anger said, "Well is it for thee that thou speakest another man's words with thy lips, and not thine own. Thou hast said thy message, which is the most insolent and villainous that ever man heard sent to any king: now hear my reply. My beard is yet too young to trim that mantle of thy master's with; yet, young although I be, I owe no homage either to him or any man--nor will ever owe. But, young although I be, I will have thy master's homage upon both his knees before this year be past, or else he shall lose his head, by the faith of my body, for this message is the shamefullest I ever heard speak of. I see well thy king hath never yet met with a worshipful man; but tell that King Arthur will have his head or his worship right soon." Then the messenger departed, and Arthur, looking round upon his knights, demanded of them if any there knew this King Ryence. "Yea," answered Sir Noran, "I know him well, and there be few better or stronger knights upon a field than he; and he is passing proud and haughty in his heart; wherefore I doubt not, Lord, he will make war on thee with mighty power." "Well," said King Arthur, "I shall be ready for him, and that shall he find." While the king thus spoke, there came into the hall a damsel having on a mantle richly furred, which she let fall and showed herself to be girded with a noble sword. The king being surprised at this, said, "Damsel, wherefore art thou girt with that sword, for it beseemeth thee not?" "Sir," said she, "I will tell thee. This sword wherewith I am thus girt gives me great sorrow and encumbrance, for I may not be delivered from it till I find a knight faithful and pure and true, strong of body and of valiant deeds, without guile or treachery, who shall be able to draw it from its scabbard, which no man else can do. And I have but just now come from the court of King Ryence, for there they told me many great and good knights were to be ever found; but he and all his knights have tried to draw it forth in vain--for none of them can move it." "This is a great marvel," said King Arthur; "I will myself try to draw forth this sword, not thinking in my heart that I am the best knight, but rather to begin and give example that all may try after me." Saying this, he took the sword and pulled at it with all his might, but could not shake or move it. "Thou needest not strive so hard, Lord," said the damsel, "for whoever may be able to pull it forth shall do so very easily." "Thou sayest well," replied the king, remembering how he had himself drawn forth the sword from the stone before St. Paul's. "Now try ye, all my barons; but beware ye be not stained with shame, or any treachery, or guile." And turning away his face from them, King Arthur mused full heavily of sins within his breast he knew of, and which his failure brought to mind right sadly. Then all the barons present tried each after other, but could none of them succeed; whereat the damsel greatly wept, and said, "Alas, alas! I thought in this court to have found the best knight, without shame or treachery or treason." Now by chance there was at that time a poor knight with King Arthur, who had been prisoner at his court for half a year and more, charged with slaying unawares a knight who was a cousin of the king's. He was named Balin le Savage, and had been by the good offices of the barons delivered from prison, for he was of good and valiant address and gentle blood. He being secretly present at the court saw this adventure, and felt his heart rise high within him, and longed to try the sword as did the others; but being poor and poorly clad, he was ashamed to come forward in the press of knights and nobles. But in his heart he felt assured that he could do better--if Heaven willed--than any knight among them all. So as the damsel left the king, he called to her and said, "Damsel, I pray thee of thy courtesy, suffer me to try the sword as well as all these lords; for though I be but poorly clad, I feel assurance in my heart." The damsel looking at him, saw in him a likely an honest man, but because of his poor garments could not think him to be any knight of worship, and said, "Sir, there is no need to put me to any more pain or labour; why shouldst thou succeed where so many worthy ones have failed?" "Ah, fair lady," answered Balin, "worthiness and brave deeds are not shown by fair raiment, but manhood and truth lie hid within the heart. There be many worshipful knights unknown to all the people." "By my faith, thou sayest truth," replied the damsel; "try therefore, if thou wilt, what thou canst do." So Balin took the sword by the girdle and hilt, and drew it lightly out, and looking on its workmanship and brightness, it pleased him greatly. But the king and all the barons marvelled at Sir Balin's fortune, and many knights were envious of him, for, "Truly," said the damsel, "this is a passing good knight, and the best man I have ever found, and the most worshipfully free from treason, treachery, or villainy, and many wonders shall he achieve." "Now, gentle and courteous knight," continued she, turning to Balin, "give me the sword again." "Nay," said Sir Balin, "save it be taken from me by force, I shall preserve this sword for evermore." "Thou art not wise," replied the damsel, "to keep it from me; for if thou wilt do so, thou shalt slay with it the best friend thou hast, and the sword shall be thine destruction also." "I will take whatever adventure God may send," said Balin; "but the sword will I keep, by the faith of my body." "Thou will repent it shortly," said the damsel; "I would take the sword for thy sake rather than for mine for I am passing grieved and heavy for thy sake, who wilt not believe the peril I foretell thee." With that she departed, making great lamentation. Then Balin sent for his horse and armour, and took his leave of King Arthur, who urged him to stay at his court. "For," said he, "I believe that thou art displeased that I showed thee unkindness; blame me not overmuch, for I was misinformed against thee, and knew not truly what a knight of worship thou art. Abide in this court with my good knights, and I will so advance thee that thou shalt be well pleased." "God thank thee, Lord," said Balin, "for no man can reward thy bounty and thy nobleness; but at this time I must needs depart, praying thee ever to hold me in thy favour." "Truly," said King Arthur, "I am grieved for thy departure; but tarry not long, and thou shalt be right welcome to me and all my knights when thou returnest, and I will repair my neglect and all that I have done amiss against thee." "God thank thee, Lord," again said Balin, and made ready to depart. But meanwhile came into the court a lady upon horseback, full richly dressed, and saluted King Arthur, and asked him for the gift that he had promised her when she gave him his sword Excalibur, "for," said she, "I am the lady of the lake." "Ask what thou wilt," said the king, "and thou shalt have it, if I have power to give." "I ask," said she, "the head of that knight who hath just achieved the sword, or else the damsel's head who brought it, or else both; for the knight slew my brother, and the lady caused my father's death." "Truly," said King Arthur, "I cannot grant thee this desire; it were against my nature and against my name; but ask whatever else thou wilt, and I will do it." "I will demand no other thing," said she. And as she spake came Balin, on his way to leave the court, and saw her where she stood, and knew her straightway for his mother's murderess, whom he had sought in vain three years. And when they told him that she had asked King Arthur for his head, he went up straight to her and said, "May evil have thee! Thou desirest my head, therefore shalt thou lose thine;" and with his sword he lightly smote her head off, in the presence of the king and all the court. "Alas, for shame!" cried out King Arthur, rising up in wrath; "why hast thou done this, shaming both me and my court? I am beholden greatly to this lady, and under my safe conduct came she here; thy deed is passing shameful; never shall I forgive thy villainy." "Lord," cried Sir Balin, "hear me; this lady was the falsest living, and by her witchcraft hath destroyed many, and caused my mother also to be burnt to death by her false arts and treachery." "What cause soever thou mightest have had," said the king, "thou shouldst have forborne her in my presence. Deceive not thyself, thou shalt repent this sin, for such a shame was never brought upon my court; depart now from my face with all the haste thou mayest." Then Balin took up the head of the lady and carried it to his lodgings, and rode forth with his squire from out the town. Then said he, "Now must we part; take ye this head and bear it to my friends in Northumberland, and tell them how I speed, and that our worst foe is dead; also tell them that I am free from prison, and of the adventure of my sword." "Alas!" said the squire, "ye are greatly to blame to have so displeased King Arthur." "As for that," said Sir Balin, "I go now to find King Ryence, and destroy him or lose my life; for should I take him prisoner, and lead him to the court, perchance King Arthur would forgive me, and become my good and gracious lord." "Where shall I meet thee again?" said the squire. "In King Arthur's court," said Balin. CHAPTER V _Sir Balin Smites the Dolorous Stroke, and Fights with his Brother, Sir Balan_ Now there was a knight at the court more envious than the others of Sir Balin, for he counted himself one of the best knights in Britain. His name was Lancear; and going to the king, he begged leave to follow after Sir Balin and avenge the insult he had put upon the court. "Do thy best," replied the king, "for I am passing wroth with Balin." In the meantime came Merlin, and was told of this adventure of the sword and lady of the lake. "Now hear me," said he, "when I tell ye that this lady who hath brought the sword is the falsest damsel living." "Say not so," they answered, "for she hath a brother a good knight, who slew another knight this damsel loved; so she, to be revenged upon her brother, went to the Lady Lile, of Avilion, and besought her help. Then Lady Lile gave her the sword, and told her that no man should draw it forth but one, a valiant knight and strong, who should avenge her on her brother. This, therefore, was the reason why the damsel came here." "I know it all as well as ye do," answered Merlin; "and would to God she had never come hither, for never came she into any company but to do harm; and that good knight who hath achieved the sword shall be himself slain by it, which shall be great harm and loss, for a better knight there liveth not; and he shall do unto my lord the king great honour and service." Then Sir Lancear, having armed himself at all points, mounted, and rode after Sir Balin, as fast as he could go, and overtaking him, he cried aloud, "Abide, Sir knight! wait yet awhile, or I shall make thee do so." Hearing him cry, Sir Balin fiercely turned his horse, and said, "Fair knight, what wilt thou with me? wilt thou joust?" "Yea," said Sir Lancear, "it is for that I have pursued thee." "Peradventure," answered Balin, "thou hadst best have staid at home, for many a man who thinketh himself already victor, endeth by his own downfall. Of what court art thou?" "Of King Arthur's court," cried Lancear, "and I am come to revenge the insult thou hast put on it this day." "Well," said Sir Balin, "I see that I must fight thee, and I repent to be obliged to grieve King Arthur or his knights; and thy quarrel seemeth full foolish to me, for the damsel that is dead worked endless evils through the land, or else I had been loath as any knight that liveth to have slain a lady." "Make thee ready," shouted Lancear, "for one of us shall rest for ever in this field." But at their first encounter Sir Lancear's spear flew into splinters from Sir Balin's shield, and Sir Balin's lance pierced with such might through Sir Lancear's shield that it rove the hauberk also, and passed through the knight's body and the horse's crupper. And Sir Balin turning fiercely round again, drew out his sword, and knew not that he had already slain him; and then he saw him lie a corpse upon the ground. At that same moment came a damsel riding towards him as fast as her horse could gallop, who, when she saw Sir Lancear dead, wept and sorrowed out of measure, crying, "O, Sir Balin, two bodies hast thou slain, and one heart; and two hearts in one body; and two souls also hast thou lost." Therewith she took the sword from her dead lover's side--for she was Sir Lancear's lady-love--and setting the pommel of it on the ground, ran herself through the body with the blade. When Sir Balin saw her dead he was sorely hurt and grieved in spirit, and repented the death of Lancear, which had also caused so fair a lady's death. And being unable to look on their bodies for sorrow, he turned aside into a forest, where presently as he rode, he saw the arms of his brother, Sir Balan. And when they were met they put off their helms, and embraced each other, kissing, and weeping for joy and pity. Then Sir Balin told Sir Balan all his late adventures, and that he was on his way to King Ryence, who at that time was besieging Castle Terrabil. "I will be with thee," answered Sir Balan, "and we will help each other, as brethren ought to do." Anon by chance, as they were talking, came King Mark, of Cornwall, by that way, and when he saw the two dead bodies of Sir Lancear and his lady lying there, and heard the story of their death, he vowed to build a tomb to them before he left that place. So pitching his pavilion there, he sought through all the country round to find a monument, and found at last a rich and fair one in a church, which he took and raised above the dead knight and his damsel, writing on it--"Here lieth Lancear, son of the King of Ireland, who, at his own request, was slain by Balin; and here beside him also lieth his lady Colombe, who slew herself with her lover's sword for grief and sorrow." Then as Sir Balin and Sir Balan rode away, Merlin met with them, and said to Balin, "Thou hast done thyself great harm not to have saved that lady's life who slew herself; and because of it, thou shalt strike the most Dolorous Stroke that ever man struck, save he that smote our Lord. For thou shalt smite the truest and most worshipful of living knights, who shall not be recovered from his wounds for many years, and through that stroke three kingdoms shall be overwhelmed in poverty and misery." "If I believed," said Balin, "what thou sayest, I would slay myself to make thee a liar." At that Merlin vanished suddenly away; but afterwards he met them in disguise towards night, and told them he could lead them to King Ryence, whom they sought. "For this night he is to ride with sixty lances only through a wood hard by." So Sir Balin and Sir Balan hid themselves within the wood, and at midnight came out from their ambush among the leaves by the highway, and waited for the king, whom presently they heard approaching with his company. Then did they suddenly leap forth and smote at him and overthrew him and laid him on the ground, and turning on his company wounded and slew forty of them, and put the rest to flight. And returning to King Ryence they would have slain him there, but he craved mercy, and yielded to their grace, crying, "Knights full of prowess, slay me not; for by my life ye may win something--but my death can avail ye nought." "Ye say truth," said the two knights, and put him in a horse-litter, and went swiftly through all the night, till at cock-crow they came to King Arthur's palace. There they delivered him to the warders and porters, to be brought before the king, with this message--"That he was sent to King Arthur by the knight of the two swords (for so was Balin known by name, since his adventure with the damsel) and by his brother." And so they rode away again ere sunrise. Within a month or two thereafter, King Arthur being somewhat sick, went forth outside the town, and had his pavilion pitched in a meadow, and there abode, and laid him down on a pallet to sleep, but could get no rest. And as he lay he heard the sound of a great horse, and looking out of the tent door, saw a knight ride by, making great lamentation. "Abide, fair sir," said King Arthur, "and tell me wherefore thou makest this sorrow." "Ye may little amend it," said the knight, and so passed on. Presently after Sir Balin, rode, by chance, past that meadow, and when he saw the king he alighted and came to him on foot, and kneeled and saluted him. "By my head," said King Arthur, "ye be welcome, Sir Balin;" and then he thanked him heartily for revenging him upon King Ryence, and for sending him so speedily a prisoner to his castle, and told him how King Nero, Ryence's brother, had attacked him afterwards to deliver Ryence from prison; and how he had defeated him and slain him, and also King Lot, of Orkney who was joined with Nero, and whom King Pellinore had killed in the battle. Then when they had thus talked, King Arthur told Sir Balin of the sullen knight that had just passed his tent, and desired him to pursue him and to bring him back. So Sir Balin rode and overtook the knight in a forest with a damsel, and said, "Sir knight, thou must come back with me unto my lord, King Arthur, to tell him the cause of thy sorrow, which thou hast refused even now to do." "That will I not," replied the knight, "for it would harm me much, and do him no advantage." "Sir," said Sir Balin, "I pray thee make ready, for thou must needs go with me--or else I must fight with thee and take thee by force." "Wilt thou be warrant for safe conduct, if I go with thee?" inquired the knight. "Yea, surely," answered Balin, "I will die else." So the knight made ready to go with Sir Balin, and left the damsel in the wood. But as they went, there came one invisible, and smote the knight through the body with a spear. "Alas," cried Sir Herleus (for so was he named), "I am slain under thy guard and conduct, by that traitor knight called Garlon, who through magic and witchcraft rideth invisibly. Take, therefore, my horse, which is better than thine, and ride to the damsel whom we left, and the quest I had in hand, as she will lead thee--and revenge my death when thou best mayest." "That will I do," said Sir Balin, "by my knighthood, and so I swear to thee." Then went Sir Balin to the damsel, and rode forth with her; she carrying ever with her the truncheon of the spear wherewith Sir Herleus had been slain. And as they went, a good knight, Perin de Mountbelgard, joined their company, and vowed to take adventure with them wheresoever they might go. But presently as they passed a hermitage fast by a churchyard, came the knight Garlon, again invisible, and smote Sir Perin through the body with a spear, and slew him as he had slain Sir Herleus. Whereat, Sir Balin greatly raged, and swore to have Sir Garlon's life, whenever next he might encounter and behold him in his bodily shape. Anon, he and the hermit buried the good knight Sir Perin, and rode on with the damsel till they came to a great castle, whereinto they were about to enter. But when Sir Balin had passed through the gateway, the portcullis fell behind him suddenly, leaving the damsel on the outer side, with men around her, drawing their swords as if to slay her. When he saw that, Sir Balin climbed with eager haste by wall and tower, and leaped into the castle moat, and rushed towards the damsel and her enemies, with his sword drawn, to fight and slay them. But they cried out, "Put up thy sword, Sir knight, we will not fight thee in this quarrel, for we do nothing but an ancient custom of this castle." Then they told him that the lady of the castle was sick, and had lain ill for many years, and might never more be cured, unless she had a silver dish full of the blood of a pure maid and a king's daughter. Wherefore the custom of the castle was, that never should a damsel pass that way but she must give a dish full of her blood. Then Sir Balin suffered them to bleed the damsel with her own consent, but her blood helped not the lady of the castle. So on the morrow they departed, after right good cheer and rest. Then they rode three or four days without adventure and came at last to the abode of a rich man, who sumptuously lodged and fed them. And while they sat at supper Sir Balin heard a voice of some one groaning grievously. "What noise is this?" said he. "Forsooth," said the host, "I will tell you. I was lately at a tournament, and there I fought a knight who is brother to King Pelles, and overthrew him twice, for which he swore to be revenged on me through my best friend, and so he wounded my son, who cannot be recovered till I have that knight's blood, but he rideth through witchcraft always invisibly, and I know not his name." "Ah," said Sir Balin, "but I know him; his name is Garlon, and he hath slain two knights, companions of mine own, in the same fashion, and I would rather than all the riches in this realm that I might meet him face to face." "Well," said his host, "let me now tell thee that King Pelles hath proclaimed in all the country a great festival, to be held at Listeniss, in twenty days from now, whereto no knight may come without a lady. At that great feast we might perchance find out this Garlon, for many will be there; and if it please thee we will set forth together." So on the morrow they rode all three towards Listeniss, and travelled fifteen days, and reached it on the day the feast began. Then they alighted and stabled their horses, and went up to the castle, and Sir Balin's host was denied entrance, having no lady with him. But Sir Balin was right heartily received, and taken to a chamber, where they unarmed him, and dressed him in rich robes, of any colour that he chose, and told him he must lay aside his sword. This, however, he refused, and said, "It is the custom of my country for a knight to keep his sword ever with him; and if I may not keep it here, I will forthwith depart." Then they gave him leave to wear his sword. So he went to the great hall, and was set among knights of rank and worship, and his lady before him. Soon he found means to ask one who sat near him, "Is there not here a knight whose name is Garlon?" "Yonder he goeth," said his neighbour, "he with that black face; he is the most marvellous knight alive, for he rideth invisibly, and destroyeth whom he will." "Ah, well," said Balin, drawing a long breath, "is that indeed the man? I have aforetime heard of him." Then he mused long within himself, and thought, "If I shall slay him here and now, I shall not escape myself; but if I leave him, peradventure I shall never meet with him again at such advantage; and if he live, how much more harm and mischief will he do!" But while he deeply thought, and cast his eyes from time to time upon Sir Garlon, that false knight saw that he watched him, and thinking that he could at such a time escape revenge, he came and smote Sir Balin on the face with the back of his hand, and said, "Knight, why dost thou so watch me? be ashamed, and eat thy meat, and do that which thou camest for." "Thou sayest well," cried Sir Balin, rising fiercely; "now will I straightway do that which I came to do, as thou shalt find." With that he whirled his sword aloft and struck him downright on the head, and clove his skull asunder to the shoulder. "Give me the truncheon," cried out Sir Balin to his lady, "wherewith he slew thy knight." And when she gave it him--for she had always carried it about with her, wherever she had gone--he smote him through the body with it, and said, "With that truncheon didst thou treacherously murder a good knight, and now it sticketh in thy felon body." Then he called to the father of the wounded son, who had come with him to Listeniss, and said, "Now take as much blood as thou wilt, to heal thy son withal." But now arose a terrible confusion, and all the knights leaped from the table to slay Balin, King Pelles himself the foremost, who cried out, "Knight, thou hast slain my brother at my board; die, therefore, die, for thou shalt never leave this castle." "Slay me, thyself, then," shouted Balin. "Yea," said the king, "that will I! for no other man shall touch thee, for the love I bear my brother." Then King Pelles caught in his hand a grim weapon and smote eagerly at Balin, but Balin put his sword between his head and the king's stroke, and saved himself but lost his sword, which fell down smashed and shivered into pieces by the blow. So being weaponless he ran to the next room to find a sword, and so from room to room, with King Pelles after him, he in vain ever eagerly casting his eyes round every place to find some weapon. At last he ran into a chamber wondrous richly decked, where was a bed all dressed with cloth of gold, the richest that could be thought of, and one who lay quite still within the bed; and by the bedside stood a table of pure gold borne on four silver pillars, and on the table stood a marvellous spear, strangely wrought. When Sir Balin saw the spear he seized it in his hand, and turned upon King Pelles, and smote at him so fiercely and so sore that he dropped swooning to the ground. But at that Dolorous and awful Stroke the castle rocked and rove throughout, and all the walls fell crashed and breaking to the earth, and Balin himself fell also in their midst, struck as it were to stone, and powerless to move a hand or foot. And so three days he lay amidst the ruins, until Merlin came and raised him up and brought him a good horse, and bade him ride out of that land as swiftly as he could. [Illustration: The castle rocked and rove throughout, and all the walls fell crashed and breaking to the earth.] "May I not take the damsel with me I brought hither?" said Sir Balin. "Lo! where she lieth dead," said Merlin. "Ah, little knowest thou, Sir Balin, what thou hast done; for in this castle and that chamber which thou didst defile, was the blood of our Lord Christ! and also that most holy cup--the Sangreal--wherefrom the wine was drunk at the last supper of our Lord. Joseph of Arimathea brought it to this land, when first he came here to convert and save it. And on that bed of gold it was himself who lay, and the strange spear beside him was the spear wherewith the soldier Longus smote our Lord, which evermore had dripped with blood. King Pelles is the nearest kin to Joseph in direct descent, wherefore he held these holy things in trust; but now have they all gone at thy dolorous stroke, no man knoweth whither; and great is the damage to this land, which until now hath been the happiest of all lands, for by that stroke thou hast slain thousands, and by the loss and parting of the Sangreal the safety of this realm is put in peril, and its great happiness is gone for evermore." Then Balin departed from Merlin, struck to his soul with grief and sorrow, and said, "In this world shall we meet never more." So he rode forth through the fair cities and the country, and found the people lying dead on every side. And all the living cried out on him as he passed, "O Balin, all this misery hast thou done! For the dolorous stroke thou gavest King Pelles, three countries are destroyed, and doubt not but revenge will fall on thee at last!" When he had passed the boundary of those countries, he was somewhat comforted, and rode eight days without adventure. Anon he came to a cross, whereon was written in letters of gold, "It is not for a knight alone to ride towards this castle." Looking up, he saw a hoary ancient man come towards him, who said, "Sir Balin le Savage, thou passest thy bounds this way; therefore turn back again, it will be best for thee;" and with these words he vanished. Then did he hear a horn blow as it were the deathnote of some hunted beast. "That blast," said Balin, "is blown for me, for I am the prey; though yet I be not dead." But as he spoke he saw a hundred ladies with a great troop of knights come forth to meet him, with bright faces and great welcome, who led him to the castle and made a great feast, with dancing and minstrelsy and all manner of joy. Then the chief lady of the castle said, "Knight with the two swords, thou must encounter and fight with a knight hard by, who dwelleth on an island, for no man may pass this way without encountering him." "It is a grievous custom," answered Sir Balin. "There is but one knight to defeat," replied the lady. "Well," said Sir Balin, "be it as thou wilt. I am ready and quite willing, and though my horse and my body be full weary, yet is my heart not weary, save of life. And truly I were glad if I might meet my death." "Sir," said one standing by, "methinketh your shield is not good; I will lend you a bigger." "I thank thee, sir," said Balin, and took the unknown shield and left his own, and so rode forth, and put himself and horse into a boat and came to the island. As soon as he had landed, he saw come riding towards him, a knight dressed all in red, upon a horse trapped in the same colour. When the red knight saw Sir Balin, and the two swords he wore, he thought it must have been his brother (for the red knight was Sir Balan), but when he saw the strange arms on his shield, he forgot the thought, and came against him fiercely. At the first course they overthrew each other, and both lay swooning on the ground; but Sir Balin was the most hurt and bruised, for he was weary and spent with travelling. So Sir Balan rose up first to his feet and drew his sword, and Sir Balin painfully rose against him and raised his shield. Then Sir Balan smote him through the shield and brake his helmet; and Sir Balin, in return, smote at him with his fated sword, and had wellnigh slain his brother. So they fought till their breaths failed. Then Sir Balin, looking up, saw all the castle towers stand full of ladies. So they went again to battle, and wounded each other full sore, and paused, and breathed again, and then again began the fight; and this for many times they did, till all the ground was red with blood. And by now, each had full grievously wounded the other with seven great wounds, the least of which might have destroyed the mightiest giant in the world. But still they rose against each other, although their hauberks now were all unnailed, and they smiting at each other's naked bodies with their sharp swords. At the last, Sir Balan, the younger brother, withdrew a little space and laid him down. Then said Sir Balin le Savage, "What knight art thou? for never before have I found a knight to match me thus." "My name," said he, all faintly, "is Balan, brother to the good knight Sir Balin." "Ah, God!" cried Balin, "that ever I should see this day!" and therewith fell down backwards in a swoon. Then Sir Balan crept with pain upon his feet and hands, and put his brother's helmet off his head, but could not know him by his face, it was so hewed and bloody. But presently, when Sir Balin came to, he said, "Oh! Balan, mine own brother, thou hast slain me, and I thee! All the wide world saw never greater grief!" "Alas!" said Sir Balan, "that I ever saw this day; and through mishap alone I knew thee not, for when I saw thy two swords, if it had not been for thy strange shield, I should have known thee for my brother." "Alas!" said Balin, "all this sorrow lieth at the door of one unhappy knight within the castle, who made me change my shield. If I might live, I would destroy that castle and its evil customs." "It were well done," said Balan, "for since I first came hither I have never been able to depart, for here they made me fight with one who kept this island, whom I slew, and by enchantment I might never quit it more; nor couldst thou, brother, hadst thou slain me, and escaped with thine own life." Anon came the lady of the castle, and when she heard their talk, and saw their evil case, she wrung her hands and wept bitterly. So Sir Balan prayed the lady of her gentleness that, for his true service, she would bury them both together in that place. This she granted, weeping full sore, and said it should be done right solemnly and richly, and in the noblest manner possible. Then did they send for a priest, and received the holy sacrament at his hands. And Balin said, "Write over us upon our tomb, that here two brethren slew each other; then shall never good knight or pilgrim pass this way but he will pray for both our souls." And anon Sir Balan died, but Sir Balin died not till the midnight after; and then they both were buried. On the morrow of their death came Merlin, and took Sir Balin's sword and fixed on it a new pommel, and set it in a mighty stone, which then, by magic, he made float upon the water. And so, for many years, it floated to and fro around the island, till it swam down the river to Camelot, where young Sir Galahad achieved it, as shall be told hereafter. CHAPTER VI _The Marriage of King Arthur and Queen Guinevere, and the Founding of the Round Table--The Adventure of the Hart and Hound_ It befell upon a certain day, that King Arthur said to Merlin, "My lords and knights do daily pray me now to take a wife; but I will have none without thy counsel, for thou hast ever helped me since I came first to this crown." "It is well," said Merlin, "that thou shouldst take a wife, for no man of bounteous and noble nature should live without one; but is there any lady whom thou lovest better than another?" "Yea," said King Arthur, "I love Guinevere, the daughter of King Leodegrance, of Camelgard, who also holdeth in his house the Round Table that he had from my father Uther; and as I think, that damsel is the gentlest and the fairest lady living." "Sir," answered Merlin, "as for her beauty, she is one of the fairest that do live; but if ye had not loved her as ye do, I would fain have had ye choose some other who was both fair and good. But where a man's heart is set, he will be loath to leave." This Merlin said, knowing the misery that should hereafter happen from this marriage. Then King Arthur sent word to King Leodegrance that he mightily desired to wed his daughter, and how that he had loved her since he saw her first, when with Kings Ban and Bors he rescued Leodegrance from King Ryence of North Wales. When King Leodegrance heard the message, he cried out "These be the best tidings I have heard in all my life--so great and worshipful a prince to seek my daughter for his wife! I would fain give him half my lands with her straightway, but that he needeth none--and better will it please him that I send him the Round Table of King Uther, his father, with a hundred good knights towards the furnishing of it with guests, for he will soon find means to gather more, and make the table full." Then King Leodegrance delivered his daughter Guinevere to the messengers of King Arthur, and also the Round Table with the hundred knights. So they rode royally and freshly, sometimes by water and sometimes by land, towards Camelot. And as they rode along in the spring weather, they made full many sports and pastimes. And, in all those sports and games, a young knight lately come to Arthur's court, Sir Lancelot by name, was passing strong, and won praise from all, being full of grace and hardihood; and Guinevere also ever looked on him with joy. And always in the eventide, when the tents were set beside some stream or forest, many minstrels came and sang before the knights and ladies as they sat in the tent-doors, and many knights would tell adventures; and still Sir Lancelot was foremost, and told the knightliest tales, and sang the goodliest songs, of all the company. And when they came to Camelot, King Arthur made great joy, and all the city with him; and riding forth with a great retinue he met Guinevere and her company, and led her through the streets all filled with people, and in the midst of all their shoutings and the ringing of church bells, to a palace hard by his own. Then, in all haste, the king commanded to prepare the marriage and the coronation with the stateliest and most honourable pomp that could be made. And when the day was come, the archbishops led the king to the cathedral, whereto he walked, clad in his royal robes, and having four kings, bearing four golden swords, before him; a choir of passing sweet music going also with him. In another part, was the queen dressed in her richest ornaments, and led by archbishops and bishops to the Chapel of the Virgins, the four queens also of the four kings last mentioned walked before her, bearing four white doves, according to ancient custom; and after her there followed many damsels, singing and making every sign of joy. And when the two processions were come to the churches, so wondrous was the music and the singing, that all the knights and barons who were there pressed on each other, as in the crowd of battle, to hear and see the most they might. When the king was crowned, he called together all the knights that came with the Round Table from Camelgard, and twenty-eight others, great and valiant men, chosen by Merlin out of all the realm, towards making up the full number of the table. Then the Archbishop of Canterbury blessed the seats of all the knights, and when they rose again therefrom to pay their homage to King Arthur there was found upon the back of each knight's seat his name, written in letters of gold. But upon one seat was found written, "This is the Siege Perilous, wherein if any man shall sit save him whom Heaven hath chosen, he shall be devoured by fire." Anon came young Gawain, the king's nephew, praying to be made a knight, whom the king knighted then and there. Soon after came a poor man, leading with him a tall fair lad of eighteen years of age, riding on a lean mare. And falling at the king's feet, the poor man said, "Lord, it was told me, that at this time of thy marriage thou wouldst give to any man the gift he asked for, so it were not unreasonable." "That is the truth," replied King Arthur, "and I will make it good." "Thou sayest graciously and nobly," said the poor man. "Lord, I ask nothing else but that thou wilt make my son here a knight." "It is a great thing that thou askest," said the king. "What is thy name?" "Aries, the cowherd," answered he. "Cometh this prayer from thee or from thy son?" inquired King Arthur. "Nay, lord, not from myself," said he, "but from him only, for I have thirteen other sons, and all of them will fall to any labour that I put them to. But this one will do no such work for anything that I or my wife may do, but is for ever shooting or fighting, and running to see knights and joustings, and torments me both night and day that he be made a knight." "What is thy name?" said the king to the young man. "My name is Tor," said he. Then the king, looking at him steadfastly, was well pleased with his face and figure, and with his look of nobleness and strength. "Fetch all thy other sons before me," said the king to Aries. But when he brought them, none of them resembled Tor in size or shape or feature. Then the king knighted Tor, saying, "Be thou to thy life's end a good knight and a true, as I pray God thou mayest be; and if thou provest worthy, and of prowess, one day thou shall be counted in the Round Table." Then turning to Merlin, Arthur said, "Prophesy now, O Merlin, shall Sir Tor become a worthy knight, or not?" "Yea, lord," said Merlin, "so he ought to be, for he is the son of that King Pellinore whom thou hast met, and proved to be one of the best knights living. He is no cowherd's son." Presently after came in King Pellinore, and when he saw Sir Tor he knew him for his son, and was more pleased than words can tell to find him knighted by the king. And Pellinore did homage to King Arthur, and was gladly and graciously accepted of the king; and then was led by Merlin to a high seat at the Table Round, near to the Perilous Seat. But Sir Gawain was full of anger at the honour done King Pellinore, and said to his brother Gaheris, "He slew our father, King Lot, therefore will I slay him." "Do it not yet," said he; "wait till I also be a knight, then will I help ye in it: it is best ye suffer him to go at this time, and not trouble this high feast with bloodshed." "As ye will, be it," said Sir Gawain. Then rose the king and spake to all the Table Round, and charged them to be ever true and noble knights, to do neither outrage nor murder, nor any unjust violence, and always to flee treason; also by no means ever to be cruel, but give mercy unto him that asked for mercy, upon pain of forfeiting the liberty of his court for evermore. Moreover, at all times, on pain of death, to give all succour unto ladies and young damsels; and lastly, never to take part in any wrongful quarrel, for reward or payment. And to all this he swore them knight by knight. Then he ordained that, every year at Pentecost, they should all come before him, wheresoever he might appoint a place, and give account of all their doings and adventures of the past twelvemonth. And so, with prayer and blessing, and high words of cheer, he instituted the most noble order of the Round Table, whereto the best and bravest knights in all the world sought afterwards to find admission. Then was the high feast made ready, and the king and queen sat side by side, before the whole assembly; and great and royal was the banquet and the pomp. And as they sat, each man in his place, Merlin went round and said, "Sit still awhile, for ye shall see a strange and marvellous adventure." So as they sat, there suddenly came running through the hall, a white hart, with a white hound next after him, and thirty couple of black running hounds, making full cry; and the hart made circuit of the Table Round, and past the other tables; and suddenly the white hound flew upon him and bit him fiercely, and tore out a piece from his haunch. Whereat the hart sprang suddenly with a great leap, and overthrew a knight sitting at the table, who rose forthwith, and, taking up the hound, mounted, and rode fast away. But no sooner had he left, than there came in a lady, mounted on a white palfrey, who cried out to the king, "Lord, suffer me not to have this injury!--the hound is mine which that knight taketh." And as she spake, a knight rode in all armed, on a great horse, and suddenly took up the lady and rode away with her by force, although she greatly cried and moaned. Then the king desired Sir Gawain, Sir Tor, and King Pellinore to mount and follow this adventure to the uttermost; and told Sir Gawain to bring back the hart, Sir Tor the hound and knight, and King Pellinore the knight and the lady. So Sir Gawain rode forth at a swift pace, and with him Gaheris, his brother, for a squire. And as they went, they saw two knights fighting on horseback, and when they reached them they divided them and asked the reason of their quarrel. "We fight for a foolish matter," one replied, "for we be brethren; but there came by a white hart this way, chased by many hounds, and thinking it was an adventure for the high feast of King Arthur, I would have followed it to have gained worship; whereat my younger brother here declared he was the better knight and would go after it instead, and so we fight to prove which of us be the better knight." "This is a foolish thing," said Sir Gawain. "Fight with all strangers, if ye will, but not brother with brother. Take my advice, set on against me, and if ye yield to me, as I shall do my best to make ye, ye shall go to King Arthur and yield ye to his grace." "Sir knight," replied the brothers, "we are weary, and will do thy wish without encountering thee; but by whom shall we tell the king that we were sent?" "By the knight that followeth the quest of the white hart," said Sir Gawain. "And now tell me your names, and let us part." "Sorlous and Brian of the Forest," they replied; and so they went their way to the king's court. Then Sir Gawain, still following his quest by the distant baying of the hounds, came to a great river, and saw the hart swimming over and near to the further bank. And as he was about to plunge in and swim after, he saw a knight upon the other side, who cried, "Come not over here, Sir knight, after that hart, save thou wilt joust with me." "I will not fail for that," said Sir Gawain; and swam his horse across the stream. Anon they got their spears, and ran against each other fiercely; and Sir Gawain smote the stranger off his horse, and turning, bade him yield. "Nay," replied he, "not so; for though ye have the better of me on horseback, I pray thee, valiant knight, alight, and let us match together with our swords on foot." "What is thy name?" quoth Gawain. "Allardin of the Isles," replied the stranger. Then they fell on each other; but soon Sir Gawain struck him through the helm, so deeply and so hard, that all his brains were scattered, and Sir Allardin fell dead. "Ah," said Gaheris, "that was a mighty stroke for a young knight!" Then did they turn again to follow the white hart, and let slip three couple of greyhounds after him; and at the last they chased him to a castle, and there they overtook and slew him, in the chief courtyard. At that there rushed a knight forth from a chamber, with a drawn sword in his hand, and slew two of the hounds before their eyes, and chased the others from the castle, crying, "Oh, my white hart! alas, that thou art dead! for thee my sovereign lady gave to me, and evil have I kept thee; but if I live, thy death shall be dear bought." Anon he went within and armed, and came out fiercely, and met Sir Gawain face to face. "Why have ye slain my hounds?" said Sir Gawain; "they did but after their nature: and ye had better have taken vengeance on me than on the poor dumb beasts." "I will avenge me on thee, also," said the other, "ere thou depart this place." Then did they fight with each other savagely and madly, till the blood ran down to their feet. But at last Sir Gawain had the better, and felled the knight of the castle to the ground. Then he cried out for mercy, and yielded to Sir Gawain, and besought him as he was a knight and gentleman to save his life. "Thou shalt die," said Sir Gawain, "for slaying my hounds." "I will make thee all amends within my power," replied the knight. But Sir Gawain would have no mercy, and unlaced his helm to strike his head off; and so blind was he with rage, that he saw not where a lady ran out from her chamber and fell down upon his enemy. And making a fierce blow at him, he smote off by mischance the lady's head. "Alas!" cried Gaheris, "foully and shamefully have ye done--the shame shall never leave ye! Why give ye not your mercy unto them that ask it? a knight without mercy is without worship also." Then Sir Gawain was sore amazed at that fair lady's death, and knew not what to do, and said to the fallen knight, "Arise, for I will give thee mercy." "Nay, nay," said he, "I care not for thy mercy now, for thou hast slain my lady and my love--that of all earthly things I loved the best." "I repent me sorely of it," said Sir Gawain, "for I meant to have struck thee: but now shalt thou go to King Arthur and tell him this adventure, and how thou hast been overcome by the knight that followeth the quest of the white hart." "I care not whether I live or die, or where I go," replied the knight. So Sir Gawain sent him to the court to Camelot, making him bear one dead greyhound before and one behind him on his horse. "Tell me thy name before we part," said he. "My name is Athmore of the Marsh," he answered. Then went Sir Gawain into the castle, and prepared to sleep there and began to unarm; but Gaheris upbraided him, saying, "Will ye disarm in this strange country? bethink ye, ye must needs have many enemies about." No sooner had he spoken than there came out suddenly four knights, well armed, and assailed them hard, saying to Sir Gawain, "Thou new-made knight, how hast thou shamed thy knighthood! a knight without mercy is dishonoured! Slayer of fair ladies, shame to thee evermore! Doubt not thou shalt thyself have need of mercy ere we leave thee." Then were the brothers in great jeopardy, and feared for their lives, for they were but two to four, and weary with travelling; and one of the four knights shot Sir Gawain with a bolt, and hit him through the arm, so that he could fight no more. But when there was nothing left for them but death, there came four ladies forth and prayed the four knights' mercy for the strangers. So they gave Sir Gawain and Gaheris their lives, and made them yield themselves prisoners. On the morrow, came one of the ladies to Sir Gawain, and talked with him, saying, "Sir knight, what cheer?" "Not good," said he. "It is your own default, sir," said the lady, "for ye have done a passing foul deed in slaying that fair damsel yesterday--and ever shall it be great shame to you. But ye be not of King Arthur's kin." "Yea, truly am I," said he; "my name is Gawain, son of King Lot of Orkney, whom King Pellinore slew--and my mother, Belisent, is half-sister to the king." When the lady heard that, she went and presently got leave for him to quit the castle; and they gave him the head of the white hart to take with him, because it was in his quest; but made him also carry the dead lady with him--her head hung round his neck and her body lay before him on his horse's neck. So in that fashion he rode back to Camelot; and when the king and queen saw him, and heard tell of his adventures, they were heavily displeased, and, by the order of the queen, he was put upon his trial before a court of ladies--who judged him to be evermore, for all his life, the knight of ladies' quarrels, and to fight always on their side, and never against any, except he fought for one lady and his adversary for another; also they charged him never to refuse mercy to him that asked it, and swore him to it on the Holy Gospels. Thus ended the adventure of the white hart. Meanwhile, Sir Tor had made him ready, and followed the knight who rode away with the hound. And as he went, there suddenly met him in the road a dwarf, who struck his horse so viciously upon the head with a great staff, that he leaped backwards a spear's length. "Wherefore so smitest thou my horse, foul dwarf?" shouted Sir Tor. "Because thou shall not pass this way," replied the dwarf, "unless thou fight for it with yonder knights in those pavilions," pointing to two tents, where two great spears stood out, and two shields hung upon two trees hard by. "I may not tarry, for I am on a quest I needs must follow," said Sir Tor. "Thou shalt not pass," replied the dwarf, and therewith blew his horn. Then rode out quickly at Sir Tor one armed on horseback, but Sir Tor was quick as he, and riding at him bore him from his horse, and made him yield. Directly after came another still more fiercely, but with a few great strokes and buffets Sir Tor unhorsed him also, and sent them both to Camelot to King Arthur. Then came the dwarf and begged Sir Tor to take him in his service, "for," said he, "I will serve no more recreant knights." "Take then a horse, and come with me," said Tor. "Ride ye after the knight with the white hound?" said the dwarf; "I can soon bring ye where he is." So they rode through the forest till they came to two more tents. And Sir Tor alighting, went into the first, and saw three damsels lie there, sleeping. Then went he to the other, and found another lady also sleeping, and at her feet the white hound he sought for, which instantly began to bay and bark so loudly, that the lady woke. But Sir Tor had seized the hound and given it to the dwarfs charge. "What will ye do, Sir knight?" cried out the lady; "will ye take away my hound from me by force?" "Yea, lady," said Sir Tor; "for so I must, having the king's command; and I have followed it from King Arthur's court, at Camelot, to this place." "Well" said the lady, "ye will not go far before ye be ill handled, and will repent ye of the quest." "I shall cheerfully abide whatsoever adventure cometh, by the grace of God," said Sir Tor; and so mounted his horse and began to ride back on his way. But night coming on, he turned aside to a hermitage that was in the forest, and there abode till the next day, making but sorrowful cheer of such poor food as the hermit had to give him, and hearing a Mass devoutly before he left on the morrow. And in the early morning, as he rode forth with the dwarf towards Camelot, he heard a knight call loudly after him, "Turn, turn! Abide, Sir knight, and yield me up the hound thou tookest from my lady." At which he turned, and saw a great and strong knight, armed full splendidly, riding down upon him fiercely through a glade of the forest. Now Sir Tor was very ill provided, for he had but an old courser, which was as weak as himself, because of the hermit's scanty fare. He waited, nevertheless, for the strange knight to come, and at the first onset with their spears, each unhorsed the other, and then fell to with their swords like two mad lions. Then did they smite through one another's shields and helmets till the fragments flew on all sides, and their blood ran out in streams; but yet they carved and rove through the thick armour of the hauberks, and gave each other great and ghastly wounds. But in the end, Sir Tor, finding the strange knight faint, doubled his strokes until he beat him to the earth. Then did he bid him yield to his mercy. "That will I not," replied Abellius, "while my life lasteth and my soul is in my body, unless thou give me first the hound." "I cannot," said Sir Tor, "and will not, for it was my quest to bring again that hound and thee unto King Arthur, or otherwise to slay thee." With that there came a damsel riding on a palfrey, as fast as she could drive, and cried out to Sir Tor with a loud voice, "I pray thee, for King Arthur's love, give me a gift." "Ask," said Sir Tor, "and I will give thee." "Grammercy," said the lady, "I ask the head of this false knight Abellius, the most outrageous murderer that liveth." "I repent me of the gift I promised," said Sir Tor. "Let him make thee amends for all his trespasses against thee." "He cannot make amends," replied the damsel, "for he hath slain my brother, a far better knight than he, and scorned to give him mercy, though I kneeled for half an hour before him in the mire, to beg it, and though it was but by a chance they fought, and for no former injury or quarrel. I require my gift of thee as a true knight, or else will I shame thee in King Arthur's court; for this Abellius is the falsest knight alive, and a murderer of many." When Abellius heard this, he trembled greatly, and was sore afraid, and yielded to Sir Tor, and prayed his mercy. "I cannot now, Sir knight," said he, "lest I be false to my promise. Ye would not take my mercy when I offered it; and now it is too late." Therewith he unlaced his helmet, and took it off; but Abellius, in dismal fear, struggled to his feet, and fled, until Sir Tor overtook him, and smote off his head entirely with one blow. "Now, sir," said the damsel, "it is near night, I pray ye come and lodge at my castle hard by." "I will, with a good will," said he, for both his horse and he had fared but poorly since they left Camelot. So he went to the lady's castle and fared sumptuously, and saw her husband, an old knight, who greatly thanked him for his service, and urged him oftentimes to come again. On the morrow he departed, and reached Camelot by noon, where the king and queen rejoiced to see him, and the king made him Earl; and Merlin prophesied that these adventures were but little to the things he should achieve hereafter. Now while Sir Gawain and Sir Tor had fulfilled their quests, King Pellinore pursued the lady whom the knight had seized away from the wedding-feast. And as he rode through the woods, he saw in a valley a fair young damsel sitting by a well-side, and a wounded knight lying in her arms, and King Pellinore saluted her as he passed by. As soon as she perceived him she cried out, "Help, help me, knight, for our Lord's sake!" But Pellinore was far too eager in his quest to stay or turn, although she cried a hundred times to him for help; at which she prayed to heaven he might have such sore need before he died as she had now. And presently thereafter her knight died in her arms; and she, for grief and love slew herself with his sword. But King Pellinore rode on till he met a poor man and asked him had he seen a knight pass by that way leading by force a lady with him. "Yea, surely," said the man, "and greatly did she moan and cry; but even now another knight is fighting with him to deliver the lady; ride on and thou shalt find them fighting still." At that King Pellinore rode swiftly on, and came to where he saw the two knights fighting, hard by where two pavilions stood. And when he looked in one of them he saw the lady that was his quest, and with her the two squires of the two knights who fought. "Fair lady," said he, "ye must come with me unto Arthur's court." "Sir knight," said the two squires, "yonder be two knights fighting for this lady; go part them, and get their consent to take her, ere thou touch her." "Ye say well," said King Pellinore, and rode between the combatants, and asked them why they fought. "Sir knight," said the one, "yon lady is my cousin, mine aunt's daughter, whom I met borne away against her will, by this knight here, with whom I therefore fight to free her." "Sir knight," replied the other, whose name was Hantzlake of Wentland, "this lady got I, by my arms and prowess, at King Arthur's court to-day." "That is false," said King Pellinore; "ye stole the lady suddenly, and fled away with her, before any knight could arm to stay thee. But it is my service to take her back again. Neither of ye shall therefore have her; but if ye will fight for her, fight with me now and here." "Well," said the knights, "make ready, and we will assail thee with all our might." Then Sir Hantzlake ran King Pellinore's horse through with his sword, so that they might be all alike on foot. But King Pellinore at that was passing wroth, and ran upon Sir Hantzlake, with a cry, "Keep well thy head!" and gave him such a stroke upon the helm as clove him to the chin, so that he fell dead to the ground. When he saw that, the other knight refused to fight, and kneeling down said, "Take my cousin the lady with thee, as thy quest is; but as thou art a true knight, suffer her to come to neither shame nor harm." So the next day King Pellinore departed for Camelot, and took the lady with him; and as they rode in a valley full of rough stones, the damsel's horse stumbled and threw her, so that her arms were sorely bruised and hurt. And as they rested in the forest for the pain to lessen, night came on, and there they were compelled to make their lodging. A little before midnight they heard the trotting of a horse. "Be ye still," said King Pellinore, "for now we may hear of some adventure," and therewith he armed him. Then he heard two knights meet and salute each other, in the dark; one riding from Camelot, the other from the north. "What tidings at Camelot?" said one. "By my head," said the other, "I have but just left there, and have espied King Arthur's court, and such a fellowship is there as never may be broke or overcome; for wellnigh all the chivalry of the world is there, and all full loyal to the king, and now I ride back homewards to the north to tell our chiefs, that they waste not their strength in wars against him." "As for all that," replied the other knight, "I am but now from the north, and bear with me a remedy, the deadliest poison that ever was heard tell of, and to Camelot will I with it; for there we have a friend close to the king, and greatly cherished of him, who hath received gifts from us to poison him, as he hath promised soon to do." "Beware," said the first knight, "of Merlin, for he knoweth all things, by the devil's craft." "I will not fear for that," replied the other, and so rode on his way. Anon King Pellinore and the lady passed on again; and when they came to the well at which the lady with the wounded knight had sat, they found both knight and Damsel utterly devoured by lions and wild beasts, all save the lady's head. When King Pellinore saw that, he wept bitterly, saying, "Alas! I might have saved her life had I but tarried a few moments in my quest." "Wherefore make so much sorrow now?" said the lady. "I know not," answered he, "but my heart grieveth greatly for this poor lady's death, so fair she was and young." Then he required a hermit to bury the remains of the bodies, and bare the lady's head with him to Camelot, to the court. When he was arrived, he was sworn to tell the truth of his quest before the King and Queen, and when he had entered the Queen somewhat upbraided him, saying, "Ye were much to blame that ye saved not that lady's life." "Madam," said he, "I shall repent it all my life." "Ay, king," quoth Merlin, who suddenly came in, "and so ye ought to do, for that lady was your daughter, not seen since infancy by thee. And she was on her way to court, with a right good young knight, who would have been her husband, but was slain by treachery of a felon knight, Lorraine le Savage, as they came; and because thou wouldst not abide and help her, thy best friend shall fail thee in thine hour of greatest need, for such is the penance ordained thee for that deed." Then did King Pellinore tell Merlin secretly of the treason he had heard in the forest, and Merlin by his craft so ordered that the knight who bare the poison was himself soon after slain by it, and so King Arthur's life was saved. CHAPTER VII _King Arthur and Sir Accolon of Gaul_ Being now happily married, King Arthur for a season took his pleasure, with great tournaments, and jousts, and huntings. So once upon a time the king and many of his knights rode hunting in a forest, and Arthur, King Urience, and Sir Accolon of Gaul, followed after a great hart, and being all three well mounted, they chased so fast that they outsped their company, and left them many miles behind; but riding still as rapidly as they could go, at length their horses fell dead under them. Then being all three on foot, and seeing the stag not far before them, very weary and nigh spent--"What shall we do," said King Arthur, "for we are hard bested?" "Let us go on afoot," said King Urience, "till we can find some lodging." At that they saw the stag lying upon the bank of a great lake, with a hound springing at his throat, and many other hounds trooping towards him. So, running forward, Arthur blew the death-note on his horn, and slew the hart. Then lifting up his eyes he saw before him on the lake a barge, all draped down to the water's edge, with silken folds and curtains, which swiftly came towards him, and touched upon the sands; but when he went up close and looked in, he saw no earthly creature. Then he cried out to his companions, "Sirs, come ye hither, and let us see what there is in this ship." So they all three went in, and found it everywhere throughout furnished, and hung with rich draperies of silk and gold. By this time eventide had come, when suddenly a hundred torches were set up on all sides of the barge, and gave a dazzling light, and at the same time came forth twelve fair damsels, and saluted King Arthur by his name, kneeling on their knees, and telling him that he was welcome, and should have their noblest cheer, for which the king thanked them courteously. Then did they lead him and his fellows to a splendid chamber, where was a table spread with all the richest furniture, and costliest wines and viands; and there they served them with all kinds of wines and meats, till Arthur wondered at the splendour of the feast, declaring he had never in his life supped better, or more royally. After supper they led him to another chamber, than which he had never beheld a richer, where he was left to rest. King Urience, also, and Sir Accolon were each conducted into rooms of like magnificence. And so they all three fell asleep, and being very weary slept deeply all that night. [Illustration: Came forth twelve fair damsels, and saluted King Arthur by his name.] But when the morning broke, King Urience found himself in his own house in Camelot, he knew not how; and Arthur awaking found himself in a dark dungeon, and heard around him nothing but the groans of woful knights, prisoners like himself. Then said King Arthur, "Who are ye, thus groaning and complaining?" And some one answered him, "Alas, we be all prisoners, even twenty good knights, and some of us have lain here seven years--some more--nor seen the light of day for all that time." "For what cause?" said King Arthur. "Know ye not then yourself?" they answered--"we will soon tell you. The lord of this strong castle is Sir Damas, and is the falsest and most traitorous knight that liveth; and he hath a younger brother, a good and noble knight, whose name is Outzlake. This traitor Damas, although passing rich, will give his brother nothing of his wealth, and save what Outzlake keepeth to himself by force, he hath no share of the inheritance. He owneth, nevertheless, one fair rich manor, whereupon he liveth, loved of all men far and near. But Damas is as altogether hated as his brother is beloved, for he is merciless and cowardly: and now for many years there hath been war between these brothers, and Sir Outzlake evermore defieth Damas to come forth and fight with him, body to body, for the inheritance; and if he be too cowardly, to find some champion knight that will fight for him. And Damas hath agreed to find some champion, but never yet hath found a knight to take his evil cause in hand, or wager battle for him. So with a strong band of men-at-arms he lieth ever in ambush, and taketh captive every passing knight who may unwarily go near, and bringeth him into this castle, and desireth him either to fight Sir Outzlake, or to lie for evermore in durance. And thus hath he dealt with all of us, for we all scorned to take up such a cause for such a false foul knight--but rather one by one came here, where many a good knight hath died of hunger and disease. But if one of us would fight, Sir Damas would deliver all the rest." "God of his mercy send you deliverance," said King Arthur, and sat turning in his mind how all these things should end, and how he might himself gain freedom for so many noble hearts. Anon there came a damsel to the king, saying, "Sir if thou wilt fight for my lord thou shalt be delivered out of prison, but else nevermore shalt thou escape with thy life." "Nay," said King Arthur, "that is but a hard choice, yet had I rather fight than die in prison, and if I may deliver not myself alone, but all these others, I will do the battle." "Yea," said the damsel, "it shall be even so." "Then," said King Arthur, "I am ready now, if but I had a horse and armour." "Fear not," said she, "that shalt thou have presently, and shalt lack nothing proper for the fight." "Have I not seen thee," said the king, "at King Arthur's court? for it seemeth that thy face is known to me." "Nay," said the damsel, "I was never there; I am Sir Damas' daughter, and have never been but a day's journey from this castle." But she spoke falsely, for she was one of the damsels of Morgan le Fay, the great enchantress, who was King Arthur's half-sister. When Sir Damas knew that there had been at length a knight found who would fight for him, he sent for Arthur, and finding him a man so tall and strong, and straight of limb, he was passingly well pleased, and made a covenant with him, that he should fight unto the uttermost for his cause, and that all the other knights should be delivered. And when they were sworn to each other on the holy gospels, all those imprisoned knights were straightway led forth and delivered, but abode there one and all to see the battle. In the meanwhile there had happened to Sir Accolon of Gaul a strange adventure; for when he awoke from his deep sleep upon the silken barge, he found himself upon the edge of a deep well, and in instant peril of falling thereinto. Whereat, leaping up in great affright, he crossed himself and cried aloud, "May God preserve my lord King Arthur and King Urience, for those damsels in the ship have betrayed us, and were doubtless devils and no women; and if I may escape this misadventure, I will certainly destroy them wheresoever I may find them." With that there came to him a dwarf with a great mouth, and a flat nose, and saluted him, saying that he came from Queen Morgan le Fay. "And she greeteth you well," said he, "and biddeth you be strong of heart, for to-morrow you shall do battle with a strange knight, and therefore she hath sent you here Excalibur, King Arthur's sword, and the scabbard likewise. And she desireth you as you do love her to fight this battle to the uttermost, and without any mercy, as you have promised her you would fight when she should require it of you; and she will make a rich queen for ever of any damsel that shall bring her that knight's head with whom you are to fight." "Well," said Sir Accolon, "tell you my lady Queen Morgan, that I shall hold to that I promised her, now that I have this sword--and," said he, "I suppose it was to bring about this battle that she made all these enchantments by her craft." "You have guessed rightly," said the dwarf, and therewithal he left him. Then came a knight and lady, and six squires, to Sir Accolon, and took him to a manor house hard by, and gave him noble cheer; and the house belonged to Sir Outzlake, the brother of Sir Damas, for so had Morgan le Fay contrived with her enchantments. Now Sir Outzlake himself was at that time sorely wounded and disabled, having been pierced through both his thighs by a spear-thrust. When, therefore, Sir Damas sent down messengers to his brother, bidding him make ready by to-morrow morning, and be in the field to fight with a good knight, for that he had found a champion ready to do battle at all points, Sir Outzlake was sorely annoyed and distressed, for he knew he had small chance of victory, while yet he was disabled by his wounds; notwithstanding, he determined to take the battle in hand, although he was so weak that he must needs be lifted to his saddle. But when Sir Accolon of Gaul heard this, he sent a message to Sir Outzlake offering to take the battle in his stead, which cheered Sir Outzlake mightily, who thanked Sir Accolon with all his heart, and joyfully accepted him. So, on the morrow, King Arthur was armed and well horsed, and asked Sir Damas, "When shall we go to the field?" "Sir," said Sir Damas, "you shall first hear mass." And when mass was done, there came a squire on a great horse, and asked Sir Damas if his knight were ready, "for our knight is already in the field." Then King Arthur mounted on horseback, and there around were all the knights, and barons, and people of the country; and twelve of them were chosen to wait upon the two knights who were about to fight. And as King Arthur sat on horseback, there came a damsel from Morgan le Fay, and brought to him a sword, made like Excalibur, and a scabbard also, and said to him, "Morgan le Fay sendeth you here your sword for her great love's sake." And the king thanked her, and believed it to be as she said; but she traitorously deceived him, for both sword and scabbard were counterfeit, brittle, and false, and the true sword Excalibur was in the hands of Sir Accolon. Then, at the sound of a trumpet, the champions set themselves on opposite sides of the field, and giving rein and spur to their horses urged them to so great a speed that each smiting the other in the middle of the shield, rolled his opponent to the ground, both horse and man. Then starting up immediately, both drew their swords and rushed swiftly together. And so they fell to eagerly, and gave each other many great and mighty strokes. And as they were thus fighting, the damsel Vivien, lady of the lake, who loved King Arthur, came upon the ground, for she knew by her enchantments how Morgan le Fay had craftily devised to have King Arthur slain by his own sword that day, and therefore came to save his life. And Arthur and Sir Accolon were now grown hot against each other, and spared not strength nor fury in their fierce assaults; but the king's sword gave way continually before Sir Accolon's, so that at every stroke he was sore wounded, and his blood ran from him so fast that it was a marvel he could stand. When King Arthur saw the ground so sore be-blooded, he bethought him in dismay that there was magic treason worked upon him, and that his own true sword was changed, for it seemed to him that the sword in Sir Accolon's hand was Excalibur, for fearfully it drew his blood at every blow, while what he held himself kept no sharp edge, nor fell with any force upon his foe. "Now, knight, look to thyself, and keep thee well from me," cried out Sir Accolon. But King Arthur answered not, and gave him such a buffet on the helm as made him stagger and nigh fall upon the ground. Then Sir Accolon withdrew a little, and came on with Excalibur on high, and smote King Arthur in return with such a mighty stroke as almost felled him; and both being now in hottest wrath, they gave each other grievous and savage blows. But Arthur all the time was losing so much blood that scarcely could he keep upon his feet yet so full was he of knighthood, that knightly he endured the pain, and still sustained himself, though now he was so feeble that he thought himself about to die. Sir Accolon, as yet, had lost no drop of blood, and being very bold and confident in Excalibur, even grew more vigorous and hasty in his assaults. But all men who beheld them said they never saw a knight fight half so well as did King Arthur; and all the people were so grieved for him that they besought Sir Damas and Sir Outzlake to make up their quarrel and so stay the fight; but they would not. So still the battle raged, till Arthur drew a little back for breath and a few moments' rest; but Accolon came on after him, following fiercely and crying loud, "It is no time for me to suffer thee to rest," and therewith set upon him. Then Arthur, full of scorn and rage, lifted up his sword and struck Sir Accolon upon the helm so mightily that he drove him to his knees; but with the force of that great stroke his brittle, treacherous sword broke short off at the hilt, and fell down in the grass among the blood, leaving the pommel only in his hand. At that, King Arthur thought within himself that all was over, and secretly prepared his mind for death, yet kept himself so knightly sheltered by his shield that he lost no ground, and made as though he yet had hope and cheer. Then said Sir Accolon, "Sir knight, thou now art overcome and canst endure no longer, seeing thou art weaponless, and hast lost already so much blood. Yet am I fully loth to slay thee; yield, then, therefore, to me as recreant." "Nay," said King Arthur, "that may I not, for I have promised to do battle to the uttermost by the faith of my body while my life lasteth; and I had rather die with honour than live with shame; and if it were possible for me to die an hundred times, I had rather die as often than yield me to thee, for though I lack weapons, I shall lack no worship, and it shall be to thy shame to slay me weaponless." "Aha," shouted then Sir Accolon, "as for the shame, I will not spare; look to thyself, sir knight, for thou art even now but a dead man." Therewith he drove at him with pitiless force, and struck him nearly down; but Arthur evermore waxing in valour as he waned in blood, pressed on Sir Accolon with his shield, and hit at him so fiercely with the pommel in his hand, as hurled him three strides backwards. This, therefore, so confused Sir Accolon, that rushing up, all dizzy, to deliver once again a furious blow, even as he struck, Excalibur, by Vivien's magic, fell from out his hands upon the earth. Beholding which, King Arthur lightly sprang to it, and grasped it, and forthwith felt it was his own good sword, and said to it, "Thou hast been from me all too long, and done me too much damage." Then spying the scabbard hanging by Sir Accolon's side, he sprang and pulled it from him, and cast it away as far as he could throw it; for so long as he had worn it, Arthur new his life would have been kept secure. "Oh, knight!" then said the king, "thou hast this day wrought me much damage by this sword, but now art thou come to thy death, for I shall not warrant thee but that thou shalt suffer, ere we part, somewhat of that thou hast made me suffer." And therewithal King Arthur flew at him with all his might, and pulled him to the earth, and then struck off his helm, and gave him on the head a fearful buffet, till the blood leaped forth. "Now will I slay thee!" cried King Arthur; for his heart was hardened, and his body all on fire with fever, till for a moment he forgot his knightly mercy. "Slay me thou mayest," said Sir Accolon, "for thou art the best knight I ever found, and I see well that God is with thee; and I, as thou hast, have promised to fight this battle to the uttermost, and never to be recreant while I live; therefore shall I never yield me with my mouth, and God must do with my body what he will." And as Sir Accolon spoke, King Arthur thought he knew his voice; and parting all his blood-stained hair from out his eyes, and leaning down towards him, saw, indeed, it was his friend and own true knight. Then said he--keeping his own visor down--"I pray thee tell me of what country art thou, and what court?" "Sir knight," he answered, "I am of King Arthur's court, and my name is Sir Accolon of Gaul." Then said the king, "Oh, sir knight! I pray thee tell me who gave thee this sword? and from whom thou hadst it?" Then said Sir Accolon, "Woe worth this sword, for by it I have gotten my death. This sword hath been in my keeping now for almost twelve months, and yesterday Queen Morgan le Fay, wife of King Urience, sent it to me by a dwarf, that therewith I might in some way slay her brother, King Arthur; for thou must understand that King Arthur is the man she hateth most in all the world, being full of envy and jealousy because he is of greater worship and renown than any other of her blood. She loveth me also as much as she doth hate him; and if she might contrive to slay King Arthur by her craft and magic, then would she straightway kill her husband also, and make me the king of all this land, and herself my queen, to reign with me; but now," said he, "all that is over, for this day I am come to my death." "It would have been sore treason of thee to destroy thy lord," said Arthur. "Thou sayest truly," answered he; "but now that I have told thee, and openly confessed to thee all that foul treason whereof I now do bitterly repent, tell me, I pray thee, whence art thou, and of what court?" "O, Sir Accolon!" said King Arthur, "learn that I am myself King Arthur." When Sir Accolon heard this he cried aloud, "Alas, my gracious lord! have mercy on me, for I knew thee not." "Thou shalt have mercy," said he, "for thou knewest not my person at this time; and though by thine own confession thou art a traitor, yet do I blame thee less, because thou hast been blinded by the false crafts of my sister Morgan le Fay, whom I have trusted more than all others of my kin, and whom I now shall know well how to punish." Then did Sir Accolon cry loudly, "O, lords, and all good people! this noble knight that I have fought with is the noblest and most worshipful in all the world; for it is King Arthur, our liege lord and sovereign king; and full sorely I repent that I have ever lifted lance against him, though in ignorance I did it." Then all the people fell down on their knees and prayed the pardon of the king for suffering him to come to such a strait. But he replied, "Pardon ye cannot have, for, truly, ye have nothing sinned; but here ye see what ill adventure may ofttimes befall knights-errant, for to my own hurt, and his danger also, I have fought with one of my own knights." Then the king commanded Sir Damas to surrender to his brother the whole manor, Sir Outzlake only yielding him a palfrey every year; "for," said he scornfully, "it would become thee better to ride on than a courser;" and ordered Damas, upon pain of death, never again to touch or to distress knights-errant riding on their adventures; and also to make full compensation and satisfaction to the twenty knights whom he had held in prison. "And if any of them," said the king, "come to my court complaining that he hath not had full satisfaction of thee for his injuries, by my head, thou shalt die therefor." Afterwards, King Arthur asked Sir Outzlake to come with him to his court, where he should become a knight of his, and, if his deeds were noble, be advanced to all he might desire. So then he took his leave of all the people and mounted upon horseback, and Sir Accolon went with him to an abbey hard by, where both their wounds were dressed. But Sir Accolon died within four days after. And when he was dead, the king sent his body to Queen Morgan, to Camelot, saying that he sent her a present in return for the sword Excalibur which she had sent him by the damsel. So, on the morrow, there came a damsel from Queen Morgan to the king, and brought with her the richest mantle that ever was seen, for it was set as full of precious stones as they could stand against each other, and they were the richest stones that ever the king saw. And the damsel said, "Your sister sendeth you this mantle, and prayeth you to take her gift, and in whatsoever thing she hath offended you, she will amend it at your pleasure." To this the king replied not, although the mantle pleased him much. With that came in the lady of the lake, and said, "Sir, put not on this mantle till thou hast seen more; and in nowise let it be put upon thee, or any of thy knights, till ye have made the bringer of it first put it on her." "It shall be done as thou dost counsel," said the king. Then said he to the damsel that came from his sister, "Damsel, I would see this mantle ye have brought me upon yourself." "Sir," said she, "it will not beseem me to wear a knight's garment." "By my head," said King Arthur, "thou shall wear it ere it go on any other person's back!" And so they put it on her by force, and forthwith the garment burst into a flame and burned the damsel into cinders. When the king saw that, he hated that false witch Morgan le Fay with all his heart, and evermore was deadly quarrel between her and Arthur to their lives' end. CHAPTER VIII _King Arthur conquers Rome, and is crowned Emperor_ And now again the second time there came ambassadors from Lucius Tiberius, Emperor of Rome, demanding, under pain of war, tribute and homage from King Arthur, and the restoration of all Gaul, which he had conquered from the tribune Flollo. When they had delivered their message, the king bade them withdraw while he consulted with his knights and barons what reply to send. Then some of the younger knights would have slain the ambassadors, saying that their speech was a rebuke to all who heard the king insulted by it. But when King Arthur heard that, he ordered none to touch them upon pain of death; and sending officers, he had them taken to a noble lodging, and there entertained with the best cheer. "And," said he, "let no dainty be spared, for the Romans are great lords; and though their message please me not, yet must I remember mine honour." Then the lords and knights of the Round Table were called on to declare their counsel--what should be done upon this matter; and Sir Cador of Cornwall speaking first, said, "Sir, this message is the best news I have heard for a long time, for we have been now idle and at rest for many days, and I trust that thou wilt make sharp war upon the Romans, wherein, I doubt not, we shall all gain honour." "I believe well," said Arthur, "that thou art pleased, Sir Cador; but that is scarce an answer to the Emperor of Rome, and his demand doth grieve me sorely, for truly I will never pay him tribute; wherefore, lords, I pray ye counsel me. Now, I have understood that Belinus and Brennius, knights of Britain, held the Roman Empire in their hands for many days, and also Constantine, the son of Helen, which is open evidence, not only that we owe Rome no tribute, but that I, being descended from them, may, of right, myself claim the empire." Then said King Anguish of Scotland, "Sir, thou oughtest of right to be above all other kings, for in all Christendom is there not thine equal; and I counsel thee never to obey the Romans. For when they reigned here they grievously distressed us, and put the land to great and heavy burdens; and here, for my part, I swear to avenge me on them when I may, and will furnish thee with twenty thousand men-at-arms, whom I will pay and keep, and who shall wait on thee with me, when it shall please thee." Then the King of Little Britain rose and promised King Arthur thirty thousand men; and likewise many other kings, and dukes, and barons, promised aid--as the lord of West Wales thirty thousand men, Sir Ewaine and his cousin thirty thousand men, and so forth; Sir Lancelot also, and every other knight of the Round Table, promised each man a great host. So the king, passing joyful at their courage and good will, thanked them all heartily, and sent for the ambassadors again, to hear his answer. "I will," said he, "that ye now go back straightway unto the Emperor your master and tell him that I give no heed to his words, for I have conquered all my kingdoms by the will of God and by my own right arm, and I am strong enough to keep them, without paying tribute to any earthly creature. But, on the other hand, I claim both tribute and submission from himself, and also claim the sovereignty of all his empire, whereto I am entitled by the right of my own ancestors--sometime kings of this land. And say to him that I will shortly come to Rome, and by God's grace will take possession of my empire and subdue all rebels. Wherefore, lastly, I command him and all the lords of Rome that they forthwith pay me their homage, under pain of my chastisement and wrath." Then he commanded his treasurers to give the ambassadors great gifts, and defray all their charges, and appointed Sir Cador to convey them worshipfully out of the land. So when they returned to Rome and came before Lucius, he was sore angry at their words, and said, "I thought this Arthur would have instantly obeyed my orders and have served me as humbly as any other king; but because of his fortune in Gaul, he hath grown insolent." "Ah, lord," said one of the ambassadors, "refrain from such vain words, for truly I and all with me were fearful at his royal majesty and angry countenance. I fear me thou hast made a rod for thee more sharp than thou hast counted on. He meaneth to be master of this empire; and is another kind of man than thou supposest, and holdeth the most noble court of all the world. We saw him on the new year's day, served at his table by nine kings, and the noblest company of other princes, lords, and knights that ever was in all the world; and in his person he is the most manly-seeming man that liveth, and looketh like to conquer all the earth." Then Lucius sent messengers to all the subject countries of Rome, and brought together a mighty army, and assembled sixteen kings, and many dukes, princes, lords, and admirals, and a wondrous great multitude of people. Fifty giants also, born of fiends, were set around him for a body-guard. With all that host he straightway went from Rome, and passed beyond the mountains into Gaul, and burned the towns and ravaged all the country of that province, in rage for its submission to King Arthur. Then he moved on towards Little Britain. Meanwhile, King Arthur having held a parliament at York, left the realm in charge of Sir Badewine and Sir Constantine, and crossed the sea from Sandwich to meet Lucius. And so soon as he was landed, he sent Sir Gawain, Sir Bors, Sir Lionel, and Sir Bedivere to the Emperor, commanding him "to move swiftly and in haste out of his land, and, if not, to make himself ready for battle, and not continue ravaging the country and slaying harmless people." Anon, those noble knights attired themselves and set forth on horseback to where they saw, in a meadow, many silken tents of divers colours, and the Emperor's pavilion in the midst, with a golden eagle set above it. Then Sir Gawain and Sir Bors rode forward, leaving the other two behind in ambush, and gave King Arthur's message. To which the Emperor replied, "Return, and tell your lord that I am come to conquer him and all his land." At this, Sir Gawain burned with anger, and cried out, "I had rather than all France that I might fight with thee alone!" "And I also," said Sir Bors. Then a knight named Ganius, a near cousin of the Emperor, laughed out aloud, and said, "Lo! how these Britons boast and are full of pride, bragging as though they bare up all the world!" At these words, Sir Gawain could refrain no longer, but drew forth his sword and with one blow shore oft Ganius' head; then with Sir Bors, he turned his horse and rode over waters and through woods, back to the ambush, where Sir Lionel and Sir Bedivere were waiting. The Romans followed fast behind them till the knights turned and stood, and then Sir Bors smote the foremost of them through the body with a spear, and slew him on the spot. Then came on Calibere, a huge Pavian, but Sir Bors overthrew him also. And then the company of Sir Lionel and Sir Bedivere brake from their ambush and fell on the Romans, and slew and hewed them down, and forced them to return and flee, chasing them to their tents. But as they neared the camp, a great host more rushed forth, and turned the battle backwards, and in the turmoil, Sir Bors and Sir Berel fell into the Romans' hands. When Sir Gawain saw that, he drew his good sword Galotine, and swore to see King Arthur's face no more if those two knights were not delivered; and then, with good Sir Idrus, made so sore an onslaught that the Romans fled and left Sir Bors and Sir Berel to their friends. So the Britons returned in triumph to King Arthur, having slain more than ten thousand Romans, and lost no man of worship from amongst themselves. When the Emperor Lucius heard of that discomfiture he arose, with all his army, to crush King Arthur, and met him in the vale of Soissons. Then speaking to all his host, he said, "Sirs, I admonish you that this day ye fight and acquit yourselves as men; and remembering how Rome is chief of all the earth, and mistress of the universal world, suffer not these barbarous and savage Britons to abide our onset." At that, the trumpets blew so loud, that the ground trembled and shook. Then did the rival hosts draw near each other with great shoutings; and when they closed, no tongue can tell the fury of their smiting, and the sore struggling, wounds, and slaughter. Then King Arthur, with his mightiest knights, rode down into the thickest of the fight, and drew Excalibur, and slew as lightning slays for swiftness and for force. And in the midmost crowd he met a giant, Galapas by name, and struck off both his legs at the knee-joints; then saying, "Now art thou a better size to deal with!" smote his head off at a second blow: and the body killed six men in falling down. Anon, King Arthur spied where Lucius fought and worked great deeds of prowess with his own hands. Forthwith he rode at him, and each attacked the other passing fiercely; till at the last, Lucius struck King Arthur with a fearful wound across the face, and Arthur, in return, lifting up Excalibur on high, drove it with all his force upon the Emperor's head, shivering his helmet, crashing his head in halves, and splitting his body to the breast. And when the Romans saw their Emperor dead they fled in hosts of thousands; and King Arthur and his knights, and all his army followed them, and slew one hundred thousand men. Then returning to the field, King Arthur rode to the place where Lucius lay dead, and round him the kings of Egypt and Ethiopia, and seventeen other kings, with sixty Roman senators, all noble men. All these he ordered to be carefully embalmed with aromatic gums, and laid in leaden coffins, covered with their shields and arms and banners. Then calling for three senators who were taken prisoners, he said to them, "As the ransom of your lives, I will that ye take these dead bodies and carry them to Rome, and there present them for me, with these letters saying I will myself be shortly there. And I suppose the Romans will beware how they again ask tribute of me; for tell them, these dead bodies that I send them are for the tribute they have dared to ask of me; and if they wish for more, when I come I will pay them the rest." So, with that charge, the three senators departed with the dead bodies, and went to Rome; the body of the Emperor being carried in a chariot blazoned with the arms of the empire, all alone, and the bodies of the kings two and two in chariots following. After the battle, King Arthur entered Lorraine, Brabant, and Flanders, and thence, subduing all the countries as he went, passed into Germany, and so beyond the mountains into Lombardy and Tuscany. At length he came before a city which refused to obey him, wherefore he sat down before it to besiege it. And after a long time thus spent, King Arthur called Sir Florence, and told him they began to lack food for his hosts--"And not far from hence," said he, "are great forests full of cattle belonging to my enemies. Go then, and bring by force all that thou canst find; and take with thee Sir Gawain, my nephew, and Sir Clegis, Sir Claremond the Captain of Cardiff, and a strong band." Anon, those knights made ready, and rode over holts and hills, and through forests and woods, till they came to a great meadow full of fair flowers and grass, and there they rested themselves and their horses that night. And at the dawn of the next day, Sir Gawain took his horse and rode away from his fellows to seek some adventure. Soon he saw an armed knight walking his horse by a wood's side, with his shield laced to his shoulder, and no attendant with him save a page, bearing a mighty spear; and on his shield were blazoned three gold griffins. When Sir Gawain spied him, he put his spear in rest, and riding straight to him, asked who he was. "A Tuscan," said he; "and they mayest prove me when thou wilt, for thou shalt be my prisoner ere we part." Then said Sir Gawain, "Thou vauntest thee greatly, and speakest proud words; yet I counsel thee, for all thy boastings, look to thyself the best thou canst." At that they took their spears and ran at each other with all the might they had, and smote each other through their shields into their shoulders; and then drawing swords smote with great strokes, till the fire sprang out of their helms. Then was Sir Gawain enraged, and with his good sword Galotine struck his enerny through shield and hauberk, and splintered into pieces all the precious stones of it, and made so huge a wound that men might see both lungs and liver. At that the Tuscan, groaning loudly, rushed on to Sir Gawain, and gave him a deep slanting stroke, and made a mighty wound and cut a great vein asunder, so that he bled fast. Then he cried out, "Bind thy wound quickly up, Sir knight, for thou be-bloodest all thy horse and thy fair armour, and all the surgeons of the world shall never staunch thy blood; for so shall it be to whomsoever is hurt with this good sword." Then answered Sir Gawain, "It grieveth me but little, and thy boastful words give me no fear, for thou shalt suffer greater grief and sorrow ere we part; but tell me quickly who can staunch this blood." "That can I do," said the strange knight, "and will, if thou wilt aid and succour me to become christened, and to believe on God, which now I do require of thee upon thy manhood." "I am content," said Sir Gawain; "and may God help me to grant all thy wishes. But tell mefirst, what soughtest thou thus here alone, and of what land art thou?" "Sir," said the knight, "my name is Prianius, and my father is a great prince, who hath rebelled against Rome. He is descended from Alexander and Hector, and of our lineage also were Joshua and Maccabaeus. I am of right the king of Alexandria, and Africa, and all the outer isles, yet I would believe in the Lord thou worshippest, and for thy labour I will give thee treasure enough. I was so proud in heart that I thought none my equal, but now have I encountered with thee, who hast given me my fill of fighting; wherefore, I pray thee, Sir knight, tell me of thyself." "I am no knight," said Sir Gawain; "I have been brought up many years in the wardrobe of the noble prince King Arthur, to mind his armour and array." "Ah," said Prianius, "if his varlets be so keen and fierce, his knights must be passing good! Now, for the love of heaven, whether thou be knight or knave, tell me thy name." "By heaven!" said Gawain, "now will I tell thee the truth. My name is Sir Gawain, and I am a knight of the Round Table." "Now am I better pleased," said Prianius, "than if thou hadst given me all the province of Paris the rich. I had rather have been torn by wild horses than that any varlet should have won such victory over me as thou hast done. But now, Sir knight, I warn thee that close by is the Duke of Lorraine, with sixty thousand good men of war; and we had both best flee at once, for he will find us else, and we be sorely wounded and never likely to recover. And let my page be careful that he blow no horn, for hard by are a hundred knights, my servants; and if they seize thee, no ransom of gold or silver would acquit thee." Then Sir Gawain rode over a river to save himself, and Sir Prianius after him, and so they both fled till they came to his companions who were in the meadow, where they spent the night. When Sir Whishard saw Sir Gawain so hurt, he ran to him weeping, and asked him who it was had wounded him; and Sir Gawain told him how he had fought with that man--pointing to Prianius--who had salves to heal them both. "But I can tell ye other tidings," said he--"that soon we must encounter many enemies, for a great army is close to us in our front." Then Prianius and Sir Gawain alighted and let their horses graze while they unarmed, and when they took their armour and their clothing off, the hot blood ran down freshly from their wounds till it was piteous to see. But Prianius took from his page a vial filled from the four rivers that flow out of Paradise, and anointed both their wounds with a certain balm, and washed them with that water, and within an hour afterwards they were both as sound and whole as ever they had been. Then, at the sound of a trumpet, all the knights were assembled to council; and after much talking, Prianius said, "Cease your words, for I warn you in yonder wood ye shall find knights out of number, who will put out cattle for a decoy to lead you on; and ye are not seven hundred!" "Nevertheless," said Sir Gawain, "let us at once encounter them, and see what they can do; and may the best have the victory." Then they saw suddenly an earl named Sir Ethelwold, and the Duke of Duchmen come leaping out of ambush of the woods in front, with many a thousand after them, and all rode straight down to the battle. And Sir Gawain, full of ardour and courage, comforted his knights, saying, "They all are ours." Then the seven hundred knights, in one close company, set spurs to their horses and began to gallop, and fiercely met their enemies. And then were men and horses slain and overthrown on every side, and in and out amidst them all, the knights of the Round Table pressed and thrust, and smote down to the earth all who withstood them, till at length the whole of them turned back and fled. "By heaven!" said Sir Gawain, "this gladdeneth well my heart, for now behold them as they flee! they are full seventy thousand less in number than they were an hour ago!" Thus was the battle quickly ended, and a great host of high lords and knights of Lombardy and Saracens left dead upon the field. Then Sir Gawain and his company collected a great plenty of cattle, and of gold and silver, and all kind of treasure, and returned to King Arthur, where he still kept the siege. "Now God be thanked," cried he; "but who is he that standeth yonder by himself, and seemeth not a prisoner?" "Sir," said Sir Gawain, "he is a good man with his weapons, and hath matched me; but cometh hither to be made a Christian. Had it not been for his warnings, we none of us should have been here this day. I pray thee, therefore, let him be baptized, for there can be few nobler men, or better knights." So Prianius was christened, and made a duke and knight of the Round Table. [Illustration: Prianius was christened, and made a duke and knight of the Round Table.] Presently afterwards, they made a last attack upon the city, and entered by the walls on every side; and as the men were rushing to the pillage, came the Duchess forth, with many ladies and damsels, and kneeled before King Arthur; and besought him to receive their submission. To whom the king made answer, with a noble countenance, "Madam, be well assured that none shall harm ye, or your ladies; neither shall any that belong to thee be hurt; but the Duke must abide my judgment." Then he commanded to stay the assault and took the keys from the Duke's eldest son, who brought them kneeling. Anon the Duke was sent a prisoner to Dover for his life, and rents and taxes were assigned for dowry of the Duchess and her children. Then went he on with all his hosts, winning all towns and castles, and wasting them that refused obedience, till he came to Viterbo. From thence he sent to Rome, to ask the senators whether they would receive him for their lord and governor. In answer, came out to him all the Senate who remained alive, and the Cardinals, with a majestic retinue and procession; and laying great treasures at his feet, they prayed him to come in at once to Rome, and there be peaceably crowned as Emperor. "At this next Christmas," said King Arthur, "will I be crowned, and hold my Round Table in your city." Anon he entered Rome, in mighty pomp and state; and after him came all his hosts, and his knights, and princes, and great lords, arrayed in gold and jewels, such as never were beheld before. And then was he crowned Emperor by the Pope's hands, with all the highest solemnity that could be made. Then after his coronation, he abode in Rome for a season, settling his lands and giving kingdoms to his knights and servants, to each one after his deserving, and in such wise fashion that no man among them all complained. Also he made many dukes and earls, and loaded all his men-at-arms with riches and great treasures. When all this was done, the lords and knights, and all the men of great estate, came together before him, and said, "Noble Emperor! by the blessing of Eternal God, thy mortal warfare is all finished, and thy conquests all achieved; for now in all the world is none so great and mighty as to dare make war with thee. Wherefore we beseech and heartily pray thee of thy noble grace, to turn thee homeward, and to give us also leave to see our wives and homes again, for now we have been from them a long season, and all thy journey is completed with great honour and worship." "Ye say well," replied he, "and to tempt God is no wisdom; therefore make ready in all haste, and turn we home to England." So King Arthur returned with his knights and lords and armies, in great triumph and joy, through all the countries he had conquered, and commanded that no man, upon pain of death, should rob or do any violence by the way. And crossing the sea, he came at length to Sandwich, where Queen Guinevere received him, and made great joy at his arrival. And through all the realm of Britain was there such rejoicing as no tongue can tell. CHAPTER IX _The Adventures of Sir Lancelot du Lake_ Then, at the following Pentecost, was held a feast of the Round Table at Caerleon, with high splendour; and all the knights thereof resorted to the court, and held many games and jousts. And therein Sir Lancelot increased in fame and worship above all men, for he overthrew all comers, and never was unhorsed or worsted, save by treason and enchantment. When Queen Guinevere had seen his wondrous feats, she held him in great favour, and smiled more on him than on any other knight. And ever since he first had gone to bring her to King Arthur, had Lancelot thought on her as fairest of all ladies, and done his best to win her grace. So the queen often sent for him, and bade him tell of his birth and strange adventures: how he was only son of great King Ban of Brittany, and how, one night, his father, with his mother Helen and himself, fled from his burning castle; how his father, groaning deeply, fell to the ground and died of grief and wounds, and how his mother, running to her husband, left himself alone; how, as he thus lay wailing, came the lady of the lake, and took him in her arms and went with him into the midst of the waters, where, with his cousins Lionel and Bors he had been cherished all his childhood until he came to King Arthur's court; and how this was the reason why men called him Lancelot du Lake. Anon it was ordained by King Arthur, that in every year at Pentecost there should be held a festival of all the knights of the Round Table at Caerleon, or such other place as he should choose. And at those festivals should be told publicly the most famous adventures of any knight during the past year. So, when Sir Lancelot saw Queen Guinevere rejoiced to hear his wanderings and adventures, he resolved to set forth yet again, and win more worship still, that he might more increase her favour. Then he bade his cousin Sir Lionel make ready, "for," said he, "we two will seek adventure." So they mounted their horses--armed at all points--and rode into a vast forest; and when they had passed through it, they came to a great plain, and the weather being very hot about noontide, Sir Lancelot greatly longed to sleep. Then Sir Lionel espied a great apple-tree standing by a hedge, and said, "Brother, yonder is a fair shadow where we may rest ourselves and horses." "I am full glad of it," said Sir Lancelot, "for all these seven years I have not been so sleepy." So they alighted there, and tied their horses up to sundry trees; and Sir Lionel waked and watched while Sir Lancelot fell asleep, and slept passing fast. In the meanwhile came three knights, riding as fast flying as ever they could ride, and after them followed a single knight; but when Sir Lionel looked at him, he thought he had never seen so great and strong a man, or so well furnished and apparelled. Anon he saw him overtake the last of those who fled, and smite him to the ground; then came he to the second, and smote him such a stroke that horse and man went to the earth; then rode he to the third, likewise, and struck him off his horse more than a spear's length. With that he lighted from his horse, and bound all three knights fast with the reins of their own bridles. When Sir Lionel saw this he thought the time was come to prove himself against him, so quietly and cautiously, lest he should wake Sir Lancelot, he took his horse and mounted and rode after him. Presently overtaking him, he cried aloud to him to turn, which instantly he did, and smote Sir Lionel so hard that horse and man went down forthwith. Then took he up Sir Lionel, and threw him bound over his own horse's back; and so he served the three other knights, and rode them away to his own castle. There they were disarmed, stripped naked, and beaten with thorns, and afterwards thrust into a deep prison, where many more knights, also, made great moans and lamentations, saying, "Alas, alas! there is no man can help us but Sir Lancelot, for no other knight can match this tyrant Turquine, our conqueror." But all this while, Sir Lancelot lay sleeping soundly under the apple-tree. And, as it chanced, there passed that way four queens, of high estate, riding upon four white mules, under four canopies of green silk borne on spears, to keep them from the sun. As they rode thus, they heard a great horse grimly neigh, and, turning them about, soon saw a sleeping knight that lay all armed under an apple-tree; and when they saw his face, they knew it was Lancelot of the Lake. Then they began to strive which of them should have the care of him. But Queen Morgan le Fay, King Arthur's half sister, the great sorceress, was one of them, and said "We need not strive for him, I have enchanted him, so that for six hours more he shall not wake. Let us take him to my castle, and, when he wakes, himself shall choose which one of us he would rather serve." So Sir Lancelot was laid upon his shield and borne on horseback between two knights, to the castle, and there laid in a cold chamber, till the spell should pass. Anon, they sent him a fair damsel, bearing his supper, who asked him, "What cheer?" "I cannot tell, fair damsel," said he, "for I know not how I came into this castle, if it were not by enchantment." "Sir," said she, "be of good heart, and to-morrow at the dawn of day, ye shall know more." And so she left him alone, and there he lay all night. In the morning early came the four queens to him, passing richly dressed; and said, "Sir knight, thou must understand that thou art our prisoner, and that we know thee well for King Ban's son, Sir Lancelot du Lake. And though we know full well there is one lady only in this world may have thy love, and she Queen Guinevere--King Arthur's wife--yet now are we resolved to have thee to serve one of us; choose, therefore, of us four which thou wilt serve. I am Queen Morgan le Fay, Queen of the land of Gore, and here also is the Queen of Northgales, and the Queen of Eastland, and the Queen of the Out Isles. Choose, then, at once, for else shall thou abide here, in this prison, till thy death." "It is a hard case," said Sir Lancelot, "that either I must die, or choose one of you for my mistress! Yet had I rather die in this prison than serve any living creature against my will. So take this for my answer. I will serve none of ye, for ye be false enchantresses. And as for my lady, Queen Guinevere, whom lightly ye have spoken of, were I at liberty I would prove it upon you or upon yours she is the truest lady living to her lord the king." "Well," said the queen, "is this your answer, that ye refuse us all?" "Yea, on my life," said Lancelot, "refused ye be of me." So they departed from him in great wrath, and left him sorrowfully grieving in his dungeon. At noon the damsel came to him and brought his dinner, and asked him as before, "What cheer?" "Truly, fair damsel," said Sir Lancelot, "in all my life never so ill." "Sir," replied she, "I grieve to see ye so, but if ye do as I advise, I can help ye out of this distress, and will do so if you promise me a boon." "Fair damsel," said Sir Lancelot, "right willingly will I grant it thee, for sorely do I dread these four witch-queens, who have destroyed and slain many a good knight with their enchantments." Then said the damsel, "Sir, wilt thou promise me to help my father on next Tuesday, for he hath a tournament with the King of Northgales, and last Tuesday lost the field through three knights of King Arthur's court, who came against him. And if next Tuesday thou wilt aid him, to-morrow, before daylight, by God's grace, I will deliver thee." "Fair maiden," said Sir Lancelot, "tell me thy father's name and I will answer thee." "My father is King Bagdemagus," said she. "I know him well," replied Sir Lancelot, "for a noble king and a good knight; and by the faith of my body I will do him all the service I am able on that day." "Grammercy to thee, Sir knight," said the damsel. "To-morrow, when thou art delivered from this place, ride ten miles hence unto an abbey of white monks, and there abide until I bring my father to thee." "So be it," said Sir Lancelot, "as I am a true knight." So she departed, and on the morrow, early, came again, and let him out of twelve gates, differently locked, and brought him to his armour; and when he was all armed, she brought him his horse also, and lightly he saddled him, and took a great spear in his hand, and mounted and rode forth, saying, as he went, "Fair damsel, I shall not fail thee, by the grace of God." And all that day he rode in a great forest, and could find no highway, and spent the night in the wood; but the next morning found his road, and came to the abbey of white monks. And there he saw King Bagdemagus and his daughter waiting for him. So when they were together in a chamber, Sir Lancelot told the king how he had been betrayed by an enchantment, and how his brother Lionel was gone he knew not where, and how the damsel had delivered him from the castle of Queen Morgan le Fay. "Wherefore while I live," said he, "I shall do service to herself and all her kindred." "Then am I sure of thy aid," said the king, "on Tuesday now next coming?" "Yea, sir, I shall not fail thee," said Sir Lancelot; "but what knights were they who last week defeated thee, and took part with the King of Northgales?" "Sir Mador de la Port, Sir Modred, and Sir Gahalatine," replied the king. "Sir," said Sir Lancelot, "as I understand, the tournament shall take place but three miles from this abbey; send then to me here, three knights of thine, the best thou hast, and let them all have plain white shields, such as I also will; then will we four come suddenly into the midst between both parties, and fall upon thy enemies, and grieve them all we can, and none will know us who we are." So, on the Tuesday, Sir Lancelot and the three knights lodged themselves in a small grove hard by the lists. Then came into the field the King of Northgales, with one hundred and sixty helms, and the three knights of King Arthur's court, who stood apart by themselves. And when King Bagdemagus had arrived, with eighty helms, both companies set all their spears in rest and came together with a mighty clash, wherein were slain twelve knights of King Bagdemagus, and six of the King of Northgales; and the party of King Bagdemagus was driven back. With that, came Sir Lancelot, and thrust into the thickest of the press, and smote down with one spear five knights, and brake the backs of four, and cast down the King of Northgales, and brake his thigh by the fall. When the three knights of Arthur's court saw this, they rode at Sir Lancelot, and each after other attacked him; but he overthrew them all, and smote them nigh to death. Then taking a new spear, he bore down to the ground sixteen more knights, and hurt them all so sorely, that they could carry arms no more that day. And when his spear at length was broken, he took yet another, and smote down twelve knights more, the most of whom he wounded mortally, till in the end the party of the King of Northgales would joust no more, and the victory was cried to King Bagdemagus. [Illustration: Sir Lancelot smote down with one spear five knights, and brake the backs of four, and cast down the King of Northgales.] Then Sir Lancelot rode forth with King Bagdemagus to his castle, and there he feasted with great cheer and welcome, and received many royal gifts. And on the morrow he took leave and went to find his brother Lionel. Anon, by chance, he came to the same forest where the four queens had found him sleeping, and there he met a damsel riding on a white palfrey. When they had saluted each other, Sir Lancelot said, "Fair damsel, knowest thou where any adventures may be had in this country?" "Sir knight," said she, "there are adventures great enough close by if thou darest prove them." "Why should I not," said he, "since for that cause I came here?" "Sir," said the damsel, "hard by this place there dwelleth a knight that cannot be defeated by any man, so great and perilously strong he is. His name is Sir Turquine, and in the prisons of his castle lie three score knights and four, mostly from King Arthur's court, whom he hath taken with his own hands. But promise me, ere thou undertakest their deliverance, to go and help me afterwards, and free me and many other ladies that are distressed by a false knight." "Bring me but to this felon Turquine," quoth Sir Lancelot, "and I will afterwards fulfil all your wishes." So the damsel went before, and brought him to a ford, and a tree whereon a great brass basin hung; and Sir Lancelot beat with his spear-end upon the basin, long and hard, until he beat the bottom of it out, but he saw nothing. Then he rode to and fro before the castle gates for well-nigh half an hour, and anon saw a great knight riding from the distance, driving a horse before him, across which hung an armed man bound. And when they came near, Sir Lancelot knew the prisoner for a knight of the Round Table. By that time, the great knight who drove the prisoner saw Sir Lancelot, and each of them began to settle his spear, and to make ready. "Fair sir," then said Sir Lancelot, "put off that wounded knight, I pray thee, from his horse, and let him rest while thou and I shall prove our strength upon each other; for, as I am told, thou doest, and hast done, great shame and injury to knights of the Round Table. Wherefore, I warn thee now, defend thyself." "If thou mayest be of the Round Table," answered Turquine, "I defy thee, and all thy fellows." "That is saying overmuch," said Sir Lancelot. Then, setting their lances in rest, they spurred their horses towards each other, as fast as they could go, and smote so fearfully upon each other's shields, that both their horses' backs brake under them. As soon as they could clear their saddles, they took their shields before them, and drew their swords, and came together eagerly, and fought with great and grievous strokes; and soon they both had many grim and fearful wounds, and bled in streams. Thus they fought two hours and more, thrusting and smiting at each other, wherever they could hit. Anon, they both were breathless, and stood leaning on their swords. "Now, comrade," said Sir Turquine, "let us wait awhile, and answer me what I shall ask thee." "Say on," said Lancelot. "Thou art," said Turquine, "the best man I ever met, and seemest like one that I hate above all other knights that live; but if thou be not he, I will make peace with thee, and for sake of thy great valour, will deliver all the three score prisoners and four who lie within my dungeons, and thou and I will be companions evermore. Tell me, then, thy name." "Thou sayest well," replied Sir Lancelot; "but who is he thou hatest so above all others?" "His name," said Turquine, "is Sir Lancelot of the Lake; and he slew my brother Sir Carados, at the dolorous tower; wherefore, if ever I shall meet with him, one of us two shall slay the other; and thereto I have sworn by a great oath. And to discover and destroy him I have slain a hundred knights, and crippled utterly as many more, and many have died in my prisons; and now, as I have told thee, I have many more therein, who all shall be delivered, if thou tell me thy name, and it be not Sir Lancelot." "Well," said Lancelot, "I am that knight, son of King Ban of Benwick, and Knight of the Round Table; so now I defy thee to do thy best!" "Aha!" said Turquine, with a shout, "is it then so at last! Thou art more welcome to my sword than ever knight or lady was to feast, for never shall we part till one of us be dead." Then did they hurtle together like two wild bulls, slashing and lashing with their shields and swords, and sometimes falling both on to the ground. For two more hours they fought so, and at the last Sir Turquine grew very faint, and gave a little back, and bare his shield full low for weariness. When Sir Lancelot saw him thus, he leaped upon him fiercely as a lion, and took him by the crest of his helmet, and dragged him to his knees; and then he tore his helmet off and smote his neck asunder. Then he arose, and went to the damsel who had brought him to Sir Turquine, and said, "I am ready, fair lady, to go with thee upon thy service, but I have no horse." "Fair sir," said she, "take ye this horse of the wounded knight whom Turquine but just now was carrying to his prisons, and send that knight on to deliver all the prisoners." So Sir Lancelot went to the knight and prayed him for the loan of his horse. "Fair lord," said he, "ye are right welcome, for to-day ye have saved both me and my horse; and I see that ye are the best knight in all the world, for in my sight have ye slain the mightiest man and the best knight, except thyself, I ever saw." "Sir," said Sir Lancelot, "I thank thee well; and now go into yonder castle, where thou shall find many noble knights of the Round Table, for I have seen their shields hung on the trees around. On yonder tree alone there are Sir Key's, Sir Brandel's, Sir Marhaus', Sir Galind's, and Sir Aliduke's, and many more; and also my two kinsmen's shields, Sir Ector de Maris' and Sir Lionel's. And I pray you greet them all from me, Sir Lancelot of the Lake, and tell them that I bid them help themselves to any treasures they can find within the castle; and that I pray my brethren, Lionel and Ector, to go to King Arthur's court and stay there till I come. And by the high feast at Pentecost I must be there; but now I must ride forth with this damsel to fulfil my promise." So, as they went, the damsel told him, "Sir, we are now near the place where the foul knight haunteth, who robbeth and distresseth all ladies and gentlewomen travelling past this way, against whom I have sought thy aid." Then they arranged that she should ride on foremost, and Sir Lancelot should follow under cover of the trees by the roadside, and if he saw her come to any mishap, he should ride forth and deal with him that troubled her. And as the damsel rode on at a soft ambling pace, a knight and page burst forth from the roadside and forced the damsel from her horse, till she cried out for help. Then came Sir Lancelot rushing through the wood as fast as he might fly, and all the branches of the trees crackled and waved around him. "O thou false knight and traitor to all knighthood!" shouted he, "who taught thee to distress fair ladies thus?" The foul knight answered nothing, but drew out his sword and rode at Sir Lancelot, who threw his spear away and drew his own sword likewise, and struck him such a mighty blow as clave his head down to the throat. "Now hast thou the wages thou long hast earned!" said he; and so departed from the damsel. Then for two days he rode in a great forest, and had but scanty food and lodging, and on the third day he rode over a long bridge, when suddenly there started up a passing foul churl, and smote his horse across the nose, so that he started and turned back, rearing with pain. "Why ridest thou over here without my leave?" said he. "Why should I not?" said Sir Lancelot; "there is no other way to ride." "Thou shalt not pass by here," cried out the churl, and dashed at him with a great club full of iron spikes, till Sir Lancelot was fain to draw his sword and smite him dead upon the earth. At the end of the bridge was a fair village, and all the people came and cried, "Ah, sir! a worse deed for thyself thou never didst, for thou hast slain the chief porter of the castle yonder!" But he let them talk as they pleased, and rode straight forward to the castle. There he alighted, and tied his horse to a ring in the wall; and going in, he saw a wide green court, and thought it seemed a noble place to fight in. And as he looked about, he saw many people watching him from doors and windows, making signs of warning, and saying, "Fair knight, thou art unhappy." In the next moment came upon him two great giants, well armed save their heads, and with two horrible clubs in their hands. Then he put his shield before him, and with it warded off one giant's stroke, and clove the other with his sword from the head downward to the chest. When the first giant saw that, he ran away mad with fear; but Sir Lancelot ran after him, and smote him through the shoulder, and shore him down his back, so that he fell dead. Then he walked onward to the castle hall, and saw a band of sixty ladies and young damsels coming forth, who knelt to him, and thanked him for their freedom. "For, sir," said they, "the most of us have been prisoners here these seven years; and have been kept at all manner of work to earn our meat, though we be all great gentlewomen born. Blessed be the time that thou wast born, for never did a knight a deed of greater worship than thou hast this day, and thereto will we all bear witness in all times and places! Tell us, therefore, noble knight, thy name and court, that we may tell them to our friends!" And when they heard it, they all cried aloud, "Well may it be so, for we knew that no knight save thou shouldst ever overcome those giants; and many a long day have we sighed for thee; for the giants feared no other name among all knights but thine." Then he told them to take the treasures of the castle as a reward for their grievances, and to return to their homes, and so rode away into many strange and wild countries. And at last, after many days, by chance he came, near the night time, to a fair mansion, wherein he found an old gentlewoman, who gave him and his horse good cheer. And when bed time was come, his host brought him to a chamber over a gate, and there he unarmed, and went to bed and fell asleep. But soon thereafter came one riding in great haste, and knocking vehemently at the gate below, which when Sir Lancelot heard, he rose and looked out of the window, and, by the moonlight, saw three knights come riding fiercely after one man, and lashing on him all at once with their swords, while the one knight nobly fought all. Then Sir Lancelot quickly armed himself, and getting through the window, let himself down by a sheet into the midst of them, crying out, "Turn ye on me, ye cowards, and leave fighting with that knight!" Then they all left Sir Key, for the first knight was he, and began to fall upon Sir Lancelot furiously. And when Sir Key would have come forward to assist him, Sir Lancelot refused, and cried, "Leave me alone to deal with them." And presently, with six great strokes, he felled them all. Then they cried out, "Sir knight, we yield us unto thee, as to a man of might!" "I will not take your yielding!" said he; "yield ye to Sir Key, the seneschal, or I will have your lives." "Fair knight," said they, "excuse us in that thing, for we have chased Sir Key thus far, and should have overcome him but for thee." "Well," said Sir Lancelot, "do as ye will, for ye may live or die; but, if ye live, ye shall be holden to Sir Key." Then they yielded to him; and Sir Lancelot commanded them to go unto King Arthur's court at the next Pentecost, and say, Sir Key had sent them prisoners to Queen Guinevere. And this they sware to do upon their swords. Then Sir Lancelot knocked at the gate with his sword-hilt till his hostess came and let him in again, and Sir Key also. And when the light came, Sir Key knew Sir Lancelot, and knelt and thanked him for his courtesy, and gentleness, and kindness. "Sir," said he, "I have done no more than what I ought to do, and ye are welcome; therefore let us now take rest." So when Sir Key had supped, they went to sleep, and Sir Lancelot and he slept in the same bed. On the morrow, Sir Lancelot rose early, and took Sir Key's shield and armour and set forth. When Sir Key arose, he found Sir Lancelot's armour by his bedside, and his own arms gone. "Now, by my faith," thought he, "I know that he will grieve some knights of our king's court; for those who meet him will be bold to joust with him, mistaking him for me, while I, dressed in his shield and armour, shall surely ride in peace." Then Sir Lancelot, dressed in Sir Key's apparel, rode long in a great forest, and came at last to a low country, full of rivers and fair meadows, and saw a bridge before him, whereon were three silk tents of divers colours, and to each tent was hung a white shield, and by each shield stood a knight. So Sir Lancelot went by without speaking a word. And when he had passed, the three knights said it was the proud Sir Key, "who thinketh no knight equal to himself, although the contrary is full often proved upon him." "By my faith!" said one of them, named Gaunter, "I will ride after and attack him for all his pride, and ye shall watch my speed." Then, taking shield and spear, he mounted and rode after Sir Lancelot, and cried, "Abide, proud knight, and turn, for thou shalt not pass free!" So Sir Lancelot turned, and each one put his spear in rest and came with all his might against the other. And Sir Gaunter's spear brake short, but Sir Lancelot smote him down, both horse and man. When the other knights saw this, they said, "Yonder is not Sir Key, but a bigger man." "I dare wager my head," said Sir Gilmere, "yonder knight hath slain Sir Key, and taken his horse and harness." "Be it so, or not," said Sir Reynold, the third brother; "let us now go to our brother Gaunter's rescue; we shall have enough to do to match that knight, for, by his stature, I believe it is Sir Lancelot or Sir Tristram." Anon, they took their horses and galloped after Sir Lancelot; and Sir Gilmere first assailed him, but was smitten down forthwith, and lay stunned on the earth. Then said Sir Reynold, "Sir knight, thou art a strong man, and, I believe, hast slain my two brothers, wherefore my heart is sore against thee; yet, if I might with honour, I would avoid thee. Nevertheless, that cannot be, so keep thyself." And so they hurtled together with all their might, and each man shivered his spear to pieces; and then they drew their swords and lashed out eagerly. And as they fought, Sir Gaunter and Sir Gilmere presently arose and mounted once again, and came down at full tilt upon Sir Lancelot. But, when he saw them coming, he put forth all his strength, and struck Sir Reynold off his horse. Then, with two other strokes, he served the others likewise. Anon, Sir Reynold crept along the ground, with his head all bloody, and came towards Sir Lancelot. "It is enough," said Lancelot, "I was not far from thee when thou wast made a knight, Sir Reynold, and know thee for a good and valiant man, and was full loth to slay thee." "Grammercy for thy gentleness!" said Sir Reynold. "I and my brethren will straightway yield to thee when we know thy name, for well we know that thou art not Sir Key." "As for that," said Sir Lancelot, "be it as it may, but ye shall yield to Queen Guinevere at the next feast of Pentecost as prisoners, and say that Sir Key sent ye." Then they swore to him it should be done as he commanded. And so Sir Lancelot passed on, and the three brethren helped each other's wounds as best they might. Then rode Sir Lancelot forward into a deep forest, and came upon four knights of King Arthur's court, under an oak tree--Sir Sagramour, Sir Ector, Sir Gawain, and Sir Ewaine. And when they spied him, they thought he was Sir Key. "Now by my faith," said Sir Sagramour, "I will prove Sir Key's might!" and taking his spear he rode towards Sir Lancelot. But Sir Lancelot was aware of him, and, setting his spear in rest, smote him so sorely, that horse and man fell to the earth. "Lo!" cried Sir Ector, "I see by the buffet that knight hath given our fellow he is stronger than Sir Key. Now will I try what I can do against him!" So Sir Ector took his spear, and galloped at Sir Lancelot; and Sir Lancelot met him as he came, and smote him through shield and shoulder, so that he fell, but his own spear was not broken. "By my faith," cried Sir Ewaine, "yonder is a strong knight, and must have slain Sir Key, and taken his armour! By his strength, I see it will be hard to match him." So saying he rode towards Sir Lancelot, who met him halfway and struck him so fiercely, that at one blow he overthrew him also. "Now," said Sir Gawain, "will I encounter him." So he took a good spear in his hand, and guarded himself with his shield. And he and Sir Lancelot rode against each other, with their horses at full speed, and furiously smote each other on the middle of their shields; but Sir Gawain's spear broke short asunder, and Sir Lancelot charged so mightily upon him, that his horse and he both fell, and rolled upon the ground. "Ah," said Sir Lancelot, smiling, as he rode away from the four knights, "heaven give joy to him who made this spear, for never held I better in my hand." But the four knights said to each other, "Truly one spear hath felled us all." "I dare lay my life," said Sir Gawain, "it is Sir Lancelot. I know him by his riding." So they all departed for the court. And as Sir Lancelot rode still in the forest, he saw a black bloodhound, running with its head towards the ground, as if it tracked a deer. And following after it, he came to a great pool of blood. But the hound, ever and anon looking behind, ran through a great marsh, and over a bridge, towards an old manor house. So Sir Lancelot followed, and went into the hall, and saw a dead knight lying there, whose wounds the hound licked. And a lady stood behind him, weeping and wringing her hands, who cried, "O knight! too great is the sorrow which thou hast brought me!" "Why say ye so?" replied Sir Lancelot; "for I never harmed this knight, and am full sorely grieved to see thy sorrow." "Nay, sir," said the lady, "I see it is not thou hast slain my husband, for he that truly did that deed is deeply wounded, and shall never more recover." "What is thy husband's name?" said Sir Lancelot. "His name," she answered, "was Sir Gilbert--one of the best knights in all the world; but I know not his name who hath slain him." "God send thee comfort," said Sir Lancelot, and departed again into the forest. And as he rode, he met with a damsel who knew him, who cried out, "Well found, my lord! I pray ye of your knighthood help my brother, who is sore wounded and ceases not to bleed, for he fought this day with Sir Gilbert, and slew him, but was himself well nigh slain. And there is a sorceress, who dwelleth in a castle hard by, and she this day hath told me that my brother's wound shall never be made whole until I find a knight to go into the Chapel Perilous, and bring from thence a sword and the bloody cloth in which the wounded knight was wrapped." "This is a marvellous thing!" said Sir Lancelot; "but what is your brother's name?" "His name, sir," she replied, "is Sir Meliot de Logres." "He is a Fellow of the Round Table," said Sir Lancelot, "and truly will I do my best to help him." "Then, sir," said she, "follow this way, and it will bring ye to the Chapel Perilous. I will abide here till God send ye hither again; for if ye speed not, there is no living knight who may achieve that adventure." So Sir Lancelot departed, and when he came to the Chapel Perilous he alighted, and tied his horse to the gate. And as soon as he was within the churchyard, he saw on the front of the chapel many shields of knights whom he had known, turned upside down. Then saw he in the pathway thirty mighty knights, taller than any men whom he had ever seen, all armed in black armour, with their swords drawn; and they gnashed their teeth upon him as he came. But he put his shield before him, and took his sword in hand, ready to do battle with them. And when he would have cut his way through them, they scattered on every side and let him pass. Then he went into the chapel, and saw therein no light but of a dim lamp burning. Then he was aware of a corpse in the midst of the chapel, covered with a silken cloth, and so stooped down and cut off a piece of the cloth, whereat the earth beneath him trembled. Then saw he a sword lying by the dead knight, and taking it in his hand, he hied him from the chapel. As soon as he was in the churchyard again, all the thirty knights cried out to him with fierce voices, "Sir Lancelot! lay that sword from thee, or thou diest!" "Whether I live or die," said he, "ye shall fight for it ere ye take it from me." With that they let him pass. And further on, beyond the chapel, he met a fair damsel, who said, "Sir Lancelot, leave that sword behind thee, or thou diest." [Illustration: Beyond the chapel, he met a fair damsel, who said, "Sir Lancelot, leave that sword behind thee, or thou diest."] "I will not leave it," said Sir Lancelot, "for any asking." "Then, gentle knight," said the damsel, "I pray thee kiss me once." "Nay," said Sir Lancelot, "that God forbid!" "Alas!" cried she, "I have lost all my labour! but hadst thou kissed me, thy life's days had been all done!" "Heaven save me from thy subtle crafts!" said Sir Lancelot; and therewith took his horse and galloped forth. And when he was departed, the damsel sorrowed greatly, and died in fifteen days. Her name was Ellawes, the sorceress. Then came Sir Lancelot to Sir Meliot's sister, who, when she saw him, clapped her hands and wept for joy, and took him to the castle hard by, where Sir Meliot was. And when Sir Lancelot saw Sir Meliot, he knew him, though he was pale as ashes for loss of blood. And Sir Meliot, when he saw Sir Lancelot, kneeled to him and cried aloud, "O lord, Sir Lancelot! help me!" And thereupon, Sir Lancelot went to him and touched his wounds with the sword, and wiped them with the piece of bloody cloth. And immediately he was as whole as though he had been never wounded. Then was there great joy between him and Sir Meliot; and his sister made Sir Lancelot good cheer. So on the morrow, he took his leave, that he might go to King Arthur's court, "for," said he, "it draweth nigh the feast of Pentecost, and there, by God's grace, shall ye then find me." And riding through many strange countries, over marshes and valleys, he came at length before a castle. As he passed by he heard two little bells ringing, and looking up, he saw a falcon flying overhead, with bells tied to her feet, and long strings dangling from them. And as the falcon flew past an elm-tree, the strings caught in the boughs, so that she could fly no further. In the meanwhile, came a lady from the castle and cried, "Oh, Sir Lancelot! as thou art the flower of all knights in the world, help me to get my hawk, for she hath slipped away from me, and if she be lost, my lord my husband is so hasty, he will surely slay me!" "What is thy lord's name?" said Sir Lancelot. "His name," said she, "is Sir Phelot, a knight of the King of Northgales." "Fair lady," said Sir Lancelot, "since you know my name, and require me, on my knighthood, to help you, I will do what I can to get your hawk." And thereupon alighting, he tied his horse to the same tree, and prayed the lady to unarm him. So when he was unarmed, he climbed up and reached the falcon, and threw it to the lady. Then suddenly came down, out of the wood, her husband, Sir Phelot, all armed, with a drawn sword in his hand, and said, "Oh, Sir Lancelot! now have I found thee as I would have thee!" and stood at the trunk of the tree to slay him. "Ah, lady!" cried Sir Lancelot, "why have ye betrayed me?" "She hath done as I commanded her," said Sir Phelot, "and thine hour is come that thou must die." "It were shame," said Lancelot, "for an armed to slay an unarmed man." "Thou hast no other favour from me," said Sir Phelot. "Alas!" cried Sir Lancelot, "that ever any knight should die weaponless!" And looking overhead, he saw a great bough without leaves, and wrenched it off the tree, and suddenly leaped down. Then Sir Phelot struck at him eagerly, thinking to have slain him, but Sir Lancelot put aside the stroke with the bough, and therewith smote him on the side of the head, till he fell swooning to the ground. And tearing his sword from out his hands, he shore his neck through from the body. Then did the lady shriek dismally, and swooned as though she would die. But Sir Lancelot put on his armour, and with haste took his horse and departed thence, thanking God he had escaped that peril. And as he rode through a valley, among many wild ways, he saw a knight, with a drawn sword, chasing a lady to slay her. And seeing Sir Lancelot, she cried and prayed to him to come and rescue her. At that he went up, saying, "Fie on thee, knight! why wilt thou slay this lady? Thou doest shame to thyself and all knights." "What hast thou to do between me and my wife?" replied the knight. "I will slay her in spite of thee." "Thou shall not harm her," said Sir Lancelot, "till we have first fought together." "Sir," answered the knight, "thou doest ill, for this lady hath betrayed me." "He speaketh falsely," said the lady, "for he is jealous of me without cause, as I shall answer before Heaven; but as thou art named the most worshipful knight in the world, I pray thee of thy true knighthood to save me, for he is without mercy." "Be of good cheer," said Sir Lancelot; "it shall not lie within his power to harm thee." "Sir," said the knight, "I will be ruled as ye will have me." So Sir Lancelot rode between the knight and the lady. And when they had ridden awhile, the knight cried out suddenly to Sir Lancelot to turn and see what men they were who came riding after them; and while Sir Lancelot, thinking not of treason, turned to look, the knight, with one great stroke, smote off the lady's head. Then was Sir Lancelot passing wroth, and cried, "Thou traitor! Thou hast shamed me for ever!" and, alighting from his horse, he drew his sword to have slain him instantly; but the knight fell on the ground and clasped Sir Lancelot's knees, and cried out for mercy. "Thou shameful knight," answered Lancelot, "thou mayest have no mercy, for thou showedst none, therefore arise and fight with me." "Nay," said the knight, "I will not rise till thou dost grant me mercy." "Now will I deal fairly by thee," said Sir Lancelot; "I will unarm me to my shirt, and have my sword only in my hand, and if thou canst slay me thou shall be quit for ever." "That will I never do," said the knight. "Then," answered Sir Lancelot, "take this lady and the head, and bear it with thee, and swear to me upon thy sword never to rest until thou comest to Queen Guinevere." "That will I do," said he. "Now," said Sir Lancelot, "tell me thy name." "It is Pedivere," answered the knight. "In a shameful hour wert thou born," said Sir Lancelot. So Sir Pedivere departed, bearing with him the dead lady and her head. And when he came to Winchester, where the Queen was with King Arthur, he told them all the truth; and afterwards did great and heavy penance many years, and became an holy hermit. "So, two days before the Feast of Pentecost, Sir Lancelot returned to the court, and King Arthur was full glad of his coming. And when Sir Gawain, Sir Ewaine, Sir Sagramour, and Sir Ector, saw him in Sir Key's armour, they knew well it was he who had smitten them all down with one spear. Anon, came all the knights Sir Turquine had taken prisoners, and gave worship and honour to Sir Lancelot. Then Sir Key told the King how Sir Lancelot had rescued him when he was in near danger of his death; "and," said Sir Key, "he made the knights yield, not to himself, but me. And by Heaven! because Sir Lancelot took my armour and left me his, I rode in peace, and no man would have aught to do with me." Then came the knights who fought with Sir Lancelot at the long bridge and yielded themselves also to Sir Key, but he said nay, he had not fought with them. "It is Sir Lancelot," said he, "that overcame ye." Next came Sir Meliot de Logres, and told King Arthur how Sir Lancelot had saved him from death. And so all Sir Lancelot's deeds and great adventures were made known; how the four sorceress-queens had him in prison; how he was delivered by the daughter of King Bagdemagus, and what deeds of arms he did at the tournament between the King of North Wales and King Bagdemagus. And so, at that festival, Sir Lancelot had the greatest name of any knight in all the world, and by high and low was he the most honoured of all men. CHAPTER X _Adventures of Sir Beaumains or Sir Gareth_ Again King Arthur held the Feast of Pentecost, with all the Table Round, and after his custom sat in the banquet hall, before beginning meat, waiting for some adventure. Then came there to the king a squire and said, "Lord, now may ye go to meat, for here a damsel cometh with some strange adventure." So the king was glad, and sat down to meat. Anon the damsel came in and saluted him, praying him for succour. "What wilt thou?" said the king. "Lord," answered she, "my mistress is a lady of great renown, but is at this time besieged by a tyrant, who will not suffer her to go out of her castle; and because here in thy court the knights are called the noblest in the world, I come to pray thee for thy succour. "Where dwelleth your lady?" answered the king. "What is her name, and who is he that hath besieged her?" "For her name," replied the damsel, "as yet I may not tell it; but she is a lady of worship and great lands. The tyrant that besiegeth her and wasteth her lands is called the Red Knight of the Redlands." "I know him not," said Arthur. "But I know him, lord," said Sir Gawain, "and he is one of the most perilous knights in all the world. Men say he hath the strength of seven; and from him I myself once hardly escaped with life." "Fair damsel," said the king, "there be here many knights that would gladly do their uttermost to rescue your lady, but unless ye tell me her name, and where she dwelleth, none of my knights shall go with you by my leave." Now, there was a stripling at the court called Beaumains, who served in the king's kitchen, a fair youth and of great stature. Twelve months before this time he had come to the king as he sat at meat, at Whitsuntide, and prayed three gifts of him. And being asked what gifts, he answered, "As for the first gift I will ask it now, but the other two gifts I will ask on this day twelve months, wheresoever ye hold your high feast." Then said King Arthur, "What is thy first request?" "This, lord," said he, "that thou wilt give me meat and drink enough for twelve months from this time, and then will I ask my other two gifts." And the king seeing that he was a goodly youth, and deeming that he was come of honourable blood, had granted his desire, and given him into the charge of Sir Key, the steward. But Sir Key scorned and mocked the youth, calling him Beaumains, because his hands were large and fair, and putting him into the kitchen, where he had served for twelve months as a scullion, and, in spite of all his churlish treatment, had faithfully obeyed Sir Key. But Sir Lancelot and Sir Gawain were angered when they saw Sir Key so churlish to a youth that had so worshipful a bearing, and ofttimes had they given him gold and clothing. And now at this time came young Beaumains to the king, while the damsel was there, and said, "Lord, now I thank thee well and heartily that I have been twelve months kept in thy kitchen, and have had full sustenance. Now will I ask my two remaining gifts." "Ask," said King Arthur, "on my good faith." "These, lord," said he, "shall be my two gifts--the one, that thou wilt grant me this adventure of the damsel, for to me of right it belongeth; and the other, that thou wilt bid Sir Lancelot make me a knight, for of him only will I have that honour; and I pray that he may ride after me and make me a knight when I require him." "Be it as thou wilt," replied the king. But thereupon the damsel was full wroth, and said, "Shall I have a kitchen page for this adventure?" and so she took horse and departed. Then came one to Beaumains, and told him that a dwarf with a horse and armour were waiting for him. And all men marvelled whence these things came. But when he was on horseback and armed, scarce any one at the court was a goodlier man than he. And coming into the hall, he took his leave of the king and Sir Gawain, and prayed Sir Lancelot to follow him. So he rode after the damsel, and many of the court went out to see him, so richly arrayed and horsed; yet he had neither shield nor spear. Then Sir Key cried, "I also will ride after the kitchen boy, and see whether he will obey me now." And taking his horse, he rode after him, and said, "Know ye not me, Beaumains?" "Yea," said he, "I know thee for an ungentle knight, therefore beware of me." Then Sir Key put his spear in rest and ran at him, but Beaumains rushed upon him with his sword in his hand, and therewith, putting aside the spear, struck Sir Key so sorely in the side, that he fell down, as if dead. Then he alighted, and took his shield and spear, and bade his dwarf ride upon Sir Key's horse. By this time, Sir Lancelot had come up, and Beaumains offering to tilt with him, they both made ready. And their horses came together so fiercely that both fell to the earth, full sorely bruised. Then they arose, and Beaumains, putting up his shield before him, offered to fight Sir Lancelot, on foot. So they rushed upon each other, striking, and thrusting, and parrying, for the space of an hour. And Lancelot marvelled at the strength of Beaumains, for he fought more like a giant than a man, and his fighting was passing fierce and terrible. So, at the last, he said, "Fight not so sorely, Beaumains; our quarrel is not such that we may not now cease." "True," answered Beaumains; "yet it doth me good to feel thy might, though I have not yet proved my uttermost." "By my faith," said Lancelot, "I had as much as I could do to save myself from you unshamed, therefore be in no doubt of any earthly knight." "May I, then, stand as a proved knight?" said Beaumains. "For that will I be thy warrant," answered Lancelot. "Then, I pray thee," said he, "give me the order of knighthood." "First, then, must thou tell me of thy name and kindred," said Sir Lancelot. "If thou wilt tell them to no other, I will tell thee," answered he. "My name is Gareth of Orkney, and I am own brother to Sir Gawain." "Ah!" said Sir Lancelot, "at that am I full glad; for, truly, I deemed thee to be of gentle blood." So then he knighted Beaumains, and, after that, they parted company, and Sir Lancelot, returning to the court, took up Sir Key on his shield. And hardly did Sir Key escape with his life, from the wound Beaumains had given him; but all men blamed him for his ungentle treatment of so brave a knight. Then Sir Beaumains rode forward, and soon overtook the damsel; but she said to him, in scorn, "Return again, base kitchen page! What art thou, but a washer-up of dishes!" "Damsel," said he, "say to me what thou wilt, I will not leave thee; for I have undertaken to King Arthur to relieve thy adventure, and I will finish it to the end, or die." "Thou finish my adventure!" said she--"anon, thou shalt meet one, whose face thou wilt not even dare to look at." "I shall attempt it," answered he. So, as they rode thus, into a wood, there met them a man, fleeing, as for his life. "Whither fleest thou?" said Sir Beaumains. "O lord!" he answered, "help me; for, in a valley hard by, there are six thieves, who have taken my lord, and bound him, and I fear will slay him." "Bring me thither," said Sir Beaumains. So they rode to the place, and Sir Beaumains rushed after the thieves, and smote one, at the first stroke, so that he died; and then, with two other blows, slew a second and third. Then fled the other three, and Sir Beaumains rode after them, and overtook and slew them all. Then he returned and unbound the knight. And the knight thanked him, and prayed him to ride to his castle, where he would reward him. "Sir," answered Sir Beaumains, "I will have no reward of thee, for but this day was I made knight by the most noble Sir Lancelot; and besides, I must go with this damsel." Then the knight begged the damsel to rest that night at his castle. So they all rode thither, and ever the damsel scoffed at Sir Beaumains as a kitchen boy, and laughed at him before the knight their host, so that he set his meat before him at a lower table, as though he were not of their company. And on the morrow, the damsel and Sir Beaumains took their leave of the knight, and thanking him departed. Then they rode on their way till they came to a great forest, through which flowed a river, and there was but one passage over it, whereat stood two knights armed to hinder the way. "Wilt thou match those two knights," said the damsel to Sir Beaumains, "or return again?" "I would not return," said he, "though they were six." Therewith he galloped into the water, and swam his horse into the middle of the stream. And there, in the river, one of the knights met him, and they brake their spears together, and then drew their swords, and smote fiercely at each other. And at the last, Sir Beaumains struck the other mightily upon the helm, so that he fell down stunned into the water, and was drowned. Then Sir Beaumains spurred his horse on to the land, where instantly the other knight fell on him. And they also brake their spears upon each other, and then drew their swords, and fought savagely and long together. And after many blows, Sir Beaumains clove through the knight's skull down to the shoulders. Then rode Sir Beaumains to the damsel, but ever she still scoffed at him, and said, "Alas! that a kitchen page should chance to slay two such brave knights! Thou deemest now that thou hast done a mighty deed, but it is not so; for the first knight's horse stumbled, and thus was he drowned--not by thy strength; and as for the second knight, thou wentest by chance behind him, and didst kill him shamefully." "Damsel," said Sir Beaumains, "say what ye list, I care not so I may win your lady; and wouldst thou give me but fair language, all my care were past; for whatsoever knights I meet, I fear them not." "Thou shalt see knights that shall abate thy boast, base kitchen knave," replied she; "yet say I this for thine advantage, for if thou followest me thou wilt be surely slain, since I see all thou doest is but by chance, and not by thy own prowess." "Well damsel," said he, "say what ye will, wherever ye go I will follow." So they rode on until the eventide, and still the damsel evermore kept chiding Sir Beaumains. Then came they to a black space of land, whereon was a black hawthorn tree, and on the tree there hung a black banner, and on the other side was a black shield and spear, and by them a great black horse, covered with silk; and hard by sat a knight armed in black armour, whose name was the Knight of the Blacklands. When the damsel saw him, she cried out to Beaumains, "Flee down the valley, for thy horse is not saddled!" "Wilt thou for ever deem me coward?" answered he. With that came the Black Knight to the damsel, and said, "Fair damsel, hast thou brought this knight from Arthur's court to be thy champion?" "Not so, fair knight," said she; "he is but a kitchen knave." "Then wherefore cometh he in such array?" said he; "it is a shame that he should bear thee company." "I cannot be delivered from him," answered she: "for in spite of me he rideth with me; and would to Heaven you would put him from me, or now slay him, for he hath slain two knights at the river passage yonder, and done many marvellous deeds through pure mischance." "I marvel," said the Black Knight, "that any man of worship will fight with him." "They know him not," said the damsel, "and think, because he rideth with me, that he is well born." "Truly, he hath a goodly person, and is likely to be a strong man," replied the knight; "but since he is no man of worship, he shall leave his horse and armour with me, for it were a shame for me to do him more harm." When Sir Beaumains heard him speak thus, he said, "Horse or armour gettest thou none of me, Sir knight, save thou winnest them with thy hands; therefore defend thyself, and let me see what thou canst do." "How sayest thou?" answered the Black Knight. "Now quit this lady also, for it beseemeth not a kitchen knave like thee to ride with such a lady." "I am of higher lineage than thou," said Sir Beaumains, "and will straightway prove it on thy body." Then furiously they drove their horses at each other, and came together as it had been thunder. But the Black Knight's spear brake short, and Sir Beaumains thrust him through the side, and his spear breaking at the head, left its point sticking fast in the Black Knight's body. Yet did the Black Knight draw his sword, and smite at Sir Beaumains with many fierce and bitter blows; but after they had fought an hour and more, he fell down from his horse in a swoon, and forthwith died. Then Sir Beaumains lighted down and armed himself in the Black Knight's armour, and rode on after the damsel. But notwithstanding all his valour, still she scoffed at him, and said, "Away! for thou savourest ever of the kitchen. Alas! that such a knave should by mishap destroy so good a knight; yet once again I counsel thee to flee, for hard by is a knight who shall repay thee!" "It may chance that I am beaten or slain," answered Sir Beaumains, "but I warn thee, fair damsel, that I will not flee away, nor leave thy company or my quest, for all that ye can say." Anon, as they rode, they saw a knight come swiftly towards them, dressed all in green, who, calling to the damsel said, "Is that my brother, the Black Knight, that ye have brought with you?" "Nay, and alas!" said she, "this kitchen knave hath slain thy brother through mischance." "Alas!" said the Green Knight, "that such a noble knight as he was should be slain by a knave's hand. Traitor!" cried he to Sir Beaumains, "thou shalt die for this! Sir Pereard was my brother, and a full noble knight." "I defy thee," said Sir Beaumains, "for I slew him knightly and not shamefully." Then the Green Knight rode to a thorn whereon hung a green horn, and, when he blew three notes, there came three damsels forth, who quickly armed him, and brought him a great horse and a green shield and spear. Then did they run at one another with their fullest might, and break their spears asunder; and, drawing their swords, they closed in fight, and sorely smote and wounded each other with many grievous blows. At last, Sir Beaumains' horse jostled against the Green Knight's horse, and overthrew him. Then both alighted, and, hurtling together like mad lions, fought a great while on foot. But the damsel cheered the Green Knight, and said, "My lord, why wilt thou let a kitchen knave so long stand up against thee?" Hearing these words, he was ashamed, and gave Sir Beaumains such a mighty stroke as clave his shield asunder. When Sir Beaumains heard the damsel's words, and felt that blow, he waxed passing wroth, and gave the Green Knight such a buffet on the helm that he fell on his knees, and with another blow Sir Beaumains threw him on the ground. Then the Green Knight yielded, and prayed him to spare his life. "All thy prayers are vain," said he, "unless this damsel who came with me pray for thee." "That will I never do, base kitchen knave," said she. "Then shall he die," said Beaumains. "Alas! fair lady," said the Green Knight, "suffer me not to die for a word! O, Sir knight," cried he to Beaumains, "give me my life, and I will ever do thee homage; and thirty knights, who owe me service, shall give allegiance to thee." "All availeth not," answered Sir Beaumains, "unless the damsel ask me for thy life;" and thereupon he made as though he would have slain him. Then cried the damsel, "Slay him not; for if thou do thou shalt repent it." "Damsel," said Sir Beaumains, "at thy command, he shall obtain his life. Arise, Sir knight of the green armour, I release thee!" Then the Green Knight knelt at his feet, and did him homage with his words. "Lodge with me this night," said he, "and to-morrow will I guide ye through the forest." So, taking their horses, they rode to his castle, which was hard by. Yet still did the damsel rebuke and scoff at Sir Beaumains, and would not suffer him to sit at her table. "I marvel," said the Green Knight to her, "that ye thus chide so noble a knight, for truly I know none to match him; and be sure, that whatsoever he appeareth now, he will prove, at the end, of noble blood and royal lineage." But of all this would the damsel take no heed, and ceased not to mock at Sir Beaumains. On the morrow, they arose and heard mass; and when they had broken their fast, took their horses and rode on their way, the Green Knight conveying them through the forest. Then, when he had led them for a while, he said to Sir Beaumains, "My lord, my thirty knights and I shall always be at thy command whensoever thou shalt send for us." "It is well said," replied he; "and when I call upon you, you shall yield yourself and all your knights unto King Arthur." "That will we gladly do," said the Green Knight, and so departed. And the damsel rode on before Sir Beaumains, and said to him, "Why dost thou follow me, thou kitchen boy? I counsel thee to throw aside thy spear and shield, and flee betimes, for wert thou as mighty as Sir Lancelot or Sir Tristram, thou shouldest not pass a valley near this place, called the Pass Perilous." "Damsel," answered he, "let him that feareth flee; as for me, it were indeed a shameful thing to turn after so long a journey." As he spake, they came upon a tower as white as snow, with mighty battlements, and double moats round it, and over the tower-gate hung fifty shields of divers colours. Before the tower walls, they saw a fair meadow, wherein were many knights and squires in pavilions, for on the morrow there was a tournament at that castle. Then the lord of the castle, seeing a knight armed at all points, with a damsel and a page, riding towards the tower, came forth to meet them; and his horse and harness, with his shield and spear, were all of a red colour. When he came near Sir Beaumains, and saw his armour all of black, he thought him his own brother, the Black Knight, and so cried aloud, "Brother! what do ye here, within these borders?" "Nay!" said the damsel, "it is not thy brother, but a kitchen knave of Arthur's court, who hath slain thy brother, and overcome thy other brother also, the Green Knight." "Now do I defy thee!" cried the Red Knight to Sir Beaumains, and put his spear in rest and spurred his horse. Then both knights turned back a little space, and ran together with all their might, till their horses fell to the earth. Then, with their swords, they fought fiercely for the space of three hours. And at last, Sir Beaumains overcame his foe, and smote him to the ground. Then the Red Knight prayed his mercy, and said, "Slay me not, noble knight, and I will yield to thee with sixty knights that do my bidding." "All avails not," answered Sir Beaumains, "save this damsel pray me to release thee." Then did he lift his sword to slay him; but the damsel cried aloud, "Slay him not, Beaumains, for he is a noble knight." Then Sir Beaumains bade him rise up and thank the damsel, which straightway he did, and afterwards invited them to his castle, and made them goodly cheer. But notwithstanding all Sir Beaumains' mighty deeds, the damsel ceased not to revile and chide him, at which the Red Knight marvelled much; and caused his sixty knights to watch Sir Beaumains, that no villainy might happen to him. And on the morrow, they heard mass and broke their fast, and the Red Knight came before Sir Beaumains, with his sixty knights, and proffered him homage and fealty. "I thank thee," answered he; "and when I call upon thee thou shalt come before my lord King Arthur at his court, and yield yourselves to him." "That will we surely do," said the Red Knight. So Sir Beaumains and the damsel departed. And as she constantly reviled him and tormented him, he said to her, "Damsel, ye are discourteous thus always to rebuke me, for I have done you service; and for all your threats of knights that shall destroy me, all they who come lie in the dust before me. Now, therefore, I pray you rebuke me no more till you see me beaten or a recreant, and then bid me go from you." "There shall soon meet thee a knight who shall repay thee all thy deeds, thou boaster," answered she, "for, save King Arthur, he is the man of most worship in the world." "It will be the greater honour to encounter him," said Sir Beaumains. Soon after, they saw before them a city passing fair, and between them and the city was a meadow newly mown, wherein were many goodly tents. "Seest thou yonder blue pavilion?" said the damsel to Sir Beaumains; "it is Sir Perseant's, the lord of that great city, whose custom is, in all fair weather, to lie in this meadow, and joust with his knights." And as she spake, Sir Perseant, who had espied them coming, sent a messenger to meet Sir Beaumains, and to ask him if he came in war or peace. "Say to thy lord," he answered, "that I care not whether of the twain it be." So when the messenger gave this reply, Sir Perseant came out to fight with Sir Beaumains. And making ready, they rode their steeds against each other; and when their spears were shivered asunder, they fought with their swords. And for more than two hours did they hack and hew at each other, till their shields and hauberks were all dinted with many blows, and they themselves were sorely wounded. And at the last, Sir Beaumains smote Sir Perseant on the helm, so that he fell grovelling on the earth. And when he unlaced his helm to slay him, the damsel prayed for his life. "That will I grant gladly," answered Sir Beaumains, "for it were pity such a noble knight should die." "Grammercy!" said Sir Perseant, "for now I certainly know that it was thou who slewest my brother, the Black Knight, Sir Pereard; and overcame my brothers, the Green Knight, Sir Pertolope, and the Red Knight, Sir Perimones; and since thou hast overcome me also, I will do thee homage and fealty, and place at thy command one hundred knights to do thy bidding." But when the damsel saw Sir Perseant overthrown, she marvelled greatly at the might of Sir Beaumains, and said, "What manner of man may ye be, for now am I sure that ye be come of noble blood? And truly, never did woman revile knight as I have done thee, and yet ye have ever courteously borne with me, which surely never had been were ye not of gentle blood and lineage." "Lady," replied Sir Beaumains, "a knight is little worth who may not bear with a damsel; and so whatsoever ye said to me I took no heed, save only that at times when your scorn angered me, it made me all the stronger against those with whom I fought, and thus have ye furthered me in my battles. But whether I be born of gentle blood or no, I have done you gentle service, and peradventure will do better still, ere I depart from you." [Illustration: "Lady," replied Sir Beaumains, "a knight is little worth who may not bear with a damsel."] "Alas!" said she, weeping at his courtesy, "forgive me, fair Sir Beaumains, all that I have missaid and misdone against you." "With all my heart," said he; "and since you now speak fairly to me, I am passing glad of heart, and methinks I have the strength to overcome whatever knights I shall henceforth encounter." Then Sir Perseant prayed them to come to his pavilion, and set before them wines and spices, and made them great cheer. So they rested that night; and on the morrow, the damsel and Sir Beaumains rose, and heard mass. And when they had broken their fast, they took their leave of Sir Perseant. "Fair damsel," said he "whither lead ye this knight?" "Sir," answered she, "to the Castle Dangerous, where my sister is besieged by the Knight of the Redlands." "I know him well," said Sir Perseant, "for the most perilous knight alive--a man without mercy, and with the strength of seven men. God save thee, Sir Beaumains, from him! and enable thee to overcome him, for the Lady Lyones, whom he besiegeth, is as fair a lady as there liveth in this world." "Thou sayest truth, sir," said the damsel; "for I am her sister; and men call me Linet, or the Wild Maiden." "Now, I would have thee know," said Sir Perseant to Sir Beaumains, "that the Knight of the Redlands hath kept that siege more than two years, and prolongeth the time hoping that Sir Lancelot, or Sir Tristram, or Sir Lamoracke, may come and battle with him; for these three knights divide between them all knighthood; and thou if thou mayest match the Knight of the Redlands, shall well be called the fourth knight of the world." "Sir," said Sir Beaumains, "I would fain have that good fame; and truly, I am come of great and honourable lineage. And so that you and this fair damsel will conceal it, I will tell ye my descent." And when they swore to keep it secret, he told them, "My name is Sir Gareth of Orkney, my father was King Lot, and my mother the Lady Belisent, King Arthur's sister. Sir Gawain, Sir Agravain, and Sir Gaheris, are my brethren, and I am the youngest of them all. But, as yet King Arthur and the court know me not, who I am." When he had thus told them, they both wondered greatly. And the damsel Linet sent the dwarf forward to her sister, to tell her of their coming. Then did Dame Lyones inquire what manner of man the knight was who was coming to her rescue. And the dwarf told her of all Sir Beaumains' deeds by the way: how he had overthrown Sir Key, and left him for dead; how he had battled with Sir Lancelot, and was knighted of him; how he had fought with, and slain, the thieves; how he had overcome the two knights who kept the river passage; how he had fought with, and slain, the Black Knight; and how he had overcome the Green Knight, the Red Knight, and last of all, the Blue Knight, Sir Perseant. Then was Dame Lyones passing glad, and sent the dwarf back to Sir Beaumains with great gifts, thanking him for his courtesy, in taking such a labour on him for her sake, and praying him to be of good heart and courage. And as the dwarf returned, he met the Knight of the Redlands, who asked him whence he came. "I came here with the sister of my lady of the castle," said the dwarf, "who hath been now to King Arthur's court and brought a knight with her to take her battle on him." "Then is her travail lost," replied the knight; "for, though she had brought Sir Lancelot, Sir Tristram, Sir Lamoracke, or Sir Gawain, I count myself their equal, and who besides shall be so called?" Then the dwarf told the knight what deeds Sir Beaumains had done; but he answered, "I care not for him, whosoever he be, for I shall shortly overcome him, and give him shameful death, as to so many others I have done." Then the damsel Linet and Sir Beaumains left Sir Perseant, and rode on through a forest to a large plain, where they saw many pavilions, and hard by, a castle passing fair. But as they came near Sir Beaumains saw upon the branches of some trees which grew there, the dead bodies of forty knights hanging, with rich armour on them, their shields and swords about their necks, and golden spurs upon their heels. "What meaneth this?" said he, amazed. "Lose not thy courage, fair sir," replied the damsel, "at this shameful sight, for all these knights came hither to rescue my sister; and when the Knight of the Redlands had overcome them, he put them to this piteous death, without mercy; and in such wise will he treat thee also unless thou bearest thee more valiantly than they." "Truly he useth shameful customs," said Sir Beaumains; "and it is a marvel that he hath endured so long." So they rode onward to the castle walls, and found them double-moated, and heard the sea waves dashing on one side the walls. Then said the damsel, "See you that ivory horn hanging upon the sycamore-tree? The Knight of the Redlands hath hung it there, that any knight may blow thereon, and then will he himself come out and fight with him. But I pray thee sound it not till high noontide, for now it is but daybreak, and till noon his strength increases to the might of seven men." "Let that be as it may, fair damsel," answered he, "for were he stronger knight than ever lived, I would not fail him. Either will I defeat him at his mightiest, or die knightly in the field." With that he spurred his horse unto the sycamore, and blew the ivory horn so eagerly, that all the castle rang its echoes. Instantly, all the knights who were in the pavilions ran forth, and those within the castle looked out from the windows, or above the walls. And the Knight of the Redlands, arming himself quickly in blood-red armour, with spear, and shield, and horse's trappings of like colour, rode forth into a little valley by the castle walls, so that all in the castle, and at the siege, might see the battle. "Be of good cheer," said the damsel Linet to Sir Beaumains, "for thy deadly enemy now cometh; and at yonder window is my lady and sister, Dame Lyones." "In good sooth," said Sir Beaumains, "she is the fairest lady I have ever seen, and I would wish no better quarrel than to fight for her." With that, he looked up to the window, and saw the Lady Lyones, who waved her handkerchief to her sister and to him to cheer them. Then called the Knight of the Redlands to Sir Beaumains, "Leave now thy gazing, Sir knight, and turn to me, for I warn thee that lady is mine." "She loveth none of thy fellowship," he answered; "but know this, that I love her, and will rescue her from thee, or die." "Say ye so!" said the Red Knight. "Take ye no warning from those knights that hang on yonder trees?" "For shame that thou so boastest!" said Sir Beaumains. "Be sure that sight hath raised a hatred for thee that will not lightly be put out, and given me not fear, but rage." "Sir knight, defend thyself," said the Knight of the Redlands, "for we will talk no longer." Then did they put their spears in rest, and came together at the fullest speed of their horses, and smote each other in the midst of their shields, so that their horses' harness sundered by the shock, and they fell to the ground. And both lay there so long time, stunned, that many deemed their necks were broken. And all men said the strange knight was a strong man, and a noble jouster, for none had ever yet so matched the Knight of the Redlands. Then, in a while, they rose, and putting up their shields before them, drew their swords, and fought with fury, running at each other like wild beasts--now striking such buffets that both reeled backwards, now hewing at each other till they shore the harness off in pieces, and left their bodies naked and unarmed. And thus they fought till noon was past, when, for a time they rested to get breath, so sorely staggering and bleeding, that many who beheld them wept for pity. Then they renewed the battle--sometimes rushing so furiously together, that both fell to the ground, and anon changing swords in their confusion. Thus they endured, and lashed, and struggled, until eventide, and none who saw knew which was the likeliest to win; for though the Knight of the Redlands was a wily and subtle warrior, his subtlety made Sir Beaumains wilier and wiser too. So once again they rested for a little space, and took their helms off to find breath. But when Sir Beaumains' helm was off, he looked up to Dame Lyones, where she leaned, gazing and weeping, from her window. And when he saw the sweetness of her smiling, all his heart was light and joyful, and starting up, he bade the Knight of the Redlands make ready. Then did they lace their helms and fight together yet afresh, as though they had never fought before. And at the last, the Knight of the Redlands with a sudden stroke smote Sir Beaumains on the hand, so that his sword fell from it, and with a second stroke upon the helm he drove him to the earth. Then cried aloud the damsel Linet, "Alas! Sir Beaumains, see how my sister weepeth to behold thee fallen!" And when Sir Beaumains heard her words, he sprang upon his feet with strength, and leaping to his sword, he caught it; and with many heavy blows pressed so sorely on the Knight of the Redlands, that in the end he smote his sword from out his hand, and, with a mighty blow upon the head, hurled him upon the ground. Then Sir Beaumains unlaced his helm, and would have straightway slain him, but the Knight of the Redlands yielded, and prayed for mercy. "I may not spare thee," answered he, "because of the shameful death which thou hast given to so many noble knights." "Yet hold thy hand, Sir knight," said he, "and hear the cause. I loved once a fair damsel, whose brother was slain, as she told me, by a knight of Arthur's court, either Sir Lancelot, or Sir Gawain; and she prayed me, as I truly loved her, and by the faith of my knighthood, to labour daily in deeds of arms, till I should meet with him; and to put all knights of the Round Table whom I should overcome to a villainous death. And this I swore to her." Then prayed the earls, and knights, and barons, who stood round Sir Beaumains, to spare the Red Knight's life. "Truly," replied he, "I am loth to slay him, notwithstanding he hath done such shameful deeds. And inasmuch as what he did was done to please his lady and to gain her love, I blame him less, and for your sakes I will release him. But on this agreement only shall he hold his life--that straightway he depart into the castle, and yield him to the lady there, and make her such amends as she shall ask, for all the trespass he hath done upon her lands; and afterwards, that he shall go unto King Arthur's court, and ask the pardon of Sir Lancelot and Sir Gawain for all the evil he hath done against them." "All this, Sir knight, I swear to do," said the Knight of the Redlands; and therewith he did him homage and fealty. Then came the damsel Linet to Sir Beaumains and the Knight of the Redlands, and disarmed them, and staunched their wounds. And when the Knight of the Redlands had made amends for all his trespasses, he departed for the court. Then Sir Beaumains, being healed of his wounds, armed himself, and took his horse and spear and rode straight to the castle of Dame Lyones, for greatly he desired to see her. But when he came to the gate they closed it fast, and pulled the drawbridge up. And as he marvelled thereat, he saw the Lady Lyones standing at a window, who said, "Go thy way as yet, Sir Beaumains, for thou shalt not wholly have my love until thou be among the worthiest knights of all the world. Go, therefore, and labour yet in arms for twelve months more, and then return to me." "Alas! fair lady," said Sir Beaumains, "I have scarce deserved this of thee, for sure I am that I have bought thy love with all the best blood in my body." "Be not aggrieved, fair knight," said she, "for none of thy service is forgot or lost. Twelve months will soon be passed in noble deeds; and trust that to my death I shall love thee and not another." With that she turned and left the window. So Sir Beaumains rode away from the castle very sorrowrul at heart, and rode he knew not whither, and lay that night in a poor man's cottage. On the morrow he went forward, and came at noon to a broad lake, and thereby he alighted, being very sad and weary, and rested his head upon his shield, and told his dwarf to keep watch while he slept. Now, as soon as he had departed, the Lady Lyones repented, and greatly longed to see him back, and asked her sister many times of what lineage he was; but the damsel would not tell her, being bound by her oath to Sir Beaumains, and said his dwarf best knew, So she called Sir Gringamors, her brother, who dwelt with her, and prayed him to ride after Sir Beaumains till he found him sleeping, and then to take his dwarf away and bring him back to her. Anon Sir Gringamors departed, and rode till he came to Sir Beaumains, and found him as he lay sleeping by the water-side. Then stepping stealthily behind the dwarf he caught him in his arms and rode off in haste. And though the dwarf cried loudly to his lord for help, and woke Sir Beaumains, yet, though he rode full quickly after him, he could not overtake Sir Gringamors. When Dame Lyones saw her brother come back, she was passing glad of heart, and forthwith asked the dwarf his master's lineage. "He is a king's son," said the dwarf, "and his mother is King Arthur's sister. His name is Sir Gareth of Orkney, and he is brother to the good knight, Sir Gawain. But I pray you suffer me to go back to my lord, for truly he will never leave this country till he have me again." But when the Lady Lyones knew her deliverer was come of such a kingly stock, she longed more than ever to see him again. Now as Sir Beaumains rode in vain to rescue his dwarf, he came to a fair green road and met a poor man of the country, and asked him had he seen a knight on a black horse, riding with a dwarf of a sad countenance behind him. "Yea," said the man, "I met with such a knight an hour agone, and his name is Sir Gringamors. He liveth at a castle two miles from hence; but he is a perilous knight, and I counsel ye not to follow him save ye bear him goodwill." Then Sir Beaumains followed the path which the poor man showed him, and came to the castle. And riding to the gate in great anger, he drew his sword, and cried aloud, "Sir Gringamors, thou traitor! deliver me my dwarf again, or by my knighthood it shall be ill for thee!" Then Sir Gringamors looked out of a window and said, "Sir Gareth of Orkney, leave thy boasting words, for thou wilt not get thy dwarf again." But the Lady Lyones said to her brother, "Nay brother, but I will that he have his dwarf, for he hath done much for me, and delivered me from the Knight of the Redlands, and well do I love him above all other knights." So Sir Gringamors went down to Sir Gareth and cried him mercy, and prayed him to alight and take good cheer. Then he alighted, and his dwarf ran to him. And when he was in the hall came the Lady Lyones dressed royally like a princess. And Sir Gareth was right glad of heart when he saw her. Then she told him how she had made her brother take away his dwarf and bring him back to her. And then she promised him her love, and faithfully to cleave to him and none other all the days of her life. And so they plighted their troth to each other. Then Sir Gringamors prayed him to sojourn at the castle, which willingly he did. "For," said he, "I have promised to quit the court for twelve months, though sure I am that in the meanwhile I shall be sought and found by my lord King Arthur and many others." So he sojourned long at the castle. Anon the knights, Sir Perseant, Sir Perimones, and Sir Pertolope, whom Sir Gareth had overthrown, went to King Arthur's court with all the knights who did them service, and told the king they had been conquered by a knight of his named Beaumains. And as they yet were talking, it was told the king there came another great lord with five hundred knights, who, entering in, did homage, and declared himself to be the Knight of the Redlands. "But my true name," said he, "is Ironside, and I am hither sent by one Sir Beaumains, who conquered me, and charged me to yield unto your grace." "Thou art welcome," said King Arthur, "for thou hast been long a foe to me and mine, and truly I am much beholden to the knight who sent thee. And now, Sir Ironside, if thou wilt amend thy life and hold of me, I will entreat thee as a friend, and make thee Knight of the Round Table; but thou mayst no more be a murderer of noble knights." Then the Knight of the Redlands knelt to the king, and told him of his promise to Sir Beaumains to use never more such shameful customs; and how he had so done but at the prayer of a lady whom he loved. Then knelt he to Sir Lancelot and Sir Gawain, and prayed their pardon for the hatred he had borne them. But the king and all the court marvelled greatly who Sir Beaumains was. "For," said the king, "he is a full noble knight." Then said Sir Lancelot, "Truly he is come of honourable blood, else had I not given him the order of knighthood; but he charged me that I should conceal his secret." Now as they talked thus it was told King Arthur that his sister, the Queen of Orkney, was come to the court with a great retinue of knights and ladies. Then was there great rejoicing, and the king rose and saluted his sister. And her sons, Sir Gawain, Sir Agravain, and Sir Gaheris knelt before her and asked her blessing, for during fifteen years last past they had not seen her. Anon she said, "Where is my youngest son, Sir Gareth? for I know that he was here a twelvemonth with you, and that ye made a kitchen knave of him. Then the king and all the knights knew that Sir Beaumains and Sir Gareth were the same. "Truly," said the king, "I knew him not." "Nor I," said Sir Gawain and both his brothers. Then said the king, "God be thanked, fair sister, that he is proved as worshipful a knight as any now alive, and by the grace of Heaven he shall be found forthwith if he be anywhere within these seven realms." Then said Sir Gawain and his brethren, "Lord, if ye will give us leave we will go seek him." But Sir Lancelot said, "It were better that the king should send a messenger to Dame Lyones and pray her to come hither with all speed, and she will counsel where ye shall find him." "It is well said," replied the king; and sent a messenger quickly unto Dame Lyones. When she heard the message she promised she would come forthwith, and told Sir Gareth what the messenger had said, and asked him what to do. "I pray you," said he, "tell them not where I am, but when my lord King Arthur asketh for me, advise him thus--that he proclaim a tournament before this castle on Assumption Day, and that the knight who proveth best shall win yourself and all your lands." So the Lady Lyones departed and came to King Arthur's court, and there was right nobly welcomed. And when they asked her where Sir Gareth was, she said she could not tell. "But, lord," said she, "with thy goodwill I will proclaim a tournament before my castle on the Feast of the Assumption, whereof the prize shall be myself and all my lands. Then if it be proclaimed that you, lord, and your knights will be there, I will find knights on my side to fight you and yours, and thus am I sure ye will hear tidings of Sir Gareth." "Be it so done," replied the king. So Sir Gareth sent messengers privily to Sir Perseant and Sir Ironside, and charged them to be ready on the day appointed, with their companies of knights to aid him and his party against the king. And when they were arrived he said, "Now be ye well assured that we shall be matched with the best knights of the world, and therefore must we gather all the good knights we can find." So proclamation was made throughout all England, Wales, Scotland, Ireland, and Cornwall, and in the out isles and other countries, that at the Feast of the Assumption of our Lady, next coming, all knights who came to joust at Castle Perilous should make choice whether they would side with the king or with the castle. Then came many good knights on the side of the castle. Sir Epinogris, the son of the King of Northumberland, and Sir Palomedes the Saracen, and Sir Grummore Grummorsum, a good knight of Scotland, and Sir Brian des Iles, a noble knight, and Sir Carados of the Tower Dolorous, and Sir Tristram, who as yet was not a knight of the Round Table, and many others. But none among them knew Sir Gareth, for he took no more upon him than any mean person. And on King Arthur's side there came the King of Ireland and the King of Scotland, the noble prince Sir Galahaut, Sir Gawain and his brothers Sir Agravain and Sir Gaheris, Sir Ewaine, Sir Tor, Sir Perceval, and Sir Lamoracke, Sir Lancelot also and his kindred, Sir Lionel, Sir Ector, Sir Bors and Sir Bedivere, likewise Sir Key and the most part of the Table Round. The two queens also, Queen Guinevere and the Queen of Orkney, Sir Gareth's mother, came with the king. So there was a great array both within and without the castle, with all manner of feasting and minstrelsy. Now before the tournament began, Sir Gareth privily prayed Dame Lyones, Sir Gringamors, Sir Ironside, and Sir Perseant, that they would in nowise disclose his name, nor make more of him than of any common knight. Then said Dame Lyones, "Dear lord, I pray thee take this ring, which hath the power to change the wearer's clothing into any colour he may will, and guardeth him from any loss of blood. But give it me again, I pray thee, when the tournament is done, for it greatly increaseth my beauty whensoever I wear it." "Grammercy, mine own lady," said Sir Gareth, "I wished for nothing better, for now I may be certainly disguised as long as I will." Then Sir Gringamors gave Sir Gareth a bay courser that was a passing good horse, with sure armour, and a noble sword, won by his father from a heathen tyrant. And then every knight made him ready for the tournament. So on the day of the Assumption, when mass and matins were said, the heralds blew their trumpets and sounded for the tourney. Anon came out the knights of the castle and the knights of King Arthur, and matched themselves together. Then Sir Epinogris, son of the King of Northumberland, a knight of the castle, encountered Sir Ewaine, and both broke off their spears short to their hands. Then came Sir Palomedes from the castle, and met Sir Gawain, and they so hardly smote each other, that both knights and horses fell to the earth. Then Sir Tristram, from the castle, encountered with Sir Bedivere, and smote him to the earth, horse and man. Then the Knight of the Redlands and Sir Gareth met with Sir Bors and Sir Bleoberis; and the Knight of the Redlands and Sir Bors smote together so hard that their spears burst, and their horses fell grovelling to the ground. And Sir Bleoberis brake his spear upon Sir Gareth, but himself was hurled upon the ground. When Sir Galihodin saw that, he bade Sir Gareth keep him, but Sir Gareth lightly smote him to the earth. Then Sir Galihud got a spear to avenge his brother, but was served in like manner. And Sir Dinadam, and his brother La-cote-male-taile, and Sir Sagramour le Desirous, and Dodinas le Savage, he bore down all with one spear. When King Anguish of Ireland saw this, he marvelled what that knight could be who seemed at one time green and at another blue; for so at every course he changed his colour that none might know him. Then he ran towards him and encountered him, and Sir Gareth smote the king from his horse, saddle and all. And in like manner he served the King of Scotland, and King Urience of Gore, and King Bagdemagus. Then Sir Galahaut, the noble prince, cried out, "Knight of the many colours! thou hast jousted well; now make thee ready to joust with me." When Sir Gareth heard him, he took a great spear and met him swiftly. And the prince's spear broke off, but Sir Gareth smote him on the left side of the helm, so that he reeled here and there, and had fallen down had not his men recovered him. "By my faith," said King Arthur, "that knight of the many colours is a good knight. I pray thee, Sir Lancelot du Lake, encounter with him." "Lord," said Sir Lancelot, "by thy leave I will forbear. I find it in my heart to spare him at this time, for he hath done enough work for one day; and when a good knight doth so well it is no knightly part to hinder him from this honour. And peradventure his quarrel is here to-day, and he may be the best beloved of the Lady Lyones of all that be here; for I see well he paineth and forceth himself to do great deeds. Therefore, as for me, this day he shall have the honour; for though I were able to put him from it, I would not." "You speak well and truly," said the king. Then after the tilting, they drew swords, and there began a great tournament, and there Sir Lancelot did marvellous deeds of arms, for first he fought with both Sir Tristram and Sir Carados, albeit they were the most perilous in all the world. Then came Sir Gareth and put them asunder, but would not smite a stroke against Sir Lancelot, for by him he had been knighted. Anon Sir Gareth's helm had need of mending, and he rode aside to see to it and to drink water, for he was sore athirst with all his mighty feats of strength. And while he drank, his dwarf said to him, "Give me your ring, lest ye lose it while ye drink." So Sir Gareth took it off. And when he had finished drinking, he rode back eagerly to the field, and in his haste forgot to take the ring again. Then all the people saw that he wore yellow armour. And King Arthur told a herald, "Ride and espy the cognizance of that brave knight, for I have asked many who he is, and none can tell me." Then the herald rode near, and saw written round about his helmet in letters of gold, "Sir Gareth of Orkney." And instantly the herald cried his name aloud, and all men pressed to see him. But when he saw he was discovered, he pushed with haste through all the crowd, and cried to his dwarf, Boy, thou hast beguiled me foully in keeping my ring; give it me again, that I may be hidden." And as soon as he had put it on, his armour changed again, and no man knew where he had gone. Then he passed forth from the field; but Sir Gawain, his brother, rode after him. And when Sir Gareth had ridden far into the forest, he took off his ring, and sent it back by the dwarf to the Lady Lyones, praying her to be true and faithful to him while he was away. Then rode Sir Gareth long through the forest, till night fell, and coming to a castle he went up to the gate, and prayed the porter to let him in. But churlishly he answered "that he should not lodge there." Then said Sir Gareth, "Tell thy lord and lady that I am a knight of King Arthur's court, and for his sake I pray their shelter." With that the porter went to the duchess who owned the castle. "Let him in straightway," cried she; "for the king's sake he shall not be harbourless!" and went down to receive him. When Sir Gareth saw her coming, he saluted her, and said, "Fair lady, I pray you give me shelter for this night, and if there be here any champion or giant with whom I must needs fight, spare me till to-morrow, when I and my horse shall have rested, for we are full weary." "Sir knight," she said, "thou speakest boldly; for the lord of this castle is a foe to King Arthur and his court, and if thou wilt rest here to-night thou must agree, that wheresoever thou mayest meet my lord, thou must yield to him as a prisoner." "What is thy lord's name, lady?" said Sir Gareth. "The Duke de la Rowse," said she. "I will promise thee," said he, "to yield to him, if he promise to do me no harm; but if he refuse, I will release myself with my sword and spear." "It is well," said the duchess; and commanded the drawbridge to be let down. So he rode into the hall and alighted. And when he had taken off his armour, the duchess and her ladies made him passing good cheer. And after supper his bed was made in the hall, and there he rested that night. On the morrow he rose and heard mass, and having broken his fast, took his leave and departed. [Illustration: So he rode into the hall and alighted.] And as he rode past a certain mountain there met him a knight named Sir Bendelaine, and cried unto him "Thou shalt not pass unless thou joust with me or be my prisoner!" "Then will we joust," replied Sir Gareth. So they let their horses run at full speed, and Sir Gareth smote Sir Bendelaine through his body so sorely that he scarcely reached his castle ere he fell dead. And as Sir Gareth presently came by the castle, Sir Bendelaine's knights and servants rode out to revenge their lord. And twenty of them fell on him at once, although his spear was broken. But drawing his sword he put his shield before him. And though they brake their spears upon him, one and all, and sorely pressed on him, yet ever he defended himself like a noble knight. Anon, finding they could not overcome him, they agreed to slay his horse; and having killed it with their spears, they set upon Sir Gareth as he fought on foot. But every one he struck he slew, and drave at them with fearful blows, till he had slain them all but four, who fled. Then taking the horse of one of those that lay there dead, he rode upon his way. Anon he came to another castle and heard from within a sound as of many women moaning and weeping. Then said he to a page who stood without, "What noise is this I hear?" "Sir knight," said he, "there be within thirty ladies, the widows of thirty knights who have been slain by the lord of this castle. He is called the Brown Knight without pity, and is the most perilous knight living, wherefore I warn thee to flee." "That will I never do," said Sir Gareth, "for I fear him not." Then the page saw the Brown Knight coming and said to Gareth, "Lo! my lord is near." So both knights made them ready and galloped their horses towards each other, and the Brown Knight brake his spear upon Sir Gareth's shield; but Sir Gareth smote him through the body so that he fell dead. At that he rode into the castle and told the ladies he had slain their foe. Then were they right glad of heart and made him all the cheer they could, and thanked him out of measure. But on the morrow as he went to mass he found the ladies weeping in the chapel upon divers tombs that were there. And he knew that in those tombs their husbands lay. Then he bade them be comforted, and with noble and high words he desired and prayed them all to be at Arthur's court on the next Feast of Pentecost. So he departed and rode past a mountain where was a goodly knight waiting, who said to him, "Abide, Sir knight, and joust with me!" "How are ye named?" said Sir Gareth. "I am the Duke de la Rowse," answered he. "In good sooth," then said Sir Gareth, "not long ago I lodged within your castle, and there promised I would yield to you whenever we might meet." "Art thou that proud knight," said the duke, "who was ready to fight with me? Guard thyself therefore and make ready." So they ran together, and Sir Gareth smote the duke from his horse. Then they alighted and drew their swords, and fought full sorely for the space of an hour; and at the last Sir Gareth smote the duke to the earth and would have slain him, but he yielded. "Then must ye go," said Sir Gareth, "to my lord King Arthur at the next Feast of Pentecost and say that I, Sir Gareth, sent ye." "As ye will be it," said the duke; and gave him up his shield for pledge. And as Sir Gareth rode alone he saw an armed knight coming towards him. And putting the duke's shield before him he rode fast to tilt with him; and so they ran together as it had been thunder, and brake their spears upon each other. Then fought they fiercely with their swords and lashed together with such mighty strokes that blood ran to the ground on every side. And after they had fought together for two hours and more, it chanced the damsel Linet passed that way; and when she saw them she cried out, "Sir Gawain and Sir Gareth, leave your fighting, for ye are brethren!" At that they threw away their shields and swords, and took each other in their arms and wept a great while ere they could speak. And each gave to the other the honour of the battle, and there was many a kind word between them. Then said Sir Gawain, "O my brother, for your sake have I had great sorrow and labour! But truly I would honour you though ye were not my brother, for ye have done great worship to King Arthur and his court, and sent more knights to him than any of the Table Round, except Sir Lancelot." Then the damsel Linet staunched their wounds, and their horses being weary she rode her palfrey to King Arthur and told him of this strange adventure. When she had told her tidings, the king himself mounted his horse and bade all come with him to meet them. So a great company of lords and ladies went forth to meet the brothers. And when King Arthur saw them he would have spoken hearty words, but for gladness he could not. And both Sir Gawain and Sir Gareth fell down at their uncle's knees and did him homage, and there was passing great joy and gladness among them all. Then said the king to the damsel Linet, "Why cometh not the Lady Lyones to visit her knight, Sir Gareth, who hath had such travail for her love?" "She knoweth not, my lord, that he is here," replied the damsel, "for truly she desireth greatly to see him." "Go ye and bring her hither," said the king. So the damsel rode to tell her sister where Sir Gareth was, and when she heard it she rejoiced full heartily and came with all the speed she could. And when Sir Gareth saw her, there was great joy and comfort between them. Then the king asked Sir Gareth whether he would have that lady for his wife? "My lord," replied Sir Gareth, "know well that I love her above all ladies living." "Now, fair lady," said King Arthur, "what say ye?" "Most noble king," she answered, "my lord, Sir Gareth, is my first love and shall be my last, and if I may not have him for my husband I will have none." Then said the king to them, "Be well assured that for my crown I would not be the cause of parting your two hearts." Then was high preparation made for the marriage, for the king desired it should be at the Michaelmas next following, at Kinkenadon-by-the-Sea. So Sir Gareth sent out messages to all the knights whom he had overcome in battle that they should be there upon his marriage-day. Therefore, at the next Michaelmas, came a goodly company to Kinkenadon-by-the-Sea. And there did the Archbishop of Canterbury marry Sir Gareth and the Lady Lyones with all solemnity. And all the knights whom Sir Gareth had overcome were at the feast; and every manner of revels and games was held with music and minstrelsy. And there was a great jousting for three days. But because of his bride the king would not suffer Sir Gareth to joust. Then did King Arthur give great lands and fair, with store of gold, to Sir Gareth and his wife, that so they might live royally together to their lives' end. CHAPTER XI _The Adventures of Sir Tristram of Lyonesse_ Again King Arthur held high festival at Caerleon, at Pentecost, and gathered round him all the fellowship of the Round Table, and so, according to his custom, sat and waited till some adventure should arise, or some knight return to court whose deeds and perils might be told. Anon he saw Sir Lancelot and a crowd of knights coming through the doors and leading in their midst the mighty knight, Sir Tristram. As soon as King Arthur saw him, he rose up and went through half the hall, and held out both his hands and cried, "Right welcome to thee, good Sir Tristram, as welcome art thou as any knight that ever came before into this court. A long time have I wished for thee amongst my fellowship." Then all the knights and barons rose up with one accord and came around, and cried out, "Welcome." Queen Guinevere came also, and many ladies with her, and all with one voice said the same. Then the king took Sir Tristram by the hand and led him to the Round Table and said, "Welcome again for one of the best and gentlest knights in all the world; a chief in war, a chief in peace, a chief in field and forest, a chief in the ladies' chamber--right heartily welcome to this court, and mayest thou long abide in it." When he had so said he looked at every empty seat until he came to what had been Sir Marhaus', and there he found written in gold letters, "This is the seat of the noble knight, Sir Tristram." Whereat they made him, with great cheer and gladness, a Fellow of the Round Table. Now the story of Sir Tristram was as follows:-- There was a king of Lyonesse, named Meliodas, married to the sister of King Mark of Cornwall, a right fair lady and a good. And so it happened that King Meliodas hunting in the woods was taken by enchantment and made prisoner in a castle. When his wife Elizabeth heard it she was nigh mad with grief, and ran into the forest to seek out her lord. But after many days of wandering and sorrow she found no trace of him, and laid her down in a deep valley and prayed to meet her death. And so indeed she did, but ere she died she gave birth in the midst of all her sorrow to a child, a boy, and called him with her latest breath Tristram; for she said, "His name shall show how sadly he hath come into this world." Therewith she gave up her ghost, and the gentlewoman who was with her took the child and wrapped it from the cold as well as she was able, and lay down with it in her arms beneath the shadow of a tree hard by, expecting death to come to her in turn. But shortly after came a company of lords and barons seeking for the queen, and found the lady and the child and took them home. And on the next day came King Meliodas, whom Merlin had delivered, and when he heard of the queen's death his sorrow was greater than tongue can tell. And anon he buried her solemnly and nobly, and called the child Tristram as she had desired. Then for seven years King Meliodas mourned and took no comfort, and all that time young Tristram was well nourished; but in a while he wedded with the daughter of Howell, King of Brittany, who, that her own children might enjoy the kingdom, cast about in her mind how she might destroy Tristram. So on a certain day she put poison in a silver cup, where Tristram and her children were together playing, that when he was athirst he might drink of it and die. But so it happened that her own son saw the cup, and, thinking it must hold good drink, he climbed and took it, and drank deeply of it, and suddenly thereafter burst and fell down dead. When the queen heard that, her grief was very great, but her anger and envy were fiercer than before, and soon again she put more poison in the cup. And by chance one day her husband finding it when thirsty, took it up and was about to drink therefrom, when, seeing him, she sprang up with a mighty cry and dashed it from his hands. At that King Meliodas, wondering greatly, called to mind the sudden death of his young child, and taking her fiercely by the hand he cried: "Traitress, tell me what drink is in this cup or I will slay thee in a moment;" and therewith pulling out his sword he swore by a great oath to slay her if she straightway told him not the truth. "Ah, mercy, lord," said she, and fell down at his feet; "mercy, and I will tell thee all." And then she told him of her plot to murder Tristram, that her own sons might enjoy the kingdom. "The law shall judge thee," said the king. And so anon she was tried before the barons, and condemned to be burnt to death. But when the fire was made, and she brought out, came Tristram kneeling at his father's feet and besought of him a favour. "Whatsoever thou desirest I will give thee," said the king. "Give me the life, then, of the queen, my stepmother," said he. "Thou doest wrong to ask it," said Meliodas; "for she would have slain thee with her poisons if she could, and chiefly for thy sake she ought to die." "Sir," said he, "as for that, I beseech thee of thy mercy to forgive it her, and for my part may God pardon her as I do; and so I pray thee grant me my boon, and for God's sake hold thee to thy promise." "If it must be so," said the king, "take thou her life, for to thee I give it, and go and do with her as thou wilt." Then went young Tristram to the fire and loosed the queen from all her bonds and delivered her from death. And after a great while by his good means the king again forgave and lived in peace with her, though never more in the same lodgings. Anon was Tristram sent abroad to France in care of one named Governale. And there for seven years he learned the language of the land, and all knightly exercises and gentle crafts, and especially was he foremost in music and in hunting, and was a harper beyond all others. And when at nineteen years of age he came back to his father, he was as lusty and strong of body and as noble of heart as ever man was seen. Now shortly after his return it befell that King Anguish of Ireland sent to King Mark of Cornwall for the tribute due to Ireland, but which was now seven years behindhand. To whom King Mark sent answer, if he would have it he must send and fight for it, and they would find a champion to fight against it. So King Anguish called for Sir Marhaus, his wife's brother, a good knight of the Round Table, who lived then at his court, and sent him with a knightly retinue in six great ships to Cornwall. And, casting anchor by the castle of Tintagil, he sent up daily to King Mark for the tribute or the champion. But no knight there would venture to assail him, for his fame was very high in all the realm for strength and hardihood. Then made King Mark a proclamation throughout Cornwall, that if any knight would fight Sir Marhaus he should stand at the king's right hand for evermore, and have great honour and riches all the rest of his days. Anon this news came to the land of Lyonesse, and when young Tristram heard it he was angry and ashamed to think no knight of Cornwall durst assail the Irish champion. "Alas," said he, "that I am not a knight, that I might match this Marhaus! I pray you give me leave, sir, to depart to King Mark's court and beg of his grace to make me knight." "Be ruled by thy own courage," said his father. So Tristram rode away forthwith to Tintagil to King Mark, and went up boldly to him and said, "Sir, give me the order of knighthood and I will fight to the uttermost with Sir Marhaus of Ireland." "What are ye, and whence come ye?" said the king, seeing he was but a young man, though strong and well made both in body and limb. "My name is Tristram," said he, "and I was born in the country of Lyonesse." "But know ye," said the king, "this Irish knight will fight with none who be not come of royal blood and near of kin to kings or queens, as he himself is, for his sister is the Queen of Ireland." Then said Tristram, "Let him know that I am come both on my father's and my mother's side of blood as good as his, for my father is King Meliodas and my mother was that Queen Elizabeth, thy sister, who died in the forest at my birth." When King Mark heard that he welcomed him with all his heart, and knighted him forthwith, and made him ready to go forth as soon as he would choose, and armed him royally in armour covered with gold and silver. Then he sent Sir Marhaus word, "That a better man than he should fight with him, Sir Tristram of Lyonesse, son of King Meliodas and of King Mark's own sister." So the battle was ordained to be fought in an island near Sir Marhaus' ships, and there Sir Tristram landed on the morrow, with Governale alone attending him for squire, and him he sent back to the land when he had made himself ready. When Sir Marhaus and Sir Tristram were thus left alone, Sir Marhaus said, "Young knight Sir Tristram what doest thou here? I am full sorry for thy rashness, for ofttimes have I been assailed in vain, and by the best knights of the world. Be warned in time, return to them that sent thee." "Fair knight, and well-proved knight," replied Sir Tristram, "be sure that I shall never quit this quarrel till one of us be overcome. For this cause have I been made knight, and thou shalt know before we part that though as yet unproved, I am a king's son and first-born of a queen. Moreover I have promised to deliver Cornwall from this ancient burden, or to die. Also, thou shouldst have known, Sir Marhaus, that thy valour and thy might are but the better reasons why I should assail thee; for whether I win or lose I shall gain honour to have met so great a knight as thou art." Then they began the battle, and tilted at their hardest against each other, so that both knights and horses fell to the earth. But Sir Marhaus' spear smote Sir Tristram a great wound in the side. Then, springing up from their horses, they lashed together with their swords like two wild boars. And when they had stricken together a great while they left off strokes and lunged at one another's breasts and visors; but seeing this availed not they hurtled together again to bear each other down. [Illustration: Then they began the battle, and tilted at their hardest against each other.] Thus fought they more than half the day, till both were sorely spent and blood ran from them to the ground on every side. But by this time Sir Tristram remained fresher than Sir Marhaus and better winded, and with a mighty stroke he smote him such a buffet as cut through his helm into his brain-pan, and there his sword stuck in so fast that thrice Sir Tristram pulled ere he could get it from his head. Then fell Sir Marhaus down upon his knees, and the edge of Sir Tristram's sword broke off into his brain-pan. And suddenly when he seemed dead, Sir Marhaus rose and threw his sword and shield away from him and ran and fled into his ship. And Tristram cried out after him, "Aha! Sir knight of the Round Table, dost thou withdraw thee from so young a knight? it is a shame to thee and all thy kin; I would rather have been hewn into a hundred pieces than have fled from thee." But Sir Marhaus answered nothing, and sorely groaning fled away. "Farewell, Sir knight, farewell," laughed Tristram, whose own voice now was hoarse and faint with loss of blood; "I have thy sword and shield in my safe keeping, and will wear them in all places where I ride on my adventures, and before King Arthur and the Table Round." Then was Sir Marhaus taken back to Ireland by his company; and as soon as he arrived his wounds were searched, and when they searched his head they found therein a piece of Tristram's sword; but all the skill of surgeons was in vain to move it out. So anon Sir Marhaus died. But the queen, his sister, took the piece of sword-blade and put it safely by, for she thought that some day it might help her to revenge her brother's death. Meanwhile, Sir Tristram, being sorely wounded, sat down softly on a little mound and bled passing fast; and in that evil case was found anon by Governale and King Mark's knights. Then they gently took him up and brought him in a barge back to the land, and lifted him into a bed within the castle, and had his wounds dressed carefully. But for a great while he lay sorely sick, and was likely to have died of the first stroke Sir Marhaus had given him with the spear, for the point of it was poisoned. And, though the wisest surgeons and leeches--both men and women--came from every part, yet could he be by no means cured. At last came a wise lady, and said plainly that Sir Tristram never should be healed, until he went and stayed in that same country whence the poison came. When this was understood, the king sent Sir Tristram in a fair and goodly ship to Ireland, and by fortune he arrived fast by a castle where the king and queen were. And as the ship was being anchored, he sat upon his bed and harped a merry lay, and made so sweet a music as was never equalled. When the king heard that the sweet harper was a wounded knight, he sent for him, and asked his name. "I am of the country of Lyonesse," he answered, "and my name is Tramtrist;" for he dared not tell his true name lest the vengeance of the queen should fall upon him for her brother's death. "Well," said King Anguish, "thou art right welcome here, and shalt have all the help this land can give thee; but be not anxious if I am at times cast down and sad, for but lately in Cornwall the best knight in the world, fighting for my cause, was slain; his name was Sir Marhaus, a knight of King Arthur's Round Table." And then he told Sir Tristram all the story of Sir Marhaus' battle, and Sir Tristram made pretence of great surprise and sorrow, though he knew all far better than the king himself. Then was he put in charge of the king's daughter, La Belle Isault, to be healed of his wound, and she was as fair and noble a lady as men's eyes might see. And so marvellously was she skilled in medicine, that in a few days she fully cured him; and in return Sir Tristram taught her the harp; so, before long, they two began to love each other greatly. But at that time a heathen knight, Sir Palomedes, was in Ireland, and much cherished by the king and queen. He also loved mightily La Belle Isault, and never wearied of making her great gifts, and seeking for her favour, and was ready even to be christened for her sake. Sir Tristram therefore hated him out of measure, and Sir Palomedes was full of rage and envy against Tristram. And so it befell that King Anguish proclaimed a great tournament to be held, the prize whereof should be a lady called the Lady of the Launds, of near kindred to the king: and her the winner of the tournament should wed in three days afterwards, and possess all her lands. When La Belle Isault told Sir Tristram of this tournament, he said, "Fair lady! I am yet a feeble knight, and but for thee had been a dead man now: what wouldest thou I should do? Thou knowest well I may not joust." "Ah, Tristram," said she, "why wilt thou not fight in this tournament? Sir Palomedes will be there, and will do his mightiest; and therefore be thou there, I pray thee, or else he will be winner of the prize." "Madam," said Tristram, "I will go, and for thy sake will do my best; but let me go unknown to all men; and do thou, I pray thee, keep my counsel, and help me to a disguise." So on the day of jousting came Sir Palomedes, with a black shield, and overthrew many knights. And all the people wondered at his prowess; for on the first day he put to the worse Sir Gawain, Sir Gaheris, Sir Agravaine, Sir Key, and many more from far and near. And on the morrow he was conqueror again, and overthrew the king with a hundred knights and the King of Scotland. But presently Sir Tristram rode up to the lists, having been let out at a privy postern of the castle, where none could see. La Belle Isault had dressed him in white armour and given him a white horse and shield, and so he came suddenly into the field as it had been a bright angel. As soon as Sir Palomedes saw him he ran at him with a great spear in rest, but Sir Tristram was ready, and at the first encounter hurled him to the ground. Then there arose a great cry that the knight with the black shield was overthrown. And Palomedes sorely hurt and shamed, sought out a secret way and would have left the field; but Tristram watched him, and rode after him, and bade him stay, for he had not yet done with him. Then did Sir Palomedes turn with fury, and lash at Sir Tristram with his sword; but at the first stroke Sir Tristram smote him to the earth, and cried, "Do now all my commands, or take thy death." Then he yielded to Sir Tristram's mercy, and promised to forsake La Belle Isault, and for twelve months to wear no arms or armour. And rising up, he cut his armour off him into shreds with rage and madness, and turned and left the field: and Sir Tristram also left the lists, and rode back to the castle through the postern gate. Then was Sir Tristram long cherished by the King and Queen of Ireland, and ever with La Belle Isault. But on a certain day, while he was bathing, came the queen with La Belle Isault by chance into his chamber, and saw his sword lie naked on the bed: anon she drew it from the scabbard and looked at it a long while, and both thought it a passing fair sword; but within a foot and a half of the end there was a great piece broken out, and while the queen was looking at the gap, she suddenly remembered the piece of sword-blade that was found in the brain-pan of her brother Sir Marhaus. Therewith she turned and cried, "By my faith, this is the felon knight who slew thy uncle!" And running to her chamber she sought in her casket for the piece of iron from Sir Marhaus' head and brought it back, and fitted it in Tristram's sword; and surely did it fit therein as closely as it had been but yesterday broke out. [Illustration: And running to her chamber, she sought in her casket for the piece of iron ... and fitted it in Tristram's sword.] Then the queen caught the sword up fiercely in her hand, and ran into the room where Sir Tristram was yet in his bath, and making straight for him, had run him through the body, had not his squire, Sir Hebes, got her in his arms, and pulled the sword away from her. Then ran she to the king, and fell upon her knees before him, saying, "Lord and husband, thou hast here in thy house that felon knight who slew my brother Marhaus!" "Who is it?" said the king. "It is Sir Tristram!" said she, "whom Isault hath healed." "Alas!" replied the king, "I am full grieved thereat, for he is a good knight as ever I have seen in any field; but I charge thee leave thou him, and let me deal with him." Then the king went to Sir Tristram's chamber and found him all armed and ready to mount his horse, and said to him, "Sir Tristram, it is not to prove me against thee I come, for it were shameful of thy host to seek thy life. Depart in peace, but tell me first thy name, and whether thou slewest my brother, Sir Marhaus." Then Sir Tristram told him all the truth, and how he had hid his name, to be unknown in Ireland; and when he had ended, the king declared he held him in no blame. "Howbeit, I cannot for mine honour's sake retain thee at this court, for so I should displease my barons, and my wife, and all her kin." "Sir," said Sir Tristram, "I thank thee for the goodness thou hast shown me here, and for the great goodness my lady, thy daughter, hath shown me; and it may chance to be more for thy advantage if I live than if I die; for wheresoever I may be, I shall ever seek thy service, and shall be my lady thy daughter's servant in all places, and her knight in right and wrong, and shall never fail to do for her as much as knight can do." Then Sir Tristram went to La Belle Isault, and took his leave of her. "O gentle knight," said she, "full of grief am I at your departing, for never yet I saw a man to love so well." "Madam," said he, "I promise faithfully that all my life I shall be your knight." Then Sir Tristram gave her a ring, and she gave him another, and after that he left her, weeping and lamenting, and went among the barons, and openly took his leave of them all, saying, "Fair lords, it so befalleth that I now must depart hence; therefore, if there be any here whom I have offended or who is grieved with me, let him now say it, and before I go I will amend it to the utmost of my power. And if there be but one who would speak shame of me behind my back, let him say it now or never, and here is my body to prove it on--body against body." And all stood still and said no word, though some there were of the queen's kindred who would have assailed him had they dared. So Sir Tristram departed from Ireland and took the sea and came with a fair wind to Tintagil. And when the news came to King Mark that Sir Tristram was returned, healed of his wound, he was passing glad, and so were all his barons. And when he had visited the king his uncle, he rode to his father, King Meliodas, and there had all the heartiest welcome that could be made him. And both the king and queen gave largely to him of their lands and goods. Anon he came again to King Mark's court, and there lived in great joy and pleasure, till within a while the king grew jealous of his fame, and of the love and favour shown him by all damsels. And as long as King Mark lived, he never after loved Sir Tristram, though there was much fair speech between them. Then it befell upon a certain day that the good knight Sir Bleoberis de Ganis, brother to Sir Blamor de Ganis, and nigh cousin to Sir Lancelot of the Lake, came to King Mark's court and asked of him a favour. And though the king marvelled, seeing he was a man of great renown, and a knight of the Round Table, he granted him all his asking. Then said Sir Bleoberis, "I will have the fairest lady in your court, at my own choosing." "I may not say thee nay," replied the king; "choose therefore, but take all the issues of thy choice." So when he had looked around, he chose the wife of Earl Segwarides, and took her by the hand, and set her upon horseback behind his squire, and rode forth on his way. Presently thereafter came in the earl, and rode out straightway after him in rage. But all the ladies cried out shame upon Sir Tristram that he had not gone, and one rebuked him foully and called him coward knight, that he would stand and see a lady forced away from his uncle's court. But Sir Tristram answered her, "Fair lady, it is not my place to take part in this quarrel while her lord and husband is here to do it. Had he not been at this court, peradventure I had been her champion. And if it so befall that he speed ill, then may it happen that I speak with that foul knight before he pass out of this realm." Anon ran in one of Sir Segwarides' squires, and told that his master was sore wounded, and at the point of death. When Sir Tristram heard that, he was soon armed and on his horse, and Governale, his servant, followed him with shield and spear. And as he rode, he met his cousin Sir Andret, who had been commanded by King Mark to bring home to him two knights of King Arthur's court who roamed the country thereabouts seeking adventures. "What tidings?" said Sir Tristram. "God help me, never worse," replied his cousin; "for those I went to bring have beaten and defeated me, and set my message at naught." "Fair cousin," said Sir Tristram, "ride ye on your way, perchance if I should meet them ye may be revenged." So Sir Andret rode into Cornwall, but Sir Tristram rode after the two knights who had misused him, namely, Sir Sagramour le Desirous, and Sir Dodinas le Savage. And before long he saw them but a little way before him. "Sir," said Governale, "by my advice thou wilt leave them alone, for they be two well-proved knights of Arthur's court." "Shall I not therefore rather meet them?" said Sir Tristram, and, riding swiftly after them, he called to them to stop, and asked them whence they came, and whither they were going, and what they were doing in those marches. Sir Sagramour looked haughtily at Sir Tristram, and made mocking of his words, and said, "Fair knight, be ye a knight of Cornwall?" "Wherefore askest thou that?" said Tristram. "Truly, because it is full seldom seen," replied Sir Sagramour, "that Cornish knights are valiant with their arms as with their tongues. It is but two hours since there met us such a Cornish knight, who spoke great words with might and prowess, but anon, with little mastery, he was laid on earth, as I trow wilt thou be also." "Fair lords," said Sir Tristram, "it may chance I be a better man than he; but, be that as it may, he was my cousin, and for his sake I will assail ye both; one Cornish knight against ye two." When Sir Dodinas le Savage heard this speech, he caught at his spear and said, "Sir knight, keep well thyself;" and then they parted and came together as it had been thunder, and Sir Dodinas' spear split asunder; but Sir Tristram smote him with so full a stroke as hurled him over his horse's crupper, and nearly brake his neck. Sir Sagramour, seeing his fellow's fall, marvelled who this new knight might be, and dressed his spear, and came against Sir Tristram as a whirlwind; but Sir Tristram smote him a mighty buffet, and rolled him with his horse down on the ground; and in the falling he brake his thigh. Then, looking at them both as they lay grovelling on the grass, Sir Tristram said, "Fair knights, will ye joust any more? Are there no bigger knights in King Arthur's court? Will ye soon again speak shame of Cornish knights?" "Thou hast defeated us, in truth," replied Sir Sagramour, "and on the faith of knighthood I require thee tell us thy right name?" "Ye charge me by a great thing," said Sir Tristram, "and I will answer ye." And when they heard his name the two knights were right glad that they had met Sir Tristram, for his deeds were known through all the land, and they prayed him to abide in their company. "Nay," said he, "I must find a fellow-knight of yours, Sir Bleoberis de Ganis, whom I seek." "God speed you well," said the two knights; and Sir Tristram rode away. Soon he saw before him in a valley Sir Bleoberis with Sir Segwarides' wife riding behind his squire upon a palfrey. At that he cried out aloud, "Abide, Sir knight of King Arthur's court, bring back again that lady or deliver her to me." "I will not," said Bleoberis, "for I dread no Cornish knight." "Why," said Sir Tristram, "may not a Cornish knight do well as any other? This day, but three miles back, two knights of thy own court met me, and found one Cornish knight enough for both before we parted." "What were their names?" said Sir Bleoberis. "Sir Sagramour le Desirous and Sir Dodinas le Savage," said Sir Tristram. "Ah," said Sir Bleoberis, amazed; "hast thou then met with them? By my faith, they were two good knights and men of worship, and if thou hast beat both thou must needs be a good knight; but for all that thou shalt beat me also ere thou hast this lady." "Defend thee, then," cried out Sir Tristram, and came upon him swiftly with his spear in rest. But Sir Bleoberis was as swift as he, and each bore down the other, horse and all, on to the earth. Then they sprang clear of their horses, and lashed together full eagerly and mightily with their swords, tracing and traversing on the right hand and on the left more than two hours, and sometimes rushing together with such fury that they both lay grovelling on the ground. At last Sir Bleoberis started back and said, "Now, gentle knight, hold hard awhile, and let us speak together." "Say on," said Sir Tristram, "and I will answer thee." "Sir," said Sir Bleoberis, "I would know thy name, and court, and country." "I have no shame to tell them," said Sir Tristram. "I am King Meliodas' son, and my mother was sister to King Mark, from whose court I now come. My name is Sir Tristram de Lyonesse." "Truly," said Sir Bleoberis, "I am right glad to hear it, for thou art he that slew Sir Marhaus hand-to-hand, fighting for the Cornish tribute; and overcame Sir Palomedes at the great Irish tournament, where also thou didst overthrow Sir Gawain and his nine companions." "I am that knight," said Sir Tristram, "and now I pray thee tell me thy name." "I am Sir Bleoberis de Ganis, cousin of Sir Lancelot of the Lake, one of the best knights in all the world," he answered. "Thou sayest truth," said Sir Tristram; "for Sir Lancelot, as all men know, is peerless in courtesy and knighthood, and for the great love I bear to his name I will not willingly fight more with thee his kinsman." "In good faith, sir," said Sir Bleoberis, "I am as loth to fight thee more; but since thou hast followed me to win this lady, I proffer thee kindness, courtesy, and gentleness; this lady shall be free to go with which of us she pleaseth best." "I am content," said Sir Tristram, "for I doubt not she will come to me." "That shalt thou shortly prove," said he, and called his squire, and set the lady in the midst between them, who forthwith walked to Sir Bleoberis and elected to abide with him. Which, when Sir Tristram saw, he was in wondrous anger with her, and felt that he could scarce for shame return to King Mark's court. But Sir Bleoberis said, "Hearken to me, good knight, Sir Tristram, because King Mark gave me free choice of any gift, and because this lady chose to go with me, I took her; but now I have fulfilled my quest and my adventure, and for thy sake she shall be sent back to her husband at the abbey where he lieth." So Sir Tristram rode back to Tintagil, and Sir Bleoberis to the abbey where Sir Segwarides lay wounded, and there delivered up his lady, and departed as a noble knight. After this adventure Sir Tristram abode still at his uncle's court, till in the envy of his heart King Mark devised a plan to be rid of him. So on a certain day he desired him to depart again for Ireland, and there demand La Belle Isault on his behalf, to be his queen--for ever had Sir Tristram praised her beauty and her goodness, till King Mark desired to wed her for himself. Moreover, he believed his nephew surely would be slain by the queen's kindred if he once were found again in Ireland. But Sir Tristram, scorning fear, made ready to depart, and took with him the noblest knights that could be found, arrayed in the richest fashion. And when they were come to Ireland, upon a certain day Sir Tristram gave his uncle's message, and King Anguish consented thereto. But when La Belle Isault was told the tidings she was very sorrowful and loth--yet made she ready to set forth with Sir Tristram, and took with her Dame Bragwaine, her chief gentlewoman. Then the queen gave Dame Bragwaine, and Governale, Sir Tristram's servant, a little flask, and charged them that La Belle Isault and King Mark should both drink of it on their marriage day, and then should they surely love each other all their lives. Anon, Sir Tristram and Isault, with a great company, took the sea and departed. And so it chanced that one day sitting in their cabin they were athirst, and saw a little flask of gold which seemed to hold good wine. So Sir Tristram took it up, and said, "Fair lady, this looketh to be the best of wines, and your maid, Dame Bragwaine, and my servant, Governale, have kept it for themselves." Thereat they both laughed merrily, and drank each after other from the flask, and never before had they tasted any wine which seemed so good and sweet. But by the time they had finished drinking they loved each other so well that their love nevermore might leave them for weal or woe. And thus it came to pass that though Sir Tristram might never wed La Belle Isault, he did the mightiest deeds of arms for her sake only all his life. [Illustration: By the time they had finished drinking they loved each other so well that their love never more might leave them.] Then they sailed onwards till they came to a castle called Pluere, where they would have rested. But anon there ran forth a great company and took them prisoners. And when they were in prison, Sir Tristram asked a knight and lady whom they found therein wherefore they were so shamefully dealt with; "for," said he, "it was never the custom of any place of honour that I ever came unto to seize a knight and lady asking shelter and thrust them into prison, and a full evil and discourteous custom is it." "Sir," said the knight, "know ye not that this is called the Castle Pluere, or the weeping castle, and that it is an ancient custom here that whatsoever knight abideth in it must needs fight the lord of it, Sir Brewnor, and he that is the weakest shall lose his head. And if the lady he hath with him be less fair than the lord's wife, she shall lose her head; but if she be fairer, then must the lady of the castle lose her head." "Now Heaven help me," said Sir Tristram, "but this is a foul and shameful custom. Yet have I one advantage, for my lady is the fairest that doth live in all the world, so that I nothing fear for her; and as for me, I will full gladly fight for my own head in a fair field." Then said the knight, "Look ye be up betimes to-morrow, and make you ready and your lady." And on the morrow came Sir Brewnor to Sir Tristram, and put him and Isault forth out of prison, and brought him a horse and armour, and bade him make ready, for all the commons and estates of that lordship waited in the field to see and judge the battle. Then Sir Brewnor, holding his lady by the hand, all muffled, came forth, and Sir Tristram went to meet him with La Belle Isault beside him, muffled also. Then said Sir Brewnor, "Sir knight, if thy lady be fairer than mine, with thy sword smite off my lady's head; but if my lady be fairer than thine, with my sword I will smite off thy lady's head. And if I overcome thee thy lady shall be mine, and thou shalt lose thy head." "Sir knight," replied Sir Tristram, "this is a right foul and felon custom, and rather than my lady shall lose her head will I lose my own." "Nay," said Sir Brewnor, "but the ladies shall be now compared together and judgment shall be had." "I consent not," cried Sir Tristram, "for who is here that will give rightful judgment? Yet doubt not that my lady is far fairer than thine own, and that will I prove and make good." Therewith Sir Tristram lifted up the veil from off La Belle Isault, and stood beside her with his naked sword drawn in his hand. Then Sir Brewnor unmuffled his lady and did in like manner. But when he saw La Belle Isault he knew that none could be so fair, and all there present gave their judgment so. Then said Sir Tristram, "Because thou and thy lady have long used this evil custom, and have slain many good knights and ladies, it were a just thing to destroy thee both." "In good sooth," said Sir Brewnor, "thy lady is fairer than mine, and of all women I never saw any so fair. Therefore, slay my lady if thou wilt, and I doubt not but I shall slay thee and have thine." "Thou shalt win her," said Sir Tristram, "as dearly as ever knight won lady; and because of thy own judgment and of the evil custom that thy lady hath consented to, I will slay her as thou sayest." And therewithal Sir Tristram went to him and took his lady from him, and smote off her head at a stroke. "Now take thy horse," cried out Sir Brewnor, "for since I have lost my lady I will win thine and have thy life." So they took their horses and came together as fast as they could fly, and Sir Tristram lightly smote Sir Brewnor from his horse. But he rose right quickly, and when Sir Tristram came again he thrust his horse through both the shoulders, so that it reeled and fell. But Sir Tristram was light and nimble, and voided his horse, and rose up and dressed his shield before him, though meanwhile, ere he could draw out his sword, Sir Brewnor gave him three or four grievous strokes. Then they rushed furiously together like two wild boars, and fought hurtling and hewing here and there for nigh two hours, and wounded each other full sorely. Then at the last Sir Brewnor rushed upon Sir Tristram and took him in his arms to throw him, for he trusted greatly in his strength. But Sir Tristram was at that time called the strongest and biggest knight of the world; for he was bigger than Sir Lancelot, though Sir Lancelot was better breathed. So anon he thrust Sir Brewnor grovelling to the earth, and then unlaced his helm and struck off his head. Then all they that belonged to the castle came and did him homage and fealty, and prayed him to abide there for a season and put an end to that foul custom. But within a while he departed and came to Cornwall, and there King Mark was forthwith wedded to La Belle Isault with great joy and splendour. And Sir Tristram had high honour, and ever lodged at the king's court. But for all he had done him such services King Mark hated him, and on a certain day he set two knights to fall upon him as he rode in the forest. But Sir Tristram lightly smote one's head off, and sorely wounded the other, and made him bear his fellow's body to the king. At that the king dissembled and hid from Sir Tristram that the knights were sent by him; yet more than ever he hated him in secret, and sought to slay him. So on a certain day, by the assent of Sir Andret, a false knight, and forty other knights, Sir Tristram was taken prisoner in his sleep and carried to a chapel on the rocks above the sea to be cast down. But as they were about to cast him in, suddenly he brake his bonds asunder, and rushing at Sir Andret, took his sword and smote him down therewith. Then, leaping down the rocks where none could follow, he escaped them. But one shot after him and wounded him full sorely with a poisoned arrow in the arm. Anon, his servant Governale, with Sir Lambegus sought him and found him safe among the rocks, and told him that King Mark had banished him and all his followers to avenge Sir Andret's death. So they took ship and came to Brittany. Now Sir Tristram, suffering great anguish from his wound, was told to seek Isoude, the daughter of the King of Brittany, for she alone could cure such wounds. Wherefore he went to King Howell's court, and said, "Lord, I am come into this country to have help from thy daughter, for men tell me none but she may help me." And Isoude gladly offering to do her best, within a month he was made whole. While he abode still at that court, an earl named Grip made war upon King Howell, and besieged him; and Sir Kay Hedius, the king's son, went forth against him, but was beaten in battle and sore wounded. Then the king praying Sir Tristram for his help, he took with him such knights as he could find, and on the morrow, in another battle, did such deeds of arms that all the land spake of him. For there he slew the earl with his own hands, and more than a hundred knights besides. When he came back King Howell met him, and saluted him with every honour and rejoicing that could be thought of, and took him in his arms, and said, "Sir Tristram, all my kingdom will I resign to thee." "Nay," answered he, "God forbid, for truly am I beholden to you for ever for your daughter's sake." Then the king prayed him to take Isoude in marriage, with a great dower of lands and castles. To this Sir Tristram presently consenting anon they were wedded at the court. But within a while Sir Tristram greatly longed to see Cornwall, and Sir Kay Hedius desired to go with him. So they took ship; but as soon as they were at sea the wind blew them upon the coast of North Wales, nigh to Castle Perilous, hard by a forest wherein were many strange adventures ofttimes to be met. Then said Sir Tristram to Sir Kay Hedius, "Let us prove some of them ere we depart." So they took their horses and rode forth. When they had ridden a mile or more, Sir Tristram spied a goodly knight before him well armed, who sat by a clear fountain with a strong horse near him, tied to an oak-tree. "Fair sir," said he, when they came near, "ye seem to be a knight errant by your arms and harness, therefore make ready now to joust with one of us, or both." Thereat the knight spake not, but took his shield and buckled it round his neck, and leaping on his horse caught a spear from his squire's hand. Then said Sir Kay Hedius to Sir Tristram, "Let me assay him." "Do thy best," said he. So the two knights met, and Sir Kay Hedius fell sorely wounded in the breast. "Thou hast well jousted," cried Sir Tristram to the knight; "now make ready for me!" "I am ready," answered he, and encountered him, and smote him so heavily that he fell down from his horse. Whereat, being ashamed, he put his shield before him, and drew his sword, crying to the strange knight to do likewise. Then they fought on foot for well nigh two hours, till they were both weary. At last Sir Tristram said, "In all my life I never met a knight so strong and well-breathed as ye be. It were a pity we should further hurt each other. Hold thy hand, fair knight, and tell me thy name." "That will I," answered he, "if thou wilt tell me thine." "My name," said he, "is Sir Tristram of Lyonesse." "And mine, Sir Lamoracke of Gaul." Then both cried out together, "Well met;" and Sir Lamoracke said, "Sir, for your great renown, I will that ye have all the worship of this battle, and therefore will I yield me unto you." And therewith he took his sword by the point to yield him. "Nay," said Sir Tristram, "ye shall not do so, for well I know ye do it of courtesy, and not of dread." And therewith he offered his sword to Sir Lamoracke, saying, "Sir, as an overcome knight, I yield me unto you as unto the man of noblest powers I have ever met with." "Hold," said Sir Lamoracke, "let us now swear together nevermore to fight against each other." Then did they swear as he said. Then Sir Tristram returned to Sir Kay Hedius, and when he was whole of his wounds, they departed together in a ship, and landed on the coast of Cornwall. And when they came ashore, Sir Tristram eagerly sought news of La Belle Isault. And one told him in mistake that she was dead. Whereat, for sore and grievous sorrow, he fell down in a swoon, and so lay for three days and nights. When he awoke therefrom he was crazed, and ran into the forest and abode there like a wild man many days; whereby he waxed lean and weak of body, and would have died, but that a hermit laid some meat beside him as he slept. Now in that forest was a giant named Tauleas, who, for fear of Tristram, had hid himself within a castle, but when they told him he was mad, came forth and went at large again. And on a certain day he saw a knight of Cornwall, named Sir Dinaunt, pass by with a lady, and when he had alighted by a well to rest, the giant leaped out from his ambush, and took him by the throat to slay him. But Sir Tristram, as he wandered through the forest, came upon them as they struggled; and when the knight cried out for help, he rushed upon the giant, and taking up Sir Dinaunt's sword, struck off therewith the giant's head, and straightway disappeared among the trees. Anon, Sir Dinaunt took the head of Tauleas, and bare it with him to the court of King Mark, whither he was bound, and told of his adventures. "Where had ye this adventure?" said King Mark. "At a fair fountain in thy forest," answered he. "I would fain see that wild man," said the king. So within a day or two he commanded his knights to a great hunting in the forest. And when the king came to the well, he saw a wild man lying there asleep, having a sword beside him; but he knew not that it was Sir Tristram. Then he blew his horn, and summoned all his knights to take him gently up and bear him to the court. And when they came thereto they bathed and washed him, and brought him somewhat to his right mind. Now La Belle Isault knew not that Sir Tristram was in Cornwall; but when she heard that a wild man had been found in the forest, she came to see him. And so sorely was he changed, she knew him not. "Yet," said she to Dame Bragwaine, "in good faith I seem to have beheld him ofttimes before." As she thus spoke a little hound, which Sir Tristram had given her when she first came to Cornwall, and which was ever with her, saw Sir Tristram lying there, and leapt upon him, licking his hands and face, and whined and barked for joy. "Alas," cried out La Belle Isault, "it is my own true knight, Sir Tristram." And at her voice Sir Tristram's senses wholly came again, and wellnigh he wept for joy to see his lady living. But never would the hound depart from Tristram; and when King Mark and other knights came up to see him, it sat upon his body and bayed at all who came too near. Then one of the knights said, "Surely this is Sir Tristram; I see it by the hound." "Nay," said the king, "it cannot be," and asked Sir Tristram on his faith who he was. "My name," said he, "is Sir Tristram of Lyonesse, and now ye may do what ye list with me." Then the king said, "It repents me that ye are recovered," and sought to make his barons slay him. But most of them would not assent thereto, and counselled him instead to banish Tristram for ten years again from Cornwall, for returning without orders from the king. So he was sworn to depart forthwith. And as he went towards the ship a knight of King Arthur, named Sir Dinadan, who sought him, came and said, "Fair knight, ere that you pass out of this country, I pray you joust with me!" "With a good will," said he. Then they ran together, and Sir Tristram lightly smote him from his horse. Anon he prayed Sir Tristram's leave to bear him company, and when he had consented they rode together to the ship. Then was Sir Tristram full of bitterness of heart, and said to all the knights who took him to the shore, "Greet well King Mark and all mine enemies from me, and tell them I will come again when I may. Well am I now rewarded for slaying Sir Marhaus, and delivering this kingdom from its bondage, and for the perils wherewithal I brought La Belle Isault from Ireland to the king, and rescued her at the Castle Pluere, and for the slaying of the giant Tauleas, and all the other deeds that I have done for Cornwall and King Mark." Thus angrily and passing bitterly he spake, and went his way. And after sailing awhile the ship stayed at a landing-place upon the coast of Wales; and there Sir Tristram and Sir Dinadan alighted, and on the shore they met two knights, Sir Ector and Sir Bors. And Sir Ector encountered with Sir Dinadan and smote him to the ground; but Sir Bors would not encounter with Sir Tristram, "For," said he, "no Cornish knights are men of worship." Thereat Sir Tristram was full wroth, but presently there met them two more knights, Sir Bleoberis and Sir Driant; and Sir Bleoberis proffered to joust with Sir Tristram, who shortly smote him down. "I had not thought," cried out Sir Bors, "that any Cornish knight could do so valiantly." Then Sir Tristram and Sir Dinadan departed, and rode into a forest, and as they rode a damsel met them, who for Sir Lancelot's sake was seeking any noble knights to rescue him. For Queen Morgan le Fay, who hated him, had ordered thirty men-at-arms to lie in ambush for him as he passed, with the intent to kill him. So the damsel prayed them to rescue him. Then said Sir Tristram, "Bring me to that place, fair damsel." But Sir Dinadan cried out, "It is not possible for us to meet with thirty knights! I will take no part in such a hardihood, for to match one or two or three knights is enough; but to match fifteen I will never assay." "For shame," replied Sir Tristram, "do but your part." "That will I not," said he; "wherefore, I pray ye, lend me your shield, for it is of Cornwall, and because men of that country are deemed cowards, ye are but little troubled as ye ride with knights to joust with." "Nay," said Sir Tristram, "I will never give my shield up for her sake who gave it me; but if thou wilt not stand by me to-day I will surely slay thee; for I ask no more of thee than to fight one knight, and if thy heart will not serve thee that much, thou shalt stand by and look on me and them." "Would God that I had never met with ye!" cried Sir Dinadan; "but I promise to look on and do all that I may to save myself." Anon they came to where the thirty knights lay waiting, and Sir Tristram rushed upon them, saying, "Here is one who fights for love of Lancelot!" Then slew he two of them at the first onset with his spear, and ten more swiftly after with his sword. At that Sir Dinadan took courage, and assailed the others with him, till they turned and fled. But Sir Tristram and Sir Dinadan rode on till nightfall, and meeting with a shepherd, asked him if he knew of any lodging thereabouts. "Truly, fair lords," said he, "there is good lodging in a castle hard by, but it is a custom there that none shall lodge therein save ye first joust with two knights, and as soon as ye be within, ye shall find your match." "That is an evil lodging," said Sir Dinadan; "lodge where ye will, I will not lodge there." "Shame on thee!" said Sir Tristram; "art thou a knight at all?" Then he required him on his knighthood to go with him, and they rode together to the castle. As soon as they were near, two knights came out and ran full speed against them; but both of them they overthrew, and went within the castle, and had noble cheer. Now, when they were unarmed and ready to take rest, there came to the castle-gate two knights, Sir Palomedes and Sir Gaheris, and desired the custom of the castle. "I would far rather rest than fight," said Sir Dinadan. "That may not be," replied Sir Tristram, "for we must needs defend the custom of the castle, seeing we have overcome its lords; therefore, make ready." "Alas that I ever came into your company," said Sir Dinadan. So they made ready, and Sir Gaheris encountered Sir Tristram and fell before him; but Sir Palomedes overthrew Sir Dinadan. Then would all fight on foot save Sir Dinadan, for he was sorely bruised and frighted by his fall. And when Sir Tristram prayed him to fight, "I will not," answered he, "for I was wounded by those thirty knights with whom we fought this morning; and as to you, ye are in truth like one gone mad, and who would cast himself away! There be but two knights in the world so mad, and the other is Sir Lancelot, with whom I once rode forth, who kept me evermore at battling so that for a quarter of a year thereafter I lay in my bed. Heaven defend me again from either of your fellowships!" "Well," said Sir Tristram, "if it must be, I will fight them both." Therewith he drew his sword and assailed Sir Palomedes and Sir Gaheris together; but Sir Palomedes said, "Nay, but it is a shame for two to fight with one." So he bade Sir Gaheris stand by, and he and Sir Tristram fought long together; but in the end Sir Tristram drave him backward, whereat Sir Gaheris and Sir Dinadan with one accord sundered them. Then Sir Tristram prayed the two knights to lodge there; but Sir Dinadan departed and rode away into a priory hard by, and there he lodged that night. And on the morrow came Sir Tristram to the priory to find him, and seeing him so weary that he could not ride, he left him, and departed. At that same priory was lodged Sir Pellinore, who asked Sir Dinadan Sir Tristram's name, but could not learn it, for Sir Tristram had charged that he should remain unknown. Then said Sir Pellinore, "Since ye will not tell it me, I will ride after him and find it myself." "Beware, Sir knight," said Sir Dinadan, "ye will repent it if ye follow him." But Sir Pellinore straightway mounted and overtook him, and cried to him to joust; whereat Sir Tristram forthwith turned and smote him down, and wounded him full sorely in the shoulder. On the day after, Sir Tristram met a herald, who told him of a tournament proclaimed between King Carados of Scotland, and the King of North Wales, to be held at the Maiden's Castle. Now King Carados sought Sir Lancelot to fight there on his side, and the King of North Wales sought Sir Tristram. And Sir Tristram purposed to be there. So as he rode, he met Sir Key, the seneschal, and Sir Sagramour, and Sir Key proffered to joust with him. But he refused, desiring to keep himself unwearied for the tourney. Then Sir Key cried, "Sir knight of Cornwall, joust with me, or yield as recreant." When Sir Tristram heard that, he fiercely turned and set his spear in rest, and spurred his horse towards him. But when Sir Key saw him so madly coming on, he in his turn refused, whereat Sir Tristram called him coward, till for shame he was compelled to meet him. Then Sir Tristram lightly smote him down, and rode away. But Sir Sagramour pursued him, crying loudly to joust with him also. So Sir Tristram turned and quickly overthrew him likewise, and departed. Anon a damsel met him as he rode, and told him of a knight adventurous who did great harm thereby, and prayed him for his help. But as he went with her he met Sir Gawain, who knew the damsel for a maiden of Queen Morgan le Fay. Knowing, therefore, that she needs must have evil plots against Sir Tristram, Sir Gawain demanded of him courteously whither he went. "I know not whither," said he, "save as this damsel leadeth me." "Sir," said Sir Gawain, "ye shall not ride with her, for she and her lady never yet did good to any;" and, drawing his sword, he said to the damsel, "Tell me now straightway for what cause thou leadest this knight or else shalt thou die; for I know of old thy lady's treason." "Mercy, Sir Gawain," cried the damsel, "and I will tell thee all." Then she told him that Queen Morgan had ordained thirty fair damsels to seek out Sir Lancelot and Sir Tristram, and by their wiles persuade them to her castle, where she had thirty knights in wait to slay them. "Oh shame!" cried Sir Gawain, "that ever such foul treason should be wrought by a queen, and a king's sister." Then said he to Sir Tristram, "Sir knight, if ye will stand with me, we will together prove the malice of these thirty knights." "I will not fail you," answered he, "for but few days since I had to do with thirty knights of that same queen, and trust we may win honour as lightly now as then." So they rode together, and when they came to the castle, Sir Gawain cried aloud, "Queen Morgan le Fay, send out thy knights that we may fight with them." Then the queen urged her knights to issue forth, but they durst not, for they well knew Sir Tristram, and feared him greatly. So Sir Tristram and Sir Gawain went on their way, and as they rode they saw a knight, named Sir Brewse-without-pity, chasing a lady, with intent to slay her. Then Sir Gawain prayed Sir Tristram to hold still and let him assail that knight. So he rode up between Sir Brewse and the lady, and cried, "False knight, turn thee to me and leave that lady." Then Sir Brewse turned and set his spear in rest, and rushed against Sir Gawain and overthrew him, and rode his horse upon him as he lay, which when Sir Tristram saw, he cried, "Forbear that villainy," and galloped at him. But when Sir Brewse saw by the shield it was Sir Tristram, he turned and fled. And though Sir Tristram followed swiftly after him, yet he was so well horsed that he escaped. Anon Sir Tristram and Sir Gawain came nigh the Maiden's Castle, and there an old knight named Sir Pellonnes gave them lodging. And Sir Persides, the son of Sir Pellonnes, a good knight, came out to welcome them. And, as they stood talking at a bay window of the castle, they saw a goodly knight ride by on a black horse, and carrying a black shield. "What knight is that?" asked Tristram. "One of the best knights in all the world," said Sir Persides. "Is he Sir Lancelot?" said Sir Tristram. "Nay," answered Sir Persides, "it is Sir Palomedes, who is yet unchristened." Within a while one came and told them that a knight with a black shield had smitten down thirteen knights. "Let us go and see this jousting," said Sir Tristram. So they armed themselves and went down. And when Sir Palomedes saw Sir Persides, he sent a squire to him and proffered him to joust. So they jousted, and Sir Persides was overthrown. Then Sir Tristram made ready to joust, but ere he had his spear in rest, Sir Palomedes took him at advantage, and struck him on the shield so that he fell. At that Sir Tristram was wroth out of measure and sore ashamed, wherefore he sent a squire and prayed Sir Palomedes to joust once again. But he would not, saying, "Tell thy master to revenge himself to-morrow at the Maiden's Castle, where he shall see me again." So on the morrow Sir Tristram commanded his servant to give him a black shield with no cognizance thereon, and he and Sir Persides rode into the tournament and joined King Carados' side. Then the knights of the King of North Wales came forth, and there was a great fighting and breaking of spears, and overthrow of men and horses. Now King Arthur sat above in a high gallery to see the tourney and give the judgment, and Sir Lancelot sat beside him. Then came against Sir Tristram and Sir Persides, two knights with them of North Wales, Sir Bleoberis and Sir Gaheris; and Sir Persides was smitten down and nigh slain, for four horsemen rode over him. But Sir Tristram rode against Sir Gaheris and smote him from his horse, and when Sir Bleoberis next encountered him, he overthrew him also. Anon they horsed themselves again, and with them came Sir Dinadan, whom Sir Tristram forthwith smote so sorely, that he reeled off his saddle. Then cried he, "Ah! Sir knight, I know ye better than ye deem, and promise nevermore to come against ye." Then rode Sir Bleoberis at him the second time, and had a buffet that felled him to the earth. And soon thereafter the king commanded to cease for that day, and all men marvelled who Sir Tristram was, for the prize of the first day was given him in the name of the Knight of the Black Shield. Now Sir Palomedes was on the side of the King of North Wales, but knew not Sir Tristram again. And, when he saw his marvellous deeds, he sent to ask his name. "As to that," said Sir Tristram, "he shall not know at this time, but tell him he shall know when I have broken two spears upon him, for I am the knight he smote down yesterday, and whatever side he taketh, I will take the other." So when they told him that Sir Palomedes would be on King Carados' side--for he was kindred to King Arthur--"Then will I be on the King of North Wales' side," said he, "but else would I be on my lord King Arthur's." Then on the morrow, when King Arthur was come, the heralds blew unto the tourney. And King Carados jousted with the King of a Hundred Knights and fell before him, and then came in King Arthur's knights and bare back those of North Wales. But anon Sir Tristram came to aid them and bare back the battle, and fought so mightily that none could stand against him, for he smote down on the right and on the left, so that all the knights and common people shouted his praise. "Since I bare arms," said King Arthur, "never saw I a knight do more marvellous deeds." Then the King of the Hundred Knights and those of North Wales, set upon twenty knights who were of Sir Lancelot's kin, who fought all together, none failing the others. When Sir Tristram beheld their nobleness and valour, he marvelled much. "Well may he be valiant and full of prowess," said he, "who hath such noble knights for kindred." So, when he had looked on them awhile, he thought it shame to see two hundred men assailing twenty, and riding to the King of a Hundred Knights, he said, "I pray thee, Sir king, leave your fighting with those twenty knights, for ye be too many and they be too few. For ye shall gain no honour if ye win, and that I see verily ye will not do unless ye slay them; but if ye will not stay, I will ride with them and help them." "Nay," said the king, "ye shall not do so; for full gladly I will do you courtesy," and with that he withdrew his knights. Then Sir Tristram rode his way into the forest, that no man might know him. And King Arthur caused the heralds to blow that the tourney should end that day, and he gave the King of North Wales the prize, because Sir Tristram was on his side. And in all the field there was such a cry that the sound thereof was heard two miles away--"The knight with the black shield hath won the field." "Alas!" said King Arthur, "where is that knight? it is shame to let him thus escape us." Then he comforted his knights, and said, "Be not dismayed, my friends, howbeit ye have lost the day; be of good cheer; to-morrow I myself will be in the field, and fare with you." So they all rested that night. And on the morrow the heralds blew unto the field. So the King of North Wales and the King of a Hundred Knights encountered with King Carados and the King of Ireland, and overthrew them. With that came King Arthur, and did mighty deeds of arms, and overthrew the King of North Wales and his fellows, and put twenty valiant knights to the worse. Anon came in Sir Palomedes, and made great fight upon King Arthur's side. But Sir Tristram rode furiously against him, and Sir Palomedes was thrown from his horse. Then cried King Arthur, "Knight of the Black Shield, keep thyself." And as he spake he came upon him, and smote him from his saddle to the ground, and so passed on to other knights. Then Sir Palomedes having now another horse rushed at Sir Tristram, as he was on foot, thinking to run over him. But he was aware of him, and stepped aside, and grasped Sir Palomedes by the arms, and pulled him off his horse. Then they rushed together with their swords, and many stood still to gaze on them. And Sir Tristram smote Sir Palomedes with three mighty strokes upon the helm, crying at each stroke, "Take this for Sir Tristram's sake," and with that Sir Palomedes fell to the earth. Anon the King of North Wales brought Sir Tristram another horse, and Sir Palomedes found one also. Then did they joust again with passing rage, for both by now were like mad lions. But Sir Tristram avoided his spear, and seized Sir Palomedes by the neck, and pulled him from his saddle, and bore him onward ten spears' length, and so let him fall. Then King Arthur drew forth his sword and smote the spear asunder, and gave Sir Tristram two or three sore strokes ere he could get at his own sword. But when he had it in his hand he mightily assailed the king. With that eleven knights of Lancelot's kin went forth against him, but he smote them all down to the earth, so that men marvelled at his deeds. And the cry was now so great that Sir Lancelot got a spear in his hand, and came down to assay Sir Tristram, saying, "Knight with the black shield, make ready." When Sir Tristram heard him he levelled his spear, and both stooping their heads, they ran together mightily, as it had been thunder. And Sir Tristram's spear brake short, but Sir Lancelot struck him with a deep wound in the side and broke his spear, yet overthrew him not. Therewith Sir Tristram, smarting at his wound, drew forth his sword, and rushing at Sir Lancelot, gave him mighty strokes upon the helm, so that the sparks flew from it, and Sir Lancelot stooped his head down to the saddle-bow. But then Sir Tristram turned and left the field, for he felt his wound so grievous that he deemed he should soon die. Then did Sir Lancelot hold the field against all comers, and put the King of North Wales and his party to the worse. And because he was the last knight in the field the prize was given him. But he refused to take it, and when the cry was raised, "Sir Lancelot hath won the day," he cried out, "Nay, but Sir Tristram is the victor, for he first began and last endured, and so hath he done each day." And all men honoured Lancelot more for his knightly words than if he had taken the prize. Thus was the tournament ended, and King Arthur departed to Caerleon, for the Whitsun feast was now nigh come, and all the knights adventurous went their ways. And many sought Sir Tristram in the forest whither he had gone, and at last Sir Lancelot found him, and brought him to King Arthur's court, as hath been told already. CHAPTER XII _The Quest of the Sangreal, and the Adventures of Sir Percival, Sir Bors, and Sir Galahad_ After these things, Merlin fell into a dotage of love for a damsel of the Lady of the Lake, and would let her have no rest, but followed her in every place. And ever she encouraged him, and made him welcome till she had learned all his crafts that she desired to know. Then upon a time she went with him beyond the sea to the land of Benwicke, and as they went he showed her many wonders, till at length she was afraid, and would fain have been delivered from him. And as they were in the forest of Broceliande, they sat together under an oak-tree, and the damsel prayed to see all that charm whereby men might be shut up yet alive in rocks or trees. But he refused her a long time, fearing to let her know, yet in the end, her prayers and kisses overcame him, and he told her all. Then did she make him great cheer, but anon, as he lay down to sleep, she softly rose, and walked about him waving her hands and muttering the charm, and presently enclosed him fast within the tree whereby he slept. And therefrom nevermore he could by any means come out for all the crafts that he could do. And so she departed and left Merlin. [Illustration: Waving her hands and muttering the charm, and presently enclosed him fast within the tree.] At the vigil of the next Feast of Pentecost, when all the Knights of the Round Table were met together at Camelot, and had heard mass, and were about to sit down to meat, there rode into the hall a fair lady on horseback, who went straight up to King Arthur where he sat upon his throne, and reverently saluted him. "God be with thee, fair damsel," quoth the king; "what desirest thou of me?" "I pray thee tell me, lord," she answered, "where Sir Lancelot is." "Yonder may ye see him," said King Arthur. Then went she to Sir Lancelot and said, "Sir, I salute thee in King Pelles' name, and require thee to come with me into the forest hereby." Then asked he her with whom she dwelt, and what she wished of him. "I dwell with King Pelles," said she, "whom Balin erst so sorely wounded when he smote the dolorous stroke. It is he who hath sent me to call thee." "I will go with thee gladly," said Sir Lancelot, and bade his squire straightway saddle his horse and bring his armour. Then came the queen to him and said, "Sir Lancelot, will ye leave me thus at this high feast?" "Madam," replied the damsel, "by dinner-time to-morrow he shall be with you." "If I thought not," said the queen, "he should not go with thee by my goodwill." Then Sir Lancelot and the lady rode forth till they came to the forest, and in a valley thereof found an abbey of nuns, whereby a squire stood ready to open the gates. When they had entered, and descended from their horses, a joyful crowd pressed round Sir Lancelot and heartily saluted him, and led him to the abbess's chamber, and unarmed him. Anon he saw his cousins likewise there, Sir Bors and Sir Lionel, who also made great joy at seeing him, and said, "By what adventure art thou here, for we thought to have seen thee at Camelot to-morrow?" "A damsel brought me here," said he, "but as yet I know not for what service." As they thus talked twelve nuns came in, who brought with them a youth so passing fair and well made, that in all the world his match could not be found. His name was Galahad, and though he knew him not, nor Lancelot him, Sir Lancelot was his father. "Sir," said the nuns, "we bring thee here this child whom we have nourished from his youth, and pray thee to make him a knight, for from no worthier hand can he receive that order." Then Sir Lancelot, looking on the youth, saw that he was seemly and demure as a dove, with every feature good and noble, and thought he never had beheld a better fashioned man of his years. "Cometh this desire from himself?" said he. "Yea," answered Galahad and all the nuns. "To-morrow, then, in reverence for the feast, he shall have his wish," said Sir Lancelot. And the next day at the hour of prime, he knighted him, and said, "God make of thee as good a man as He hath made thee beautiful." Then with Sir Lionel and Sir Bors he returned to the court, and found all gone to the minster to hear service. When they came into the banquet-hall each knight and baron found his name written in some seat in letters of gold, as "here ought to sit Sir Lionel," "here ought to sit Sir Gawain,"--and so forth. And in the Perilous Seat, at the high centre of the table, a name was also written, whereat they marvelled greatly, for no living man had ever yet dared sit upon that seat, save one, and him a flame leaped forth and drew down under earth, so that he was no more seen. Then came Sir Lancelot and read the letters in that seat, and said, "My counsel is that this inscription be now covered up until the knight be come who shall achieve this great adventure." So they made a veil of silk and put it over the letters. In the meanwhile came Sir Gawain to the court and told the king he had a message to him from beyond the sea, from Merlin. "For," said he, "as I rode through the forest of Broceliande but five days since, I heard the voice of Merlin speaking to me from the midst of an oak-tree, whereat, in great amazement, I besought him to come forth. But he, with many groans, replied he never more might do so, for that none could free him, save the damsel of the Lake, who had enclosed him there by his own spells which he had taught her. 'But go,' said he, 'to King Arthur, and tell him, that he now prepare his knights and all his Table Round to seek the Sangreal, for the time is come when it shall be achieved.'" When Sir Gawain had spoken thus, King Arthur sat pensive in spirit, and mused deeply of the Holy Grale an what saintly knight should come who might achieve it. Anon he bade them hasten to set on the banquet. "Sir," said Sir Key, the seneschal, "if ye go now to meat ye will break the ancient custom of your court, for never have ye dined at this high feast till ye have seen some strange adventure." "Thou sayest truly," said the king, "but my mind was full of wonders and musings, till I bethought me not of mine old custom." As they stood speaking thus, a squire ran in and cried, "Lord, I bring thee marvellous tidings." "What be they?" said King Arthur. "Lord," said he, "hereby at the river is a marvellous great stone, which I myself saw swim down hitherwards upon the water, and in it there is set a sword, and ever the stone heaveth and swayeth on the water, but floateth down no further with the stream." "I will go and see it," said the king. So all the knights went with him, and when they came to the river, there surely found they a mighty stone of red marble floating on the water, as the squire had said, and therein stuck a fair and rich sword, on the pommel whereof were precious stones wrought skilfully with gold into these words: "No man shall take me hence but he by whose side I should hang, and he shall be the best knight in the world." When the king read this, he turned round to Sir Lancelot, and said, "Fair sir, this sword ought surely to be thine, for thou art the best knight in all the world." But Lancelot answered soberly, "Certainly, sir, it is not for me; nor will I have the hardihood to set my hand upon it. For he that toucheth it and faileth to achieve it shall one day be wounded by it mortally. But I doubt not, lord, this day will show the greatest marvels that we yet have seen, for now the time is fully come, as Merlin hath forewarned us, when all the prophecies about the Sangreal shall be fulfilled." Then stepped Sir Gawain forward and pulled at the sword, but could not move it, and after him Sir Percival, to keep him fellowship in any peril he might suffer. But no other knight durst be so hardy as to try. "Now may ye go to your dinner," said Sir Key, "for a marvellous adventure ye have had." So all returned from the river, and every knight sat down in his own place, and the high feast and banquet then was sumptuously begun, and all the hall was full of laughter and loud talk and jests, and running to and fro of squires who served their knights, and noise of jollity and mirth. Then suddenly befell a wondrous thing, for all the doors and windows of the hall shut violently of themselves, and made thick darkness; and presently there came a fair and gentle light from out the Perilous Seat, and filled the palace with its beams. Then a dead silence fell on all the knights, and each man anxiously beheld his neighbour. But King Arthur rose and said, "Lords and fair knights, have ye no fear, but rejoice; we have seen strange things to-day, but stranger yet remain. For now I know we shall to-day see him who may sit in the Siege Perilous, and shall achieve the Sangreal. For as ye all well know, that holy vessel, wherefrom at the Supper of our Lord before His death He drank the wine with His disciples, hath been held ever since the holiest treasure of the world, and wheresoever it hath rested peace and prosperity have rested with it on the land. But since the dolorous stroke which Balin gave King Pelles none have seen it, for Heaven, wroth with that presumptuous blow, hath hid it none know where. Yet somewhere in the world it still may be, and may be it is left to us, and to this noble order of the Table Round, to find and bring it home, and make of this our realm the happiest in the earth. Many great quests and perilous adventures have ye all taken and achieved, but this high quest he only shall attain who hath clean hands and a pure heart, and valour and hardihood beyond all othermen." While the king spoke there came in softly an old man robed all in white, leading with him a young knight clad in red from top to toe, but without armour or shield, and having by his side an empty scabbard. The old man went up to the king, and said, "Lord, here I bring thee this young knight of royal lineage, and of the blood of Joseph of Arimathea, by whom the marvels of thy court shall fully be accomplished." The king was right glad at his words, and said, "Sir, ye be right heartily welcome, and the young knight also." Then the old man put on Sir Galahad (for it was he) a crimson robe trimmed with fine ermine, and took him by the hand and led him to the Perilous Seat, and lifting up the silken cloth which hung upon it, read these words written in gold letters, "This is the seat of Sir Galahad, the good knight." "Sir," said the old man, "this place is thine." Then sat Sir Galahad down firmly and surely, and said to the old man, "Sir, ye may now go your way, for ye have done well and truly all ye were commanded, and commend me to my grandsire, King Pelles, and say that I shall see him soon." So the old man departed with a retinue of twenty noble squires. But all the knights of the Round Table marvelled at Sir Galahad, and at his tender age, and at his sitting there so surely in the Perilous Seat. Then the king led Sir Galahad forth from the palace, to show him the adventure of the floating stone. "Here" said he, "is as great a marvel as I ever saw, and right good knights have tried and failed to gain that sword." "I marvel not thereat," said Galahad, "for this adventure is not theirs, but mine; and for the certainty I had thereof, I brought no sword with me, as thou mayst see here by this empty scabbard." Anon he laid his hand upon the sword, and lightly drew it from the stone, and put it in his sheath, and said, "This sword was that enchanted one which erst belonged to the good knight, Sir Balin, wherewith he slew through piteous mistake his brother Balan; who also slew him at the same time: all which great woe befell him through the dolorous stroke he gave my grandsire, King Pelles, the wound whereof is not yet whole, nor shall be till I heal him." As he stood speaking thus, they saw a lady riding swiftly down the river's bank towards them, on a white palfrey; who, saluting the king and queen, said, "Lord king, Nacien the hermit sendeth thee word that to thee shall come to-day the greatest honour and worship that hath yet ever befallen a king of Britain; for this day shall the Sangreal appear in thy house." With that the damsel took her leave, and departed the same way she came. "Now," said the king, "I know that from to-day the quest of the Sangreal shall begin, and all ye of the Round Table will be scattered so that nevermore shall I see ye again together as ye are now; let me then see a joust and tournament amongst ye for the last time before ye go." So they all took their harness and met together in the meadows by Camelot, and the queen and all her ladies sat in a tower to see. Then Sir Galahad, at the prayer of the king and queen, put on a coat of light armour, and a helmet, but shield he would take none, and grasping a lance, he drove into the middle of the press of knights, and began to break spears marvellously, so that all men were full of wonder. And in so short a time he had surmounted and exceeded the rest, save Sir Lancelot and Sir Percival, that he took the chief worship of the field. Then the king and all the court and fellowship of knights went back to the palace, and so to evensong in the great minster, a royal and goodly company, and after that sat down to supper in the hall, every knight in his own seat, as they had been before. Anon suddenly burst overhead the cracking and crying of great peals of thunder, till the palace walls were shaken sorely, and they thought to see them riven all to pieces. And in the midst of the blast there entered in a sunbeam, clearer by seven times than ever they saw day, and a marvellous great glory fell upon them all. Then each knight, looking on his neighbour, found his face fairer than he had ever seen, and so--all standing on their feet--they gazed as dumb men on each other, not knowing what to say. Then entered into the hall the Sangreal, borne aloft without hands through the midst of the sunbeam, and covered with white samite, so that none might see it. And all the hall was filled with perfume and incense, and every knight was fed with the food he best loved. And when the holy vessel had been thus borne through the hall, it suddenly departed, no man saw whither. When they recovered breath to speak, King Arthur first rose up, and yielded thanks to God and to our Lord. Then Sir Gawain sprang up and said, "Now have we all been fed by miracle with whatsoever food we thought of or desired; but with our eyes we have not seen the blessed vessel whence it came, so carefully and preciously it was concealed. Therefore, I make a vow, that from to-morrow I shall labour twelve months and a day in quest of the Sangreal, and longer if need be; nor will I come again into this court until mine eyes have seen it evidently." When he had spoken thus, knight after knight rose up and vowed himself to the same quest, till the most part of the Round Table had thus sworn. But when King Arthur heard them all, he could not refrain his eyes from tears, and said, "Sir Gawain, Sir Gawain, thou hast set me in great sorrow, for I fear me my true fellowship shall never meet together here again; and surely never Christian king had such a company of worthy knights around his table at one time." And when the queen and her ladies and gentlewomen heard the vows, they had such grief and sorrow as no tongue could tell; and Queen Guinevere cried out, "I marvel that my lord will suffer them to depart from him." And many of the ladies who loved knights would have gone with them, but were forbidden by the hermit Nacien, who sent this message to all who had sworn themselves to the quest: "Take with ye no lady nor gentlewoman, for into so high a service as ye go in, no thought but of our Lord and heaven may enter." On the morrow morning all the knights rose early, and when they were fully armed, save shields and helms, they went in with the king and queen to service in the minster. Then the king counted all who had taken the adventure on themselves, and found them a hundred and fifty knights of the Round Table; and so they all put on their helms, and rode away together in the midst of cries and lamentations from the court, and from the ladies, and from all the town. But the queen went alone to her chamber, that no man might see her sorrow; and Sir Lancelot followed her to say farewell. When she saw him she cried out, "Oh, Sir Lancelot, thou hast betrayed me; thou hast put me to death thus to depart and leave my lord the king." "Ah, madam," said he, "be not displeased or angry, for I shall come again as soon as I can with honour." "Alas!" said she, "that ever I saw thee; but He that suffered death upon the cross for all mankind be to thee safety and good conduct, and to all thy company." Then Sir Lancelot saluted her and the king, and went forth with the rest, and came with them that night to Castle Vagon, where they abode, and on the morrow they departed from each other on their separate ways, every knight taking the way that pleased him best. Now Sir Galahad went forth without a shield, and rode so four days without adventure; and on the fourth day, after evensong, he came to an abbey of white monks, where he was received in the house, and led into a chamber. And there he was unarmed, and met two knights of the Round Table, King Bagdemagus, and Sir Uwaine. "Sirs," said Sir Galahad, "what adventure hath brought ye here?" "Within this place, as we are told," they answered, "there is a shield no man may bear around his neck without receiving sore mischance, or death within three days." "To-morrow," said King Bagdemagus, "I shall attempt the adventure; and if I fail, do thou, Sir Galahad, take it up after me." "I will willingly," said he; "for as ye see I have no shield as yet." So on the morrow they arose and heard mass, and afterwards King Bagdemagus asked where the shield was kept. Then a monk led him behind the altar, where the shield hung, as white as any snow, and with a blood-red cross in the midst of it. "Sir," said the monk, "this shield should hang from no knight's neck unless he be the worthiest in the world. I warn ye, therefore, knights; consider well before ye dare to touch it." "Well," said King Bagdemagus, "I know well that I am far from the best knight in all the world, yet shall I make the trial;" and so he took the shield, and bore it from the monastery. "If it please thee," said he to Sir Galahad, "abide here till thou hearest how I speed." "I will abide thee," said he. Then taking with him a squire who might return with any tidings to Sir Galahad, the king rode forth; and before he had gone two miles, he saw in a fair valley a hermitage, and a knight who came forth dressed in white armour, horse and all, who rode fast against him. When they encountered, Bagdemagus brake his spear upon the White Knight's shield, but was himself struck through the shoulder with a sore wound, and hurled down from his horse. Then the White Knight alighting, came and took the white shield from the king, and said, "Thou hast done great folly, for this shield ought never to be borne but by one who hath no living peer." And turning to the squire, he said, "Bear thou this shield to the good knight, Sir Galahad, and greet him well from me." "In whose name shall I greet him?" said the squire. "Take thou no heed of that," he answered; "it is not for thee or any earthly man to know." "Now tell me, fair sir, at the least," said the squire, "why may this shield be never borne except its wearer come to injury or death?" "Because it shall belong to no man save its rightful owner, Galahad," replied the knight. Then the squire went to his master, and found him wounded nigh to death, wherefore he fetched his horse, and bore him back with him to the abbey. And there they laid him in a bed, and looked to his wounds; and when he had lain many days grievously sick, he at the last barely escaped with his life. "Sir Galahad," said the squire, "the knight who overthrew King Bagdemagus sent you greeting, and bade you bear this shield." "Now blessed be God and fortune," said Sir Galahad, and hung the shield about his neck, and armed him, and rode forth. Anon he met the White Knight by the hermitage, and each saluted courteously the other. "Sir," said Sir Galahad, "this shield I bear hath surely a full marvellous history." "Thou sayest rightly," answered he. "That shield was made in the days of Joseph of Arimathea, the gentle knight who took our Lord down from the cross. He, when he left Jerusalem with his kindred, came to the country of King Evelake, who warred continually with one Tollome; and when, by the teaching of Joseph, King Evelake became a Christian, this shield was made for him in our Lord's name; and through its aid King Tollome was defeated. For when King Evelake met him next in battle, he hid it in a veil, and suddenly uncovering it, he showed his enemies the figure of a bleeding man nailed to a cross, at sight of which they were discomfited and fled. Presently after that, a man whose hand was smitten off touched the cross upon the shield, and had his hand restored to him; and many other miracles it worked. But suddenly the cross that was upon it vanished away. Anon both Joseph and King Evelake came to Britain, and by the preaching of Joseph the people were made Christians. And when at length he lay upon his death-bed, King Evelake begged of him some token ere he died. Then, calling for his shield, he dipped his finger in his own blood, for he was bleeding fast, and none could staunch the wound, and marked that cross upon it, saying, 'This cross shall ever show as bright as now, and the last of my lineage shall wear this shield about his neck, and go forth to all the marvellous deeds he will achieve.'" When the White Knight had thus spoken he vanished suddenly away, and Sir Galahad returned to the abbey. As he alighted, came a monk, and prayed him to go see a tomb in the churchyard, wherefrom came such a great and hideous noise, that none could hear it but they went nigh mad, or lost all strength. "And sir," said he, "I deem it is a fiend." "Lead me thither," said Sir Galahad. When they were come near the place, "Now," said the monk, "go thou to the tomb, and lift it up." And Galahad, nothing afraid, quickly lifted up the stone, and forthwith came out a foul smoke, and from the midst thereof leaped up the loathliest figure that ever he had seen in the likeness of man; and Galahad blessed himself, for he knew it was a fiend of hell. Then he heard a voice crying out, "Oh, Galahad, I cannot tear thee as I would; I see so many angels round thee, that I may not come at thee." [Illustration: Galahad ... quickly lifted up the stone, and forthwith came out a foul smoke.] Then the fiend suddenly disappeared with a marvellous great cry; and Sir Galahad, looking in the tomb, saw there a body all armed, with a sword beside it. "Now, fair brother," said he to the monk, "let us remove this cursed body, which is not fit to lie in a churchyard, for when it lived, a false and perjured Christian man dwelt in it. Cast it away, and there shall come no more hideous noises from the tomb." "And now must I depart," he added, "for I have much in hand, and am upon the holy quest of the Sangreal, with many more good knights." So he took his leave, and rode many journeys backwards and forwards as adventure would lead him; and at last one day he departed from a castle without first hearing mass, which was it ever his custom to hear before he left his lodging. Anon he found a ruined chapel on a mountain, and went in and kneeled before the altar, and prayed for wholesome counsel what to do; and as he prayed he heard a voice, which said, "Depart, adventurous knight, unto the Maiden's Castle, and redress the violence and wrongs there done!" Hearing these words he cheerfully arose, and mounted his horse, and rode but half a mile, when he saw before him a strong castle, with deep ditches round it, and a fair river running past. And seeing an old churl hard by, he asked him what men called that castle. "Fair sir," said he, "it is the Maiden's Castle." "It is a cursed place," said Galahad, "and all its masters are but felons, full of mischief and hardness and shame." "For that good reason," said the old man, "thou wert well-advised to turn thee back." "For that same reason," quoth Sir Galahad, "will I the more certainly ride on." Then, looking at his armour carefully, to see that nothing failed him, he went forward, and presently there met him seven damsels, who cried out, "Sir knight, thou ridest in great peril, for thou hast two waters to pass over." "Why should I not pass over them?" said he, and rode straight on. Anon he met a squire, who said, "Sir knight, the masters of this castle defy thee, and bid thee go no further, till thou showest them thy business here." "Fair fellow," said Sir Galahad, "I am come here to destroy their wicked customs." "If that be thy purpose," answered he, "thou wilt have much to do." "Go thou," said Galahad, "and hasten with my message." In a few minutes after rode forth furiously from the gateways of the castle seven knights, all brothers, and crying out, "Knight, keep thee," bore down all at once upon Sir Galahad. But thrusting forth his spear, he smote the foremost to the earth, so that his neck was almost broken, and warded with his shield the spears of all the others, which every one brake off from it, and shivered into pieces. Then he drew out his sword, and set upon them hard and fiercely, and by his wondrous force drave them before him, and chased them to the castle gate, and there he slew them. At that came out to him an ancient man, in priest's vestments, saying, "Behold, sir, here, the keys of this castle." Then he unlocked the gates, and found within a multitude of people, who cried out, "Sir knight, ye be welcome, for long have we waited thy deliverance," and told him that the seven felons he had slain had long enslaved the people round about, and killed all knights who passed that way, because the maiden whom they had robbed of the castle had foretold that by one knight they should themselves be overthrown. "Where is the maiden?" asked Sir Galahad. "She lingereth below in a dungeon," said they. So Sir Galahad went down and released her, and restored her her inheritance; and when he had summoned the barons of the country to do her homage, he took his leave, and departed. Presently thereafter, as he rode, he entered a great forest, and in a glade thereof met two knights, disguised, who proffered him to joust. These were Sir Lancelot, his father, and Sir Percival, but neither knew the other. So he and Sir Lancelot encountered first, and Sir Galahad smote down his father. Then drawing his sword, for his spear was broken, he fought with Sir Percival, and struck so mightily that he clave Sir Percival's helm, and smote him from his horse. Now hard by where they fought there was a hermitage, where dwelt a pious woman, a recluse, who, when she heard the sound, came forth, and seeing Sir Galahad ride, she cried, "God be with thee, the best knight in the world; had yonder knights known thee as well as I do, they would not have encountered with thee." When Sir Galahad heard that, fearing to be made known, he forthwith smote his horse with his spurs, and departed at a great pace. Sir Lancelot and Sir Percival heard her words also, and rode fast after him, but within awhile he was out of their sight. Then Sir Percival rode back to ask his name of the recluse; but Sir Lancelot went forward on his quest, and following any path his horse would take, he came by-and-by after nightfall to a stone cross hard by an ancient chapel. When he had alighted and tied his horse up to a tree, he went and looked in through the chapel door, which was all ruinous and wasted, and there within he saw an altar, richly decked with silk, whereon there stood a fair candlestick of silver, bearing six great lights. And when Sir Lancelot saw the light, he tried to get within the chapel, but could find no place. So, being passing weary and heavy, he came again to his horse, and when he had unsaddled him, and set him free to pasture, he unlaced his helm, and ungirded his sword, and laid him down to sleep upon his shield before the cross. And while he lay between waking and sleeping, he saw come by him two white palfreys bearing a litter, wherein a sick knight lay, and the palfreys stood still by the cross. Then Sir Lancelot heard the sick man say, "O sweet Lord, when shall this sorrow leave me, and the holy vessel pass by me, wherethrough I shall be blessed? for I have long endured." With that Sir Lancelot saw the chapel open, and the candlestick with the six tapers come before the cross, but he could see none who bare it. Then came there also a table of silver, and thereon the holy vessel of the Sangreal. And when the sick knight saw that, he sat up, and lifting both his hands, said, "Fair Lord, sweet Lord, who art here within this holy vessel, have mercy on me, that I may be whole;" and therewith he crept upon his hands and knees so nigh, that he might touch the vessel; and when he had kissed it, he leaped up, and stood and cried aloud, "Lord God, I thank Thee, for I am made whole." Then the Holy Grale departed with the table and the silver candlestick into the chapel, so that Sir Lancelot saw it no more, nor for his sins' sake could he follow it. And the knight who was healed went on his way. Then Sir Lancelot awake, and marvelled whether he had seen aught but a dream. And as he marvelled, he heard a voice saying, "Sir Lancelot, thou are unworthy, go thou hence, and withdraw thee from this holy place." And when he heard that, he was passing heavy, for he bethought him of his sins. So he departed weeping, and cursed the day of his birth, for the words went into his heart, and he knew wherefore he was thus driven forth. Then he went to seek his arms and horse, but could not find them; and then he called himself the wretchedest and most unhappy of all knights, and said, "My sin hath brought me unto great dishonour: for when I sought earthly honours, I achieved them ever; but now I take upon me holy things, my guilt doth hinder me, and shameth me; therefore had I no power to stir or speak when the holy blood appeared before me." So thus he sorrowed till it was day, and he heard the birds sing; then was he somewhat comforted, and departing from the cross on foot, he came into a wild forest, and to a high mountain, and there he found a hermitage; and, kneeling before the hermit down upon both his knees, he cried for mercy for his wicked works, and prayed him to hear his confession. But when he told his name, the hermit marvelled to see him in so sore a case, and said, "Sir, ye ought to thank God more than any knight living, for He hath given thee more honour than any; yet for thy presumption, while in deadly sin to come into the presence of His flesh and blood, He suffered thee neither to see nor follow it. Wherefore, believe that all thy strength and manhood will avail thee little, when God is against thee." Then Sir Lancelot wept and said, "Now know I well ye tell me truth." Then he confessed to him, and told him all his sins, and how he had for fourteen years served but Queen Guinevere only, and forgotten God, and done great deeds of arms for her, and not for Heaven, and had little or nothing thanked God for the honour that he won. And then Sir Lancelot said, "I pray you counsel me." "I will counsel thee," said he: "never more enter into that queen's company when ye can avoid it." So Sir Lancelot promised him. "Look that your heart and your mouth accord," said the good man, "and ye shall have more honour and more nobleness than ever ye have had." Then were his arms and horse restored to him, and so he took his leave, and rode forth, repenting greatly. Now Sir Percival had ridden back to the recluse, to learn who that knight was whom she had called the best in the world. And when he had told her that he was Sir Percival, she made passing great joy of him, for she was his mother's sister, wherefore she opened her door to him, and made him good cheer. And on the morrow she told him of her kindred to him, and they both made great rejoicing. Then he asked her who that knight was, and she told him, "He it is who on Whit Sunday last was clad in the red robe, and bare the red arms; and he hath no peer, for he worketh all by miracle, and shall be never overcome by any earthly hands." "By my goodwill," said Sir Percival, "I will never after these tidings have to do with Sir Galahad but in the way of kindness; and I would fain learn where I may find him." "Fair nephew," said she, "ye must ride to the Castle of Goth, where he hath a cousin; by him ye may be lodged, and he will teach you the way to go; but if he can tell you no tidings, ride straight to the Castle of Carbonek, where the wounded king is lying, for there shall ye surely hear true tidings of him." So Sir Percival departed from his aunt, and rode till evensong time, when he was ware of a monastery closed round with walls and deep ditches, where he knocked at the gate, and anon was let in. And there he had good cheer that night, and on the morrow heard mass. And beside the altar where the priest stood, was a rich bed of silk and cloth of gold; and on the bed there lay a man passing old, having a crown of gold upon his head, and all his body was full of great wounds, and his eyes almost wholly blind; and ever he held up his hands and said, "Sweet Lord, forget not me!" Then Sir Percival asked one of the brethren who he was. "Sir," said the good man, "ye have heard of Joseph of Arimathea, how he was sent of Jesus Christ into this land to preach and teach the Christian faith. Now, in the city of Sarras he converted a king named Evelake, and this is he. He came with Joseph to this land, and ever desired greatly to see the Sangreal; so on a time he came nigh thereto, and was struck almost blind. Then he cried out for mercy, and said, 'Fair Lord, I pray thee let me never die until a good knight of my blood achieve the Sangreal, and I may see and kiss him.' When he had thus prayed, he heard a voice that said, 'Thy prayers be heard and answered, for thou shalt not die till that knight kiss thee; and when he cometh shall thine eyes be opened and thy wounds be healed.' And now hath he lived here for three hundred winters in a holy life, and men say a certain knight of King Arthur's court shall shortly heal him." Thereat Sir Percival marvelled greatly, for he well knew who that knight should be; and so, taking his leave of the monk, departed. Then he rode on till noon, and came into a valley where he met twenty men-at-arms bearing a dead knight on a bier. And they cried to him, "Whence comest thou?" "From King Arthur's court," he answered. Then they all cried together, "Slay him," and set upon him. But he smote down the first man to the ground, and his horse upon him; whereat seven of them all at once assailed him, and others slew his horse. Thus he had been either taken or slain, but by good chance Sir Galahad was passing by that way, who, seeing twenty men attacking one, cried, "Slay him not," and rushed upon them; and, as fast as his horse could drive, he encountered with the foremost man, and smote him down. Then, his spear being broken, he drew forth his sword and struck out on the right hand and on the left, at each blow smiting down a man, till the remainder fled, and he pursued them. Then Sir Percival, knowing that it was Sir Galahad, would fain have overtaken him, but could not, for his horse was slain. Yet followed he on foot as fast as he could go; and as he went there met him a yeoman riding on a palfrey, and leading in his hand a great black steed. So Sir Percival prayed him to lend him the steed, that he might overtake Sir Galahad. But he replied, "That can I not do, fair sir, for the horse is my master's, and should I lend it he would slay me." So he departed, and Sir Percival sat down beneath a tree in heaviness of heart. And as he sat, anon a knight went riding past on the black steed which the yeoman had led. And presently after came the yeoman back in haste, and asked Sir Percival if he had seen a knight riding his horse. "Yea," said Sir Percival. "Alas," said the yeoman, "he hath reft him from me by strength, and my master will slay me." Then he besought Sir Percival to take his hackney and follow, and get back his steed. So he rode quickly, and overtook the knight, and cried, "Knight, turn again." Whereat he turned and set his spear, and smote Sir Percival's hackney in the breast, so that it fell dead, and then went on his way. Then cried Sir Percival after him, "Turn now, false knight, and fight with me on foot;" but he would not, and rode out of sight. Then was Sir Percival passing wroth and heavy of heart, and lay down to rest beneath a tree, and slept till midnight. When he awoke he saw a woman standing by him, who said to him right fiercely, "Sir Percival, what doest thou here?" "I do neither good nor evil," said he. "If thou wilt promise me," said she, "to do my will whenever I shall ask thee, I will bring thee here a horse that will bear thee wheresoever thou desirest." At that he was full glad, and promised as she asked. Then anon she came again, with a great black steed, strong and well apparelled. So Sir Percival mounted, and rode through the clear moonlight, and within less than an hour had gone a four days' journey, till he came to a rough water that roared; and his horse would have borne him into it, but Sir Percival would not suffer him, yet could he scarce restrain him. And seeing the water so furious, he made the sign of the cross upon his forehead, whereat the horse suddenly shook him off, and with a terrible sound leaped into the water and disappeared, the waves all burning up in flames around him. Then Sir Percival knew it was a fiend which had brought him the horse; so he commended himself to God, and prayed that he might escape temptations, and continued in prayer till it was day. Then he saw that he was on a wild mountain, nigh surrounded on all sides by the sea, and filled with wild beasts; and going on into a valley, he saw a serpent carrying a young lion by the neck. With that came another lion, crying and roaring after the serpent, and anon overtook him, and began to battle with him. And Sir Percival helped the lion, and drew his sword, and gave the serpent such a stroke that it fell dead. Thereat the lion fawned upon him like a dog, licking his hands, and crouching at his feet, and at night lay down by him and slept at his side. And at noon the next day Sir Percival saw a ship come sailing before a strong wind upon the sea towards him, and he rose and went towards it. And when it came to shore, he found it covered with white samite, and on the deck there stood an old man dressed in priest's robes, who said, "God be with you, fair sir; whence come ye?" "I am a knight of King Arthur's court," said he, "and follow the quest of the Sangreal; but here have I lost myself in this wilderness." "Fear nothing," said the old man, "for I have come from a strange country to comfort thee." Then he told Sir Percival it was a fiend of hell upon which he had ridden to the sea, and that the lion, whom he had delivered from the serpent, meant the Church. And Sir Percival rejoiced at these tidings, and entered into the ship, which presently sailed from the shore into the sea. Now when Sir Bors rode forth from Camelot to seek the Sangreal, anon he met a holy man riding on an ass, and courteously saluted him. "Who are ye, son?" said the good man. "I am a knight," said he, "in quest of the Sangreal, and would fain have thy counsel, for he shall have much earthly honour who may bring it to a favourable end." "That is truth," said the good man, "for he shall be the best knight of the world; yet know that none shall gain it save by sinless living." So they rode to his hermitage together, and there he prayed Sir Bors to abide that night, and anon they went into the chapel, and Sir Bors was confessed. And they eat bread and drank water together. "Now," said the hermit, "I pray thee eat no other food till thou sit at the table where the Sangreal shall be." Thereto Sir Bors agreed. "Also," said the hermit, "it were wise that ye should wear a sackcloth garment next your skin, for penance;" and in this also did Sir Bors as he was counselled. And afterwards he armed himself and took his leave. Then rode he onwards all that day, and as he rode he saw a passing great bird sit in an old dry tree, whereon no leaves were left; and many little birds lay round the great one, nigh dead with hunger. Then did the big bird smite himself with his own bill, and bled till he died amongst his little ones, and they recovered life in drinking up his blood. When Sir Bors saw this he knew it was a token, and rode on full of thought. And about eventide he came to a tower, whereto he prayed admission, and he was received gladly by the lady of the castle. But when a supper of many meats and dainties was set before him, he remembered his vow, and bade a squire to bring him water, and therein he dipped his bread, and ate. Then said the lady, "Sir Bors, I fear ye like not my meat." "Yea, truly," said he; "God thank thee, madam; but I may eat no other meat this day." After supper came a squire, and said, "Madam, bethink thee to provide a champion for thee to-morrow for the tourney, or else shall thy sister have thy castle." At that the lady wept, and made great sorrow. But Sir Bors prayed her to be comforted, and asked her why the tournament was held. Then she told him how she and her sister were the daughters of King Anianse, who left them all his lands between them; and how her sister was the wife of a strong knight, named Sir Pridan le Noir, who had taken from herself all her lands, save the one tower wherein she dwelt. "And now," said she, "this also will they take, unless I find a champion by to-morrow." Then said Sir Bors, "Be comforted; to-morrow I will fight for thee;" whereat she rejoiced not a little, and sent word to Sir Pridan that she was provided and ready. And Sir Bors lay on the floor, and in no bed, nor ever would do otherwise till he had achieved his quest. On the morrow he arose and clothed himself, and went into the chapel, where the lady met him, and they heard mass together. Anon he called for his armour, and went with a goodly company of knights to the battle. And the lady prayed him to refresh himself ere he should fight, but he refused to break his fast until the tournament were done. So they all rode together to the lists, and there they saw the lady's eldest sister, and her husband, Sir Pridan le Noir. And a cry was made by the heralds that, whichever should win, his lady should have all the other's lands. Then the two knights departed asunder a little space, and came together with such force, that both their spears were shivered, and their shields and hauberks pierced through; and both fell to the ground sorely wounded, with their horses under them. But swiftly they arose, and drew their swords, and smote each other on the head with many great and heavy blows, till the blood ran down their bodies; and Sir Pridan was a full good knight, so that Sir Bors had more ado than he had thought for to overcome him. But at last Sir Pridan grew a little faint; that instantly perceived Sir Bors, and rushed upon him the more vehemently, and smote him fiercely, till he rent off his helm, and then gave him great strokes upon his visage with the flat of his sword, and bade him yield or be slain. And then Sir Pridan cried him mercy, and said, "For God's sake slay me not, and I will never war against thy lady more." So Sir Bors let him go, and his wife fled away with all her knights. Then all those who had held lands of the lady of the tower came and did homage to her again, and swore fealty. And when the country was at peace Sir Bors departed, and rode forth into a forest until it was midday, and there befell him a marvellous adventure. For at a place where two ways parted, there met him two knights, bearing Sir Lionel, his brother, all naked, bound on a horse, and as they rode, they beat him sorely with thorns, so that the blood trailed down in more than a hundred places from his body; but for all this he uttered no word or groan, so great he was of heart. As soon as Sir Bors knew his brother, he put his spear in rest to run and rescue him; but in the same moment heard a woman's voice cry close beside him in the wood, "St. Mary, succour thy maid;" and, looking round, he saw a damsel whom a felon knight dragged after him into the thickets; and she, perceiving him, cried piteously for help, and adjured him to deliver her as he was a sworn knight. Then was Sir Bors sore troubled, and knew not what to do, for he thought within himself, "If I let my brother be, he will be murdered; but if I help not the maid, she is shamed for ever, and my vow compelleth me to set her free; wherefore must I first help her, and trust my brother unto God." So, riding to the knight who held the damsel, he cried out, "Sir knight, lay your hand off that maid, or else ye be but dead." At that the knight set down the maid, and dropped his shield, and drew forth his sword against Sir Bors, who ran at him, and smote him through both shield and shoulder, and threw him to the earth; and when he pulled his spear forth, the knight swooned. Then the maid thanked Sir Bors heartily, and he set her on the knight's horse, and brought her to her men-at-arms, who presently came riding after her. And they made much joy, and besought him to come to her father, a great lord, and he should be right welcome. But "truly," said he, "I may not at this time, for I have a great adventure yet to do;" and commending them to God, he departed in great haste to find his brother. So he rode, seeking him by the track of the horses a great while. Anon he met a seeming holy man riding upon a strong black horse, and asked him, had he seen pass by that way a knight led bound and beaten with thorns by two others. "Yea, truly, such an one I saw," said the man; "but he is dead, and lo! his body is hard by in a bush." Then he showed him a newly slain body lying in a thick bush, which seemed indeed to be Sir Lionel. Then made Sir Bors such mourning and sorrow that by-and-by he fell into a swoon upon the ground. And when he came to himself again, he took the body in his arms and put it on his horse's saddle, and bore it to a chapel hard by, and would have buried it. But when he made the sign of the cross, he heard a full great noise and cry as though all the fiends of hell had been about him, and suddenly the body and the chapel and the old man vanished all away. Then he knew that it was the devil who had thus beguiled him, and that his brother yet lived. Then held he up his hands to heaven, and thanked God for his own escape from hurt, and rode onwards; and anon, as he passed by an hermitage in a forest, he saw his brother sitting armed by the door. And when he saw him he was filled with joy, and lighted from his horse, and ran to him and said, "Fair brother, when came ye hither?" But Sir Lionel answered, with an angry face, "What vain words be these, when for you I might have been slain? Did ye not see me bound and led away to death, and left me in that peril to go succouring a gentlewoman, the like whereof no brother ever yet hath done? Now, for thy false misdeed, I do defy thee, and ensure thee speedy death." Then Sir Bors prayed his brother to abate his anger, and said, "Fair brother, remember the love that should be between us twain." But Sir Lionel would not hear, and prepared to fight and mounted his horse and came before him, crying, "Sir Bors, keep thee from me, for I shall do to thee as a felon and a traitor; therefore, start upon thy horse, for if thou wilt not, I will run upon thee as thou standest." But for all his words Sir Bors would not defend himself against his brother. And anon the fiend stirred up Sir Lionel to such rage, that he rushed over him and overthrew him with his horse's hoofs, so that he lay swooning on the ground. Then would he have rent off his helm and slain him, but the hermit of that place ran out, and prayed him to forbear, and shielded Sir Bors with his body. Then Sir Lionel cried out, "Now, God so help me, sir priest, but I shall slay thee else thou depart, and him too after thee." And when the good man utterly refused to leave Sir Bors, he smote him on the head until he died, and then he took his brother by the helm and unlaced it, to have stricken off his head, and so he would have done, but suddenly was pulled off backwards by a knight of the Round Table, who, by the will of Heaven, was passing by that place--Sir Colgrevance by name. "Sir Lionel," he cried, "will ye slay your brother, one of the best knights of all the world? That ought no man to suffer." "Why," said Sir Lionel, "will ye hinder me and meddle in this strife? beware, lest I shall slay both thee and him." And when Sir Colgrevance refused to let them be, Sir Lionel defied him, and gave him a great stroke through the helmet, whereat Sir Colgrevance drew his sword, and smote again right manfully. And so long they fought together that Sir Bors awoke from his swoon, and tried to rise and part them, but had no strength to stand upon his feet. Anon Sir Colgrevance saw him, and cried out to him for help, for now Sir Lionel had nigh defeated him. When Sir Bors heard that, he struggled to his feet, and put his helmet on, and took his sword. But before he could come to him, Sir Lionel had smitten off Sir Colgrevance's helm, and thrown him to the earth and slain him. Then turned he to his brother as a man possessed by fiends, and gave him such a stroke as bent him nearly double. But still Sir Bors prayed him for God's sake to quit that battle, "For if it befell us that we either slew the other we should die for care of that sin." "Never will I spare thee if I master thee," cried out Sir Lionel. Then Sir Bors drew his sword all weeping, and said, "Now, God have mercy on me, though I defend my life against my brother;" with that he lifted up his sword to strike, but suddenly he heard a mighty voice, "Put up thy sword, Sir Bors, and flee, or thou shalt surely slay him." And then there fell upon them both a fiery cloud, which flamed and burned their shields, and they fell to the earth in sore dread. Anon Sir Bors rose to his feet, and saw that Sir Lionel had taken no harm. Then came the voice again, and said, "Sir Bors, go hence and leave thy brother, and ride thou forward to the sea, for there Sir Percival abideth thee." Then he said to his brother, "Brother, forgive me all my trespass against thee." And Sir Lionel answered, "God forgive it thee, as I do." Then he departed and rode to the sea, and on the strand he found a ship all covered with white samite, and as soon as he had entered thereinto, it put forth from the shore. And in the midst of the ship there stood an armed knight, whom he knew to be Sir Percival. Then they rejoiced greatly over each other, and said, "We lack nothing now but the good knight Sir Galahad." Now when Sir Galahad had rescued Sir Percival from the twenty knights he rode into a vast forest. And after many days it befell that he came to a castle whereat was a tournament. And the knights of the castle were put to the worse; which when he saw, he set his spear in rest and ran to help them, and smote down many of their adversaries. And as it chanced, Sir Gawain was amongst the stranger knights, and when he saw the white shield with the red cross, he knew it was Sir Galahad, and proffered to joust with him. So they encountered, and having broken their spears, they drew their swords, and Sir Galahad smote Sir Gawain so sorely on the helm that he clove it through, and struck on slanting to the earth, carving the horse's shoulder in twain, and Sir Gawain fell to the earth. Then Sir Galahad beat back all who warred against the castle, yet would he not wait for thanks, but rode away that no man might know him. And he rested that night at a hermitage, and when he was asleep, he heard a knocking at the door. So he rose, and found a damsel there, who said, "Sir Galahad, I will that ye arm you, and mount upon your horse and follow me, for I will show you within these three days the highest adventure that ever any knight saw." Anon Sir Galahad armed him, and took his horse, and commended himself to God, and bade the gentlewoman go, and he would follow where she liked. So they rode onwards to the sea as fast as their horses might gallop, and at night they came to a castle in a valley, inclosed by running water, and by strong and high walls, whereinto they entered and had great cheer, for the lady of the castle was the damsel's mistress. And when he was unarmed, the damsel said to her lady, "Madam, shall we abide here this night?" "Nay," said she, "but only till he hath dined and slept a little." So he ate and slept a while, till the maid called him, and armed him by torchlight; and when he had saluted the lady of the castle, the damsel and Sir Galahad rode on. Anon they came to the seaside, and lo! the ship, wherein were Sir Percival and Sir Bors, abode by the shore. Then they cried, "Welcome, Sir Galahad, for we have awaited thee long." Then they rejoiced to see each other, and told of all their adventures and temptations. And the damsel went into the ship with them, and spake to Sir Percival: "Sir Percival, know ye not who I am?" And he replied, "Nay, certainly, I know thee not." Then said she, "I am thy sister, the daughter of King Pellinore, and am sent to help thee and these knights, thy fellows, to achieve the quest which ye all follow." So Sir Percival rejoiced to see his sister, and they departed from the shore. And after a while they came upon a whirlpool, where their ship could not live. Then saw they another greater ship hard by and went towards it, but saw neither man nor woman therein. And on the end of it these words were written, "Thou who shalt enter me, beware that thou be in steadfast belief, for I am Faith; and if thou doubtest, I cannot help thee." Then were they all adread, but, commending themselves to God, they entered in. As soon as they were on board they saw a fair bed; whereon lay a crown of silk, and at the foot was a fair and rich sword drawn from its scabbard half a foot and more. The pommel was of precious stones of many colours, every colour having a different virtue, and the scales of the haft were of two ribs of different beasts. The one was bone of a serpent from Calidone forest, named the serpent of the fiend; and its virtue saveth all men who hold it from weariness. The other was of a fish that haunteth the floods of Euphrates, named Ertanax; and its virtue causeth whoever holdeth it to forget all other things, whether of joy or pain, save the thing he seeth before him. "In the name of God," said Sir Percival, "I shall assay to handle this sword; "and set his hand to it, but could not grasp it. "By my faith," said he, "now have I failed." Sir Bors set his hand to it, and failed also. Then came Sir Galahad, and saw these letters written red as blood, "None shall draw me forth save the hardiest of all men; but he that draweth me shall never be shamed or wounded to death." "By my faith," said Sir Galahad, "I would draw it forth, but dare not try." "Ye may try safely," said the gentlewoman, Sir Percival's sister, "for be ye well assured the drawing of this sword is forbid to all but you. For this was the sword of David, King of Israel, and Solomon his son made for it this marvellous pommel and this wondrous sheath, and laid it on this bed till thou shouldest come and take it up; and though before thee some have dared to raise it, yet have they all been maimed or wounded for their daring." "Where," said Sir Galahad, "shall we find a girdle for it?" "Fair sir," said she, "dismay you not;" and therewith took from out a box a girdle, nobly wrought with golden thread, set full of precious stones and with a rich gold buckle. "This girdle, lords," said she, "is made for the most part of mine own hair, which, while I was yet in the world, I loved full well; but when I knew that this adventure was ordained me, I cut off and wove as ye now see." [Illustration: "This girdle, lords," said she, "is made for the most part of mine own hair, which, while I was yet in the world, I loved full well."] Then they all prayed Sir Galahad to take the sword, and so anon he gripped it in his fingers; and the maiden girt it round his waist, saying, "Now reck I not though I die, for I have made thee the worthiest knight of all the world." "Fair damsel," said Sir Galahad, "ye have done so much that I shall be your knight all the days of my life." Then the ship sailed a great way on the sea, and brought them to land near the Castle of Carteloise. When they were landed came a squire and asked them, "Be ye of King Arthur's court?" "We are," said they. "In an evil hour are ye come," said he, and went back swiftly to the castle. Within a while they heard a great horn blow, and saw a multitude of well-armed knights come forth, who bade them yield or die. At that they ran together, and Sir Percival smote one to the earth and mounted his horse, and so likewise did Sir Bors and Sir Galahad, and soon had they routed all their enemies and alighted on foot, and with their swords slew them downright, and entered into the castle. Then came there forth a priest, to whom Sir Galahad kneeled and said, "In sooth, good father, I repent me of this slaughter; but we were first assailed, or else it had not been." "Repent ye not," said the good man, "for if ye lived as long as the world lasted ye could do no better deed, for these were all the felon sons of a good knight, Earl Hernox, whom they have thrown into a dungeon, and in his name have slain priests and clerks, and beat down chapels far and near." Then Sir Galahad prayed the priest to bring him to the earl; who, when he saw Sir Galahad, cried out, "Long have I waited for thy coming, and now I pray thee hold me in thine arms that I may die in peace." And therewith, when Sir Galahad had taken him in his arms, his soul departed from his body. Then came a voice in the hearing of them all, "Depart now, Sir Galahad, and go quickly to the maimed king, for he hath long abided to receive health from thy hand." So the three knights departed, and Sir Percival's sister with them, and came to a vast forest, and saw before them a white hart, exceeding fair, led by four lions; and marvelling greatly at that sight, they followed. Anon they came to a hermitage and a chapel, whereunto the hart entered, and the lions with it. Then a priest offered mass, and presently they saw the hart change into the figure of a man, most sweet and comely to behold; and the four lions also changed and became a man, an eagle, a lion, and an ox. And suddenly all those five figures vanished without sound. Then the knights marvelled greatly, and fell upon their knees, and when they rose they prayed the priest to tell them what that sight might mean. "What saw ye, sirs?" said he, "for I saw nothing." Then they told him. "Ah, lords!" said he, "ye are full welcome; now know I well ye be the knights who shall achieve the Sangreal, for unto them alone such mysteries are revealed. The hart ye saw is One above all men, white and without blemish, and the four lions with Him are the four evangelists." When they heard that they heartily rejoiced, and thanking the priest, departed. Anon, as they passed by a certain castle, an armed knight suddenly came after them, and cried out to the damsel, "By the holy cross, ye shall not go till ye have yielded to the custom of the castle." "Let her go," said Sir Percival, "for a maiden, wheresoever she cometh, is free." "Whatever maiden passeth here," replied the knight, "must give a dishful of her blood from her right arm." "It is a foul and shameful custom," cried Sir Galahad and both his fellows, "and sooner will we die than let this maiden yield thereto." "Then shall ye die," replied the knight, and as he spake there came out from a gate hard by, ten or twelve more, and encountered with them, running upon them vehemently with a great cry. But the three knights withstood them, and set their hands to their swords, and beat them down and slew them. At that came forth a company of threescore knights, all armed. "Fair lords," said Sir Galahad, "have mercy on yourselves and keep from us." "Nay, fair lords," they answered, "rather be advised by us, and yield ye to our custom." "It is an idle word," said Galahad, "in vain ye speak it." "Well," said they, "will ye die?" "We be not come thereto as yet," replied Sir Galahad. Then did they fall upon each other, and Sir Galahad drew forth his sword, and smote on the right hand and on the left, and slew so mightily that all who saw him thought he was a monster and no earthly man. And both his comrades helped him well, and so they held the field against that multitude till it was night. Then came a good knight forward from the enemy and said, "Fair knights, abide with us to-night and be right welcome; by the faith of our bodies as we are true knights, to-morrow ye shall rise unharmed, and meanwhile maybe ye will, of your own accord, accept the custom of the castle when ye know it better." So they entered and alighted and made great cheer. Anon, they asked them whence that custom came. "The lady of this castle is a leper," said they, "and can be no way cured save by the blood of a pure virgin and a king's daughter; therefore to save her life are we her servants bound to stay every maid that passeth by, and try if her blood may not cure our mistress." Then said the damsel, "Take ye of my blood as much as ye will, if it may avail your lady." And though the three knights urged her not to put her life in that great peril, she replied, "If I die to heal another's body, I shall get health to my soul," and would not be persuaded to refuse. So on the morrow she was brought to the sick lady, and her arm was bared, and a vein thereof was opened, and the dish filled with her blood. Then the sick lady was anointed therewith, and anon she was whole of her malady. With that Sir Percival's sister lifted up her hand and blessed her, saying, "Madam, I am come to my death to make you whole; for God's love pray for me;" and thus saying she fell down in a swoon. Then Sir Galahad, Sir Percival, and Sir Bors started to lift her up and staunch her blood, but she had lost too much to live. So when she came to herself she said to Sir Percival, "Fair brother, I must die for the healing of this lady, and now, I pray thee, bury me not here, but when I am dead put me in a boat at the next haven and let me float at venture on the sea. And when ye come to the city of Sarras, to achieve the Sangreal, shall ye find me waiting by a tower, and there I pray thee bury me, for there shall Sir Galahad and ye also be laid." Thus having said, she died. Then Sir Percival wrote all the story of her life and put it in her right hand, and so laid her in a barge and covered it with silk. And the wind arising drove the barge from land, and all the knights stood watching it till it was out of sight. Anon they returned to the castle, and forthwith fell a sudden tempest of thunder and lightning and rain, as if the earth were broken up: and half the castle was thrown down. Then came a voice to the three knights which said, "Depart ye now asunder till ye meet again where the maimed king is lying." So they parted and rode divers ways. Now after Sir Lancelot had left the hermit, he rode a long while till he knew not whither to turn, and so he lay down to sleep, if haply he might dream whither to go. And in his sleep a vision came to him saying, "Lancelot, rise up and take thine armour, and enter the first ship that thou shalt find." When he awoke he obeyed the vision, and rode till he came to the sea-shore, and found there a ship without sails or oars, and as soon as he was in it he smelt the sweetest savour he had ever known, and seemed filled with all things he could think of or desire. And looking round he saw a fair bed, and thereon a gentlewoman lying dead, who was Sir Percival's sister. And as Sir Lancelot looked on her he spied the writing in her right hand, and, taking it, he read therein her story. And more than a month thereafter he abode in that ship and was nourished by the grace of Heaven, as Israel was fed with manna in the desert. And on a certain night he went ashore to pass the time, for he was somewhat weary, and, listening, he heard a horse come towards him, from which a knight alighted and went up into the ship; who, when he saw Sir Lancelot, said, "Fair sir, ye be right welcome to mine eyes, for I am thy son Galahad, and long time I have sought for thee." With that he kneeled and asked his blessing, and took off his helm and kissed him, and the great joy there was between them no tongue can tell. Then for half a year they dwelt together in the ship, and served God night and day with all their powers, and went to many unknown islands, where none but wild beasts haunted, and there found many strange and perilous adventures. And upon a time they came to the edge of a forest, before a cross of stone, and saw a knight armed all in white, leading a white horse. Then the knight saluted them, and said to Galahad, "Ye have been long time enough with your father; now, therefore, leave him and ride this horse till ye achieve the Holy Quest." Then went Sir Galahad to his father and kissed him full courteously, and said, "Fair father, I know not when I shall see thee again." And as he took his horse a voice spake in their hearing, "Ye shall meet no more in this life." "Now, my son, Sir Galahad," said Sir Lancelot, "since we must so part and see each other never more, I pray the High Father of Heaven to preserve both you and me." Then they bade farewell, and Sir Galahad entered the forest, and Sir Lancelot returned to the ship, and the wind rose and drove him more than a month through the sea, whereby he slept but little, yet ever prayed that he might see the Sangreal. So it befell upon a certain midnight, the moon shining clear, he came before a fair and rich castle, whereof the postern gate was open towards the sea, having no keeper save two lions in the entry. Anon Sir Lancelot heard a voice: "Leave now thy ship and go within the castle, and thou shalt see a part of thy desire." Then he armed and went towards the gate, and coming to the lions he drew out his sword, but suddenly a dwarf rushed out and smote him on the arm, so that he dropt his sword, and heard again the voice, "Oh, man of evil faith, and poor belief, wherefore trustest thou thine arms above thy Maker?" Then he put up his sword and signed the cross upon his forehead, and so passed by the lions without hurt. And going in, he found a chamber with the door shut, which in vain he tried to open. And listening thereat he heard a voice within, which sang so sweetly that it seemed no earthly thing, "Joy and honour be to the Father of Heaven!" Then he kneeled down at the door, for he knew well the Sangreal was there within. Anon the door was opened without hands, and forthwith came thereout so great a splendour as if all the torches of the world had been alight together. But when he would have entered in, a voice forbad him; wherefore he drew back, and looked, standing upon the threshold of the door. And there he saw a table of silver, and the holy vessel covered with red samite, and many angels round it holding burning candles and a cross and all the ornaments of the altar. Then a priest stood up and offered mass, and when he took the vessel up, he seemed to sink beneath that burden. At that Sir Lancelot cried, "O Father, take it not for sin that I go in to help the priest, who hath much need thereof." So saying, he went in, but when he came towards the table he felt a breath of fire which issued out therefrom and smote him to the ground, so that he had no power to rise. Then felt he many hands about him, which took him up and laid him down outside the chapel door. There lay he in a swoon all through that night, and on the morrow certain people found him senseless, and bore him to an inner chamber and laid him on a bed. And there he rested, living, but moving no limbs, twenty-four days and nights. On the twenty-fifth day he opened his eyes and saw those standing round, and said, "Why have ye waked me? for I have seen marvels that no tongue can tell, and more than any heart can think." Then he asked where he was, and they told him, "In the Castle of Carbonek." "Tell your lord, King Pelles," said he, "that I am Sir Lancelot." At that they marvelled greatly, and told their lord it was Sir Lancelot who had lain there so long. Then was King Pelles wondrous glad and went to see him, and prayed him to abide there for a season. But Sir Lancelot said, "I know well that I have now seen as much as mine eyes may behold of the Sangreal; wherefore I will return to my own country." So he took leave of King Pelles, and departed towards Logris. Now after Sir Galahad had parted from Sir Lancelot, he rode many days, till he came to the monastery where the blind King Evelake lay, whom Sir Percival had seen. And on the morrow, when he had heard mass, Sir Galahad desired to see the king, who cried out, "Welcome, Sir Galahad, servant of the Lord! long have I abided thy coming. Take me now in thine arms, that I may die in peace." At that Sir Galahad embraced him; and when he had so done the king's eyes were opened, and he said, "Fair Lord Jesus, suffer me now to come to Thee;" and anon his soul departed. Then they buried him royally, as a king should be; and Sir Galahad went on his way. Within a while he came to a chapel in a forest, in the crypt whereof he saw a tomb which always blazed and burnt. And asking the brethren what that might mean, they told him, "Joseph of Arimathea's son did found this monastery, and one who wronged him hath lain here these three hundred and fifty years and burneth evermore, until that perfect knight who shall achieve the Sangreal doth quench the fire." Then said he, "I pray ye bring me to the tomb." And when he touched the place immediately the fire was quenched, and a voice came from the grave and cried, "Thanks be to God, who now hath purged me of my sin, and draweth me from earthly pains into the joys of paradise." Then Sir Galahad took the body in his arms and bore it to the abbey, and on the morrow put it in the earth before the high altar. Anon he departed from thence and rode five days in a great forest; and after that he met Sir Percival, and a little further on Sir Bors. When they had told each other their adventures, they rode together to the Castle of Carbonek: and there King Pelles gave them hearty welcome, for he knew they should achieve the Holy Quest. As soon as they were come into the castle, a voice cried in the midst of the chamber, "Let them who ought not now to sit at the table of the Lord rise and depart hence!" Then all, save those three knights, departed. Anon they saw other knights come in with haste at the hall doors and take their harness off, who said to Sir Galahad, "Sir, we have tried sore to be with you at this table." "Ye be welcome," said he, "but whence are ye?" So three of them said they were from Gaul; and three from Ireland; and three from Denmark. Then came forth the likeness of a bishop, with a cross in his hand, and four angels stood by him, and a table of silver was before them, whereon was set the vessel of the Sangreal. Then came forth other angels also--two bearing burning candles, and the third a towel, and the fourth a spear which bled marvellously, the drops wherefrom fell into a box he held in his left hand. Anon the bishop took the wafer up to consecrate it, and at the lifting up, they saw the figure of a Child, whose visage was as bright as any fire, which smote itself into the midst of the wafer and vanished, so that all saw the flesh made bread. Thereat the bishop went to Galahad and kissed him, and bade him go and kiss his fellows; and said, "Now, servants of the Lord, prepare for food such as none ever yet were fed with since the world began." With that he vanished, and the knights were filled with a great dread and prayed devoutly. Then saw they come forth from the holy vessel the vision of a man bleeding all openly, whom they knew well by the tokens of His passion for the Lord Himself. At that they fell upon their faces and were dumb. Anon he brought the Holy Grale to them and spake high words of comfort, and, when they drank therefrom, the taste thereof was sweeter than any tongue could tell or heart desire. Then a voice said to Galahad, "Son, with this blood which drippeth from the spear anoint thou the maimed king and heal him. And when thou hast this done, depart hence with thy brethren in a ship that ye shall find, and go to the city of Sarras. And bear with thee the holy vessel, for it shall no more be seen in the realm of Logris." At that Sir Galahad walked to the bleeding spear, and therefrom anointing his fingers went out straightway to the maimed King Pelles, and touched his wound. Then suddenly he uprose from his bed as whole a man as ever he was, and praised God passing thankfully with all his heart. Then Sir Galahad, Sir Bors, and Sir Percival departed as they had been told; and when they had ridden three days they came to the sea-shore, and found the ship awaiting them. Therein they entered, and saw in the midst the silver table and the vessel of the Sangreal, covered with red samite. Then were they passing glad, and made great reverence thereto. And Sir Galahad prayed that now he might leave the world and pass to God. And presently, the while he prayed, a voice said to him, "Galahad, thy prayer is heard, and when thou asketh the death of the body thou shalt have it, and find the life of thy soul." But while they prayed and slept the ship sailed on, and when they woke they saw the city of Sarras before them, and the other ship wherein was Sir Percival's sister. Then the three knights took up the holy table and the Sangreal and went into the city; and there, in a chapel, they buried Sir Percival's sister right solemnly. Now at the gate of the town they saw an old cripple sitting, whom Sir Galahad called to help them bear their weight. "Truly," said the old man, "it is ten years since I have gone a step without these crutches." "Care ye not," said Sir Galahad; "rise now and show goodwill." So he assayed to move, and found his limbs as strong as any man's might be, and running to the table helped to carry it. Anon there rose a rumour in the city that a cripple had been healed by certain marvellous strange knights. But the king, named Estouranse, who was a heathen tyrant, when he heard thereof took Sir Galahad and his fellows, and put them in prison in a deep hole. Therein they abode a great while, but ever the Sangreal was with them and fed them with marvellous sweet food, so that they fainted not, but had all joy and comfort they could wish. At the year's end the king fell sick and felt that he should die. Then sent he for the three knights, and when they came before him prayed their mercy for his trespasses against them. So they forgave him gladly, and anon he died. Then the chief men of the city took counsel together who should be king in his stead, and as they talked, a voice cried in their midst, "Choose ye the youngest of the three knights King Estouranse cast into prison for your king." At that they sought Sir Galahad and made him king with the assent of all the city, and else they would have slain him. But within a twelvemonth came to him, upon a certain day, as he prayed before the Sangreal, a man in likeness of a bishop, with a great company of angels round about him, who offered mass, and afterwards called to Sir Galahad, "Come forth, thou servant of the Lord, for the time hath come thou hast desired so long." Then Sir Galahad lifted up his hands and prayed, "Now, blessed Lord! would I no longer live if it might please Thee." Anon the bishop gave him the sacrament, and when he had received it with unspeakable gladness, he said, "Who art thou, father?" "I am Joseph of Arimathea," answered he, "whom our Lord hath sent to bear thee fellowship." When he heard that, Sir Galahad went to Sir Percival and Sir Bors and kissed them and commended them to God, saying, "Salute for me Sir Lancelot, my father, and bid him remember this unstable world." Therewith he kneeled down and prayed, and suddenly his soul departed, and a multitude of angels bare it up to heaven. Then came a hand from heaven and took the vessel and the spear and bare them out of sight. Since then was never man so hardy as to say that he had seen the Sangreal. And after all these things, Sir Percival put off his armour and betook him to an hermitage, and within a little while passed out of this world. And Sir Bors, when he had buried him beside his sister, returned, weeping sore for the loss of his two brethren, to King Arthur, at Camelot. CHAPTER XIII _Sir Lancelot and the Fair Maid of Astolat_ Now after the quest of the Sangreal was fulfilled and all the knights who were left alive were come again to the Round Table, there was great joy in the court. And passing glad were King Arthur and Queen Guinevere to see Sir Lancelot and Sir Bors, for they had been long absent in that quest. And so greatly was Sir Lancelot's fame now spread abroad that many ladies and damsels daily resorted to him and besought him for their champion; and all right quarrels did he gladly undertake for the pleasure of our Lord Christ. And always as much as he might he withdrew him from the queen. Wherefore Queen Guinevere, who counted him for her own knight, grew wroth with him, and on a certain day she called him to her chamber, and said thus: "Sir Lancelot, I daily see thy loyalty to me doth slack, for ever thou art absent from this court, and takest other ladies' quarrels on thee more than ever thou wert wont. Now do I understand thee, false knight, and therefore shall I never trust thee more. Depart now from my sight, and come no more within this court upon pain of thy head." With that she turned from him and would hear no excuses. So Sir Lancelot departed in heaviness of heart, and calling Sir Bors, Sir Ector, and Sir Lionel, he told them how the queen had dealt with him. "Fair sir," replied Sir Bors, "remember what honour ye have in this country, and how ye are called the noblest knight in the world; wherefore go not, for women are hasty, and do often what they sore repent of afterwards. Be ruled by my advice. Take horse and ride to the hermitage beside Windsor, and there abide till I send ye better tidings." To that Sir Lancelot consented, and departed with a sorrowful countenance. Now when the queen heard of his leaving she was inwardly sorry, but made no show of grief, bearing a proud visage outwardly. And on a certain day she made a costly banquet to all the knights of the Round Table, to show she had as great joy in all others as in Sir Lancelot. And at the banquet were Sir Gawain, and his brothers Sir Agravaine, Sir Gaheris, and Sir Gareth; also Sir Modred, Sir Bors, Sir Blamor, Sir Bleoberis, Sir Ector, Sir Lionel, Sir Palomedes, Sir Mador de la Port, and his cousin Sir Patrice--a knight of Ireland, Sir Pinell le Savage, and many more. Now Sir Pinell hated Sir Gawain because he had slain one of his kinsmen by treason; and Sir Gawain had a great love for all kinds of fruit, which, when Sir Pinell knew, he poisoned certain apples that were set upon the table, with intent to slay him. And so it chanced as they ate and made merry, Sir Patrice, who sat next to Sir Gawain, took one of the poisoned apples and eat it, and when he had eaten he suddenly swelled up and fell down dead. At that every knight leapt from the board ashamed and enraged nigh out of their wits, for they knew not what to say, yet seeing that the queen had made the banquet they all had suspicion of her. "My lady the queen," said Sir Gawain, "I wit well this fruit was meant for me, for all men know my love for it, and now had I been nearly slain; wherefore, I fear me, ye will be ashamed." "This shall not end so," cried Sir Mador de la Port; "now have I lost a noble knight of my own blood, and for this despite and shame I will be revenged to the uttermost." Then he challenged Queen Guinevere concerning the death of his cousin, but she stood still, sore abashed, and anon with her sorrow and dread, she swooned. At the noise and sudden cry came in King Arthur, and to him appealed Sir Mador, and impeached the queen. "Fair lords," said he, "full sorely am I troubled at this matter, for I must be rightful judge, and therein it repenteth me I may not do battle for my wife, for, as I deem, this deed was none of hers. But I suppose she will not lack a champion, and some good knight surely will put his body in jeopardy to save her." But all who had been bidden to the banquet said they could not hold the queen excused, or be her champions, for she had made the feast, and either by herself or servants must it have come. "Alas!" said the queen, "I made this dinner for a good intent, and no evil, so God help me in my need." "My lord the king," said Sir Mador, "I require you heartily as you be a righteous king give me a day when I may have justice." "Well," said the king, "I give ye this day fifteen days, when ye shall be ready and armed in the meadow beside Westminster, and if there be a knight to fight with you, God speed the right, and if not, then must my queen be burnt." When the king and queen were alone together he asked her how this case befell. "I wot not how or in what manner," answered she. "Where is Sir Lancelot?" said King Arthur, "for he would not grudge to do battle for thee." "Sir," said she, "I cannot tell you, but all his kinsmen deem he is not in this realm." "These be sad tidings," said the king; "I counsel ye to find Sir Bors, and pray him for Sir Lancelot's sake to do this battle for you." So the queen departed and sent for Sir Bors to her chamber, and besought his succour. "Madam," said he, "what would you have me do? for I may not with my honour take this matter on me, for I was at that same dinner, and all the other knights would have me ever in suspicion. Now do ye miss Sir Lancelot, for he would not have failed you in right nor yet in wrong, as ye have often proved, but now ye have driven him from the country." "Alas! fair knight," said the queen, "I put me wholly at your mercy, and all that is done amiss I will amend as ye will counsel me." And therewith she kneeled down upon both her knees before Sir Bors, and besought him to have mercy on her. Anon came in King Arthur also, and prayed him of his courtesy to help her, saying, "I require you for the love of Lancelot." "My lord," said he, "ye require the greatest thing of me that any man can ask, for if I do this battle for the queen I shall anger all my fellows of the Table Round; nevertheless, for my lord Sir Lancelot's sake, and for yours, I will that day be the queen's champion, unless there chance to come a better knight than I am to do battle for her." And this he promised on his faith. Then were the king and queen passing glad, and thanked him heartily, and so departed. But Sir Bors rode in secret to the hermitage where Sir Lancelot was, and told him all these tidings. "It has chanced as I would have it," said Sir Lancelot; "yet make ye ready for the battle, but tarry till ye see me come." "Sir," said Sir Bors, "doubt not but ye shall have your will." But many of the knights were greatly wroth with him when they heard he was to be the queen's champion, for there were few in the court but deemed her guilty. Then said Sir Bors, "Wit ye well, fair lords, it were a shame to us all to suffer so fair and noble a lady to be burnt for lack of a champion, for ever hath she proved herself a lover of good knights; wherefore I doubt not she is guiltless of this treason." At that were some well pleased, but others rested passing wroth. And when the day was come, the king and queen and all the knights went to the meadow beside Westminster, where the battle should be fought. Then the queen was put in ward, and a great fire was made round the iron stake, where she must be burnt if Sir Mador won the day. So when the heralds blew, Sir Mador rode forth, and took oath that Queen Guinevere was guilty of Sir Patrice's death, and his oath he would prove with his body against any who would say the contrary. Then came forth Sir Bors, and said, "Queen Guinevere is in the right, and that will I prove with my hands." With that they both departed to their tents to make ready for the battle. But Sir Bors tarried long, hoping Sir Lancelot would come, till Sir Mador cried out to King Arthur, "Bid thy champion come forth, unless he dare not." Then was Sir Bors ashamed, and took his horse and rode to the end of the lists. But ere he could meet Sir Mador he was ware of a knight upon a white horse, armed at all points, and with a strange shield, who rode to him and said, "I pray you withdraw from this quarrel, for it is mine, and I have ridden far to fight in it." Thereat Sir Bors rode to King Arthur, and told him that another knight was come who would do battle for the queen. "Who is he?" said King Arthur. "I may not tell you," said Sir Bors; "but he made a covenant with me to be here to-day, wherefore I am discharged." Then the king called that knight, and asked him if he would fight for the queen. "Therefore came I hither, Sir king," answered he; "but let us tarry no longer, for anon I have other matters to do. But wit ye well," said he to the Knights of the Round Table, "it is shame to ye for such a courteous queen to suffer this dishonour." And all men marvelled who this knight might be, for none knew him save Sir Bors. Then Sir Mador and the knight rode to either end of the lists, and couching their spears, ran one against the other with all their might; and Sir Mador's spear broke short, but the strange knight bore both him and his horse down to the ground. Then lightly they leaped from their saddles and drew their swords, and so came eagerly to the battle, and either gave the other many sad strokes and sore and deep wounds. Thus they fought nigh an hour, for Sir Mador was a full strong and valiant knight. But at last the strange knight smote him to the earth, and gave him such a buffet on the helm as wellnigh killed him. Then did Sir Mador yield, and prayed his life. [Illustration: At last the strange knight smote him to the earth, and gave him such a buffet on the helm as well-nigh killed him. ] "I will but grant it thee," said the strange knight, "if thou wilt release the queen from this quarrel for ever, and promise that no mention shall be made upon Sir Patrice's tomb that ever she consented to that treason." "All this shall be done," said Sir Mador. Then the knights parters took up Sir Mador and led him to his tent, and the other knight went straight to the stair foot of King Arthur's throne; and by that time was the queen come to the king again, and kissed him lovingly. Then both the king and she stooped down, and thanked the knight, and prayed him to put off his helm and rest him, and to take a cup of wine. And when he put his helmet off to drink, all people saw it was Sir Lancelot. But when the queen beheld him she sank almost to the ground weeping for sorrow and for joy, that he had done her such great goodness when she had showed him such unkindness. Then the knights of his blood gathered round him, and there was great joy and mirth in the court. And Sir Mador and Sir Lancelot were soon healed of their wounds; and not long after came the Lady of the Lake to the court, and told all there by her enchantments how Sir Pinell, and not the queen, was guilty of Sir Patrice's death. Whereat the queen was held excused of all men, and Sir Pinell fled the country. So Sir Patrice was buried in the church of Winchester, and it was written on his tomb that Sir Pinell slew him with a poisoned apple, in error for Sir Gawain. Then, through Sir Lancelot's favour, the queen was reconciled to Sir Mador, and all was forgiven. Now fifteen days before the Feast of the Assumption of our Lady, the king proclaimed a tourney to be held that feast-day at Camelot, whereat himself and the King of Scotland would joust with all who should come against them. So thither went the King of North Wales, and King Anguish of Ireland, and Sir Galahaut the noble prince, and many other nobles of divers countries. And King Arthur made ready to go, and would have had the queen go with him, but she said that she was sick. Sir Lancelot, also, made excuses, saying he was not yet whole of his wounds. At that the king was passing heavy and grieved, and so departed alone towards Camelot. And by the way he lodged in a town called Astolat, and lay that night in the castle. As soon as he had gone, Sir Lancelot said to the queen, "This night I will rest, and to-morrow betimes will I take my way to Camelot; for at these jousts I will be against the king and his fellowship." "Ye may do as ye list," said Queen Guinevere; "but by my counsel ye will not be against the king, for in his company are many hardy knights, as ye well know." "Madam," said Sir Lancelot, "I pray ye be not displeased with me, for I will take the adventure that God may send me." And on the morrow he went to the church and heard mass, and took his leave of the queen, and so departed. Then he rode long till he came to Astolat, and there lodged at the castle of an old baron called Sir Bernard of Astolat, which was near the castle where King Arthur lodged. And as Sir Lancelot entered the king espied him, and knew him. Then said he to the knights, "I have just seen a knight who will fight full well at the joust toward which we go." "Who is it?" asked they. "As yet ye shall not know," he answered smiling. When Sir Lancelot was in his chamber unarming, the old baron came to him saluting him, though as yet he knew not who he was. Now Sir Bernard had a daughter passing beautiful, called the Fair Maid of Astolat, and when she saw Sir Lancelot she loved him from that instant with her whole heart, and could not stay from gazing on him. On the morrow, Sir Lancelot asked the old baron to lend him a strange shield. "For," said he, "I would be unknown." "Sir," said his host, "ye shall have your desire, for here is the shield of my eldest son, Sir Torre, who was hurt the day he was made knight, so that he cannot ride; and his shield, therefore, is not known. And, if it please you, my youngest son, Sir Lavaine, shall ride with you to the jousts, for he is of his age full strong and mighty; and I deem ye be a noble knight, wherefore I pray ye tell me your name." "As to that," said Sir Lancelot, "ye must hold me excused at this time, but if I speed well at the jousts, I will come again and tell you; but in anywise let me have your son, Sir Lavaine, with me, and lend me his brother's shield." Then, ere they departed, came Elaine, the baron's daughter, and said to Sir Lancelot, "I pray thee, gentle knight, to wear my token at to-morrow's tourney." "If I should grant you that, fair damsel," said he, "ye might say that I did more for you than ever I have done for lady or damsel." Then he bethought him that if he granted her request he would be the more disguised, for never before had he worn any lady's token. So anon he said, "Fair damsel, I will wear thy token on my helmet if thou wilt show it me." Thereat was she passing glad, and brought him a scarlet sleeve broidered with pearls, which Sir Lancelot took, and put upon his helm. Then he prayed her to keep his shield for him until he came again, and taking Sir Torre's shield instead, rode forth with Sir Lavaine towards Camelot. On the morrow the trumpets blew for the tourney, and there was a great press of dukes and earls and barons and many noble knights; and King Arthur sat in a gallery to behold who did the best. So the King of Scotland and his knights, and King Anguish of Ireland rode forth on King Arthur's side; and against them came the King of North Wales, the King of a Hundred Knights, the King of Northumberland, and the noble prince Sir Galahaut. But Sir Lancelot and Sir Lavaine rode into a little wood behind the party which was against King Arthur, to watch which side should prove the weakest. Then was there a strong fight between the two parties, for the King of a Hundred Knights smote down the King of Scotland; and Sir Palomedes, who was on King Arthur's side, overthrew Sir Galahaut. Then came fifteen Knights of the Round Table and beat back the Kings of Northumberland and North Wales with their knights. "Now," said Sir Lancelot to Sir Lavaine, "if ye will help me, ye shall see yonder fellowship go back as fast as they came." "Sir," said Sir Lavaine, "I will do what I can." Then they rode together into the thickest of the press, and there, with one spear, Sir Lancelot smote down five Knights of the Round Table, one after other, and Sir Lavaine overthrew two. And taking another spear, for his own was broken, Sir Lancelot smote down four more knights, and Sir Lavaine a fifth. Then, drawing his sword, Sir Lancelot fought fiercely on the right hand and the left, and unhorsed Sir Safire, Sir Epinogris, and Sir Galleron. At that the Knights of the Round Table withdrew themselves as well as they were able. "Now, mercy," said Sir Gawain, who sat by King Arthur; "what knight is that who doth such marvellous deeds of arms? I should deem him by his force to be Sir Lancelot, but that he wears a lady's token on his helm as never Lancelot doth." "Let him be," said King Arthur; "he will be better known, and do more ere he depart." Thus the party against King Arthur prospered at this time, and his knights were sore ashamed. Then Sir Bors, Sir Ector, and Sir Lionel called together the knights of their blood, nine in number, and agreed to join together in one band against the two strange knights. So they encountered Sir Lancelot all at once, and by main force smote his horse to the ground; and by misfortune Sir Bors struck Sir Lancelot through the shield into the side, and the spear broke off and left the head in the wound. When Sir Lavaine saw that, he ran to the King of Scotland and struck him off his horse, and brought it to Sir Lancelot, and helped him to mount. Then Sir Lancelot bore Sir Bors and his horse to the ground, and in like manner served Sir Ector and Sir Lionel; and turning upon three other knights he smote them down also; while Sir Lavaine did many gallant deeds. But feeling himself now sorely wounded Sir Lancelot drew his sword, and proffered to fight with Sir Bors, who, by this time, was mounted anew. And as they met, Sir Ector and Sir Lionel came also, and the swords of all three drave fiercely against him. When he felt their buffets, and his wound that was so grievous, he determined to do all his best while he could yet endure, and smote Sir Bors a blow that bent his head down nearly to the ground and razed his helmet off and pulled him from his horse. Then rushing at Sir Ector and Sir Lionel, he smote them down, and might have slain all three, but when he saw their faces his heart forbade him. Leaving them, therefore, on the field, he hurled into the thickest of the press, and did such feats of arms as never were beheld before. And Sir Lavaine was with him through it all, and overthrew ten knights; but Sir Lancelot smote down more than thirty, and most of them Knights of the Round Table. Then the king ordered the trumpets to blow for the end of the tourney, and the prize to be given by the heralds to the knight with the white shield who bore the red sleeve. But ere Sir Lancelot was found by the heralds, came the King of the Hundred Knights, the King of North Wales, the King of Northumberland, and Sir Galahaut, and said to him, "Fair knight, God bless thee, for much have ye done this day for us; wherefore we pray ye come with us and receive the honour and the prize as ye have worshipfully deserved it." "My fair lords," said Sir Lancelot, "wit ye well if I have deserved thanks, I have sore bought them, for I am like never to escape with my life; therefore I pray ye let me depart, for I am sore hurt. I take no thought of honour, for I had rather rest me than be lord of all the world." And therewith he groaned piteously, and rode a great gallop away from them. And Sir Lavaine rode after him, sad at heart, for the broken spear still stuck fast in Sir Lancelot's side, and the blood streamed sorely from the wound. Anon they came near a wood more than a mile from the lists, where he knew he could be hidden. Then said he to Sir Lavaine, "O gentle knight, help me to pull out this spear-head from my side, for the pain thereof nigh killeth me." "Dear lord," said he, "I fain would help ye; but I dread to draw it forth, lest ye should die for loss of blood." "I charge you as you love me," said Sir Lancelot, "draw it out." So they dismounted, and with a mighty wrench Sir Lavaine drew the spear forth from Sir Lancelot's side; whereat he gave a marvellous great shriek and ghastly groan, and all his blood leaped forth in a full stream. Then he sank swooning to the earth, with a visage pale as death. "Alas!" cried Sir Lavaine, "what shall I do now?" And then he turned his master's face towards the wind, and sat by him nigh half an hour while he lay quiet as one dead. But at the last he lifted up his eyes, and said, "I pray ye bear me on my horse again, and lead me to a hermit who dwelleth within two miles hence, for he was formerly a knight of Arthur's court, and now hath mighty skill in medicine and herbs." So with great pain Sir Lavaine got him to his horse, and led him to the hermitage within the wood, beside a stream. Then knocked he with his spear upon the door, and prayed to enter. At that a child came out, to whom he said, "Fair child, pray the good man thy master to come hither and let in a knight who is sore wounded." Anon came out the knight-hermit, whose name was Sir Baldwin, and asked, "Who is this wounded knight?" "I know not," said Sir Lavaine, "save that he is the noblest knight I ever met with, and hath done this day such marvellous deeds of arms against King Arthur that he hath won the prize of the tourney." Then the hermit gazed long on Sir Lancelot, and hardly knew him, so pale he was with bleeding, yet said he at the last, "Who art thou, lord?" Sir Lancelot answered feebly, "I am a stranger knight adventurous, who laboureth through many realms to win worship." "Why hidest thou thy name, dear lord, from me?" cried Sir Baldwin; "for in sooth I know thee now to be the noblest knight in all the world--my lord Sir Lancelot du Lake, with whom I long had fellowship at the Round Table." "Since ye know me, fair sir," said he, "I pray ye, for Christ's sake, to help me if ye may." "Doubt not," replied he, "that ye shall live and fare right well." Then he staunched his wound, and gave him strong medicines and cordials till he was refreshed from his faintness and came to himself again. Now after the jousting was done King Arthur held a feast, and asked to see the knight with the red sleeve that he might take the prize. So they told him how that knight had ridden from the field wounded nigh to death. "These be the worst tidings I have heard for many years," cried out the king; "I would not for my kingdom he were slain." Then all men asked, "Know ye him, lord?" "I may not tell ye at this time," said he; "but would to God we had good tidings of him." Then Sir Gawain prayed leave to go and seek that knight, which the king gladly gave him. So forthwith he mounted and rode many leagues round Camelot, but could hear no tidings. Within two days thereafter King Arthur and his knights returned from Camelot, and Sir Gawain chanced to lodge at Astolat, in the house of Sir Bernard. And there came in the fair Elaine to him, and prayed him news of the tournament, and who won the prize. "A knight with a white shield," said he, "who bare a red sleeve in his helm, smote down all comers and won the day." At that the visage of Elaine changed suddenly from white to red, and heartily she thanked our Lady. Then said Sir Gawain, "Know ye that knight?" and urged her till she told him that it was her sleeve he wore. So Sir Gawain knew it was for love that she had given it; and when he heard she kept his proper shield he prayed to see it. As soon as it was brought he saw Sir Lancelot's arms thereon, and cried, "Alas! now am I heavier of heart than ever yet." "Wherefore?" said fair Elaine. "Fair damsel," answered he, "know ye not that the knight ye love is of all knights the noblest in the world, Sir Lancelot du Lake? With all my heart I pray ye may have joy of each other, but hardly dare I think that ye shall see him in this world again, for he is so sore wounded he may scarcely live, and is gone out of sight where none can find him." Then was Elaine nigh mad with grief and sorrow, and with piteous words she prayed her father that she might go seek Sir Lancelot and her brother. So in the end her father gave her leave, and she departed. And on the morrow came Sir Gawain to the court, and told how he had found Sir Lancelot's shield in Elaine's keeping, and how it was her sleeve which he had worn; whereat all marvelled, for Sir Lancelot had done for her more than he had ever done for any woman. But when Queen Guinevere heard it she was beside herself with wrath, and sending privily for Sir Bors, who sorrowed sorely that through him Sir Lancelot had been hurt--"Have ye now heard," said she, "how falsely Sir Lancelot hath betrayed me?" "I beseech thee, madam," said he, "speak not so, for else I may not hear thee." "Shall I not call him traitor," cried she, "who hath worn another lady's token at the jousting?" "Be sure he did it, madam, for no ill intent," replied Sir Bors, "but that he might be better hidden, for never did he in that wise before." "Now shame on him, and thee who wouldest help him," cried the queen. "Madam, say what ye will," said he; "but I must haste to seek him, and God send me soon good tidings of him." So with that he departed to find Sir Lancelot. Now Elaine had ridden with full haste from Astolat, and come to Camelot, and there she sought throughout the country for any news of Lancelot. And so it chanced that Sir Lavaine was riding near the hermitage to exercise his horse, and when she saw him she ran up and cried aloud, "How doth my lord Sir Lancelot fare?" Then said Sir Lavaine, marvelling greatly, "How know ye my lord's name, fair sister?" So she told him how Sir Gawain had lodged with Sir Bernard, and knew Sir Lancelot's shield. Then prayed she to see his lord forthwith, and when she came to the hermitage and found him lying there sore sick and bleeding, she swooned for sorrow. Anon, as she revived, Sir Lancelot kissed her, and said, "Fair maid, I pray ye take comfort, for, by God's grace, I shall be shortly whole of this wound, and if ye be come to tend me, I am heartily bounden to your great kindness." Yet was he sore vexed to hear Sir Gawain had discovered him, for he knew Queen Guinevere would be full wroth because of the red sleeve. So Elaine rested in the hermitage, and ever night and day she watched and waited on Sir Lancelot, and would let none other tend him. And as she saw him more, the more she set her love upon him, and could by no means withdraw it. Then said Sir Lancelot to Sir Lavaine, "I pray thee set some to watch for the good knight Sir Bors, for as he hurt me, so will he surely seek for me." Now Sir Bors by this time had come to Camelot, and was seeking for Sir Lancelot everywhere, so Sir Lavaine soon found him, and brought him to the hermitage. And when he saw Sir Lancelot pale and feeble, he wept for pity and sorrow that he had given him that grievous wound. "God send thee a right speedy cure, dear lord," said he; "for I am of all men most unhappy to have wounded thee, who art our leader, and the noblest knight in all the world." "Fair cousin," said Sir Lancelot, "be comforted, for I have but gained what I sought, and it was through pride that I was hurt, for had I warned ye of my coming it had not been; wherefore let us speak of other things." So they talked long together, and Sir Bors told him of the queen's anger. Then he asked Sir Lancelot, "Was it from this maid who tendeth you so lovingly ye had the token?" "Yea," said Sir Lancelot; "and would I could persuade her to withdraw her love from me." "Why should ye do so?" said Sir Bors; "for she is passing fair and loving. I would to heaven ye could love her." "That may not be," replied he; "but it repenteth me in sooth to grieve her." Then they talked of other matters, and of the great jousting at Allhallowtide next coming, between King Arthur and the King of North Wales. "Abide with me till then," said Sir Lancelot, "for by that time I trust to be all whole again, and we will go together." So Elaine daily and nightly tending him, within a month he felt so strong he deemed himself full cured. Then on a day, when Sir Bors and Sir Lavaine were from the hermitage, and the knight-hermit also was gone forth, Sir Lancelot prayed Elaine to bring him some herbs from the forest. When she was gone he rose and made haste to arm himself, and try if he were whole enough to joust, and mounted on his horse, which was fresh with lack of labour for so long a time. But when he set his spear in the rest and tried his armour, the horse bounded and leapt beneath him, so that Sir Lancelot strained to keep him back. And therewith his wound, which was not wholly healed, burst forth again, and with a mighty groan he sank down swooning on the ground. At that came fair Elaine and wept and piteously moaned to see him lying so. And when Sir Bors and Sir Lavaine came back, she called them traitors to let him rise, or to know any rumour of the tournament. Anon the hermit returned and was wroth to see Sir Lancelot risen, but within a while he recovered him from his swoon and staunched the wound. Then Sir Lancelot told him how he had risen of his own will to assay his strength for the tournament. But the hermit bad him rest and let Sir Bors go alone, for else would he sorely peril his life. And Elaine, with tears, prayed him in the same wise, so that Sir Lancelot in the end consented. So Sir Bors departed to the tournament, and there he did such feats of arms that the prize was given between him and Sir Gawain, who did like valiantly. And when all was over he came back and told Sir Lancelot, and found him so nigh well that he could rise and walk. And within a while thereafter he departed from the hermitage and went with Sir Bors, Sir Lavaine, and fair Elaine to Astolat, where Sir Bernard joyfully received them. But after they had lodged there a few days Sir Lancelot and Sir Bors must needs depart and return to King Arthur's court. So when Elaine knew Sir Lancelot must go, she came to him and said, "Have mercy on me, fair knight, and let me not die for your love." Then said Sir Lancelot, very sad at heart, "Fair maid, what would ye that I should do for you?" "If I may not be your wife, dear lord," she answered, "I must die." "Alas!" said he, "I pray heaven that may not be; for in sooth I may not be your husband. But fain would I show ye what thankfulness I can for all your love and kindness to me. And ever will I be your knight, fair maiden; and if it chance that ye shall ever wed some noble knight, right heartily will I give ye such a dower as half my lands will bring." "Alas! what shall that aid me?" answered she; "for I must die," and therewith she fell to the earth in a deep swoon. Then was Sir Lancelot passing heavy of heart, and said to Sir Bernard and Sir Lavaine, "What shall I do for her?" "Alas!" said Sir Bernard, "I know well that she will die for your sake." And Sir Lavaine said, "I marvel not that she so sorely mourneth your departure, for truly I do as she doth, and since I once have seen you, lord, I cannot leave you." So anon, with a full sorrowful heart, Sir Lancelot took his leave, and Sir Lavaine rode with him to the court. And King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table joyed greatly to see him whole of his wound, but Queen Guinevere was sorely wroth, and neither spake with him nor greeted him. Now when Sir Lancelot had departed, the Maid of Astolat could neither eat, nor drink, not sleep for sorrow; and having thus endured ten days, she felt within herself that she must die. Then sent she for a holy man, and was shriven and received the sacrament. But when he told her she must leave her earthly thoughts, she answered, "Am I not an earthly woman? What sin is it to love the noblest knight of all the world? And, by my truth, I am not able to withstand the love whereof I die; wherefore, I pray the High Father of Heaven to have mercy on my soul." Then she besought Sir Bernard to indite a letter as she should devise, and said, "When I am dead put this within my hand, and dress me in my fairest clothes, and lay me in a barge all covered with black samite, and steer it down the river till it reach the court. Thus, father, I beseech thee let it be." Then, full of grief, he promised her it should be so. And anon she died, and all the household made a bitter lamentation over her. Then did they as she had desired, and laid her body, richly dressed, upon a bed within the barge, and a trusty servant steered it down the river towards the court. Now King Arthur and Queen Guinevere sat at a window of the palace, and saw the barge come floating with the tide, and marvelled what was laid therein, and sent a messenger to see, who, soon returning, prayed them to come forth. When they came to the shore they marvelled greatly, and the king asked of the serving-men who steered the barge what this might mean. But he made signs that he was dumb, and pointed to the letter in the damsel's hands. So King Arthur took the letter from the hand of the corpse, and found thereon written, "To the noble knight, Sir Lancelot du Lake." Then was Sir Lancelot sent for, and the letter read aloud by a clerk, and thus it was written:-- [Illustration: Then was Sir Lancelot sent for, and the letter read aloud by a clerk.] "Most noble knight, my lord Sir Lancelot, now hath death for ever parted us. I, whom men call the Maid of Astolat, set my love upon you, and have died for your sake. This is my last request, that ye pray for my soul and give me burial. Grant me this, Sir Lancelot, as thou art a peerless knight." At these words the queen and all the knights wept sore for pity. Then said Sir Lancelot, "My lord, I am right heavy for the death of this fair damsel; and God knoweth that right unwillingly I caused it, for she was good as she was fair, and much was I beholden to her; but she loved me beyond measure, and asked me that I could not give her." "Ye might have shown her gentleness enough to save her life," answered the queen. "Madam," said he, "she would but be repaid by my taking her to wife, and that I could not grant her, for love cometh of the heart and not by constraint." "That is true," said the king; "for love is free." "I pray you," said Sir Lancelot, "let me now grant her last asking, to be buried by me." So on the morrow, he caused her body to be buried richly and solemnly, and ordained masses for her soul, and made great sorrow over her. Then the queen sent for Sir Lancelot, and prayed his pardon for her wrath against him without cause. "This is not the first time it hath been so," answered he; "yet must I ever bear with ye, and so do I now forgive you." So Queen Guinevere and Sir Lancelot were made friends again; but anon such favour did she show him, as in the end brought many evils on them both and all the realm. CHAPTER XIV _The War between King Arthur and Sir Lancelot and the Death of King Arthur_ Within a while thereafter was a jousting at the court, wherein Sir Lancelot won the prize. And two of those he smote down were Sir Agravaine, the brother of Sir Gawain, and Sir Modred, his false brother--King Arthur's son by Belisent. And because of his victory they hated Sir Lancelot, and sought how they might injure him. So on a night, when King Arthur was hunting in the forest, and the queen sent for Sir Lancelot to her chamber, they two espied him; and thinking now to make a scandal and a quarrel between Lancelot and the king, they found twelve others, and said Sir Lancelot was ever now in the queen's chamber, and King Arthur was dishonoured. Then, all armed, they came suddenly round the queen's door, and cried, "Traitor! now art thou taken." "Madam, we be betrayed," said Sir Lancelot; "yet shall my life cost these men dear." Then did the queen weep sore, and dismally she cried, "Alas! there is no armour here whereby ye might withstand so many; wherefore ye will be slain, and I be burnt for the dread crime they will charge on me." But while she spake the shouting of the knights was heard without, "Traitor, come forth, for now thou art snared!" "Better were twenty deaths at once than this vile outcry," said Sir Lancelot. Then he kissed her and said, "Most noble lady, I beseech ye, as I have ever been your own true knight, take courage; pray for my soul if I be now slain, and trust my faithful friends, Sir Bors and Sir Lavaine, to save you from the fire." But ever bitterly she wept and moaned, and cried, "Would God that they would take and slay me, and that thou couldest escape." "That shall never be," said he. And wrapping his mantle round his arm he unbarred the door a little space, so that but one could enter. Then first rushed in Sir Chalaunce, a full strong knight, and lifted up his sword to smite Sir Lancelot; but lightly he avoided him, and struck Sir Chalaunce, with his hand, such a sore buffet on the head as felled him dead upon the floor. Then Sir Lancelot pulled in his body and barred the door again, and dressed himself in his armour, and took his drawn sword in his hand. But still the knights cried mightily without the door, "Traitor, come forth!" [Illustration: But still the knights cried mightily without the door, "Traitor, come forth!"] "Be silent and depart," replied Sir Lancelot; "for be ye sure ye will not take me, and to-morrow will I meet ye face to face before the king." "Ye shall have no such grace," they cried; "but we will slay thee, or take thee as we list." "Then save yourselves who may," he thundered, and therewith suddenly unbarred the door and rushed forth at them. And at the first blow he slew Sir Agravaine, and after him twelve other knights, with twelve more mighty buffets. And none of all escaped him save Sir Modred, who, sorely wounded, fled away for life. Then returned he to the queen, and said, "Now, madam, will I depart, and if ye be in any danger I pray ye come to me." "Surely will I stay here, for I am queen," she answered; "yet if to-morrow any harm come to me I trust to thee for rescue." "Have ye no doubt of me," said he, "for ever while I live am I your own true knight." Therewith he took his leave, and went and told Sir Bors and all his kindred of this adventure. "We will be with thee in this quarrel," said they all; "and if the queen be sentenced to the fire, we certainly will save her." Meanwhile Sir Modred, in great fear and pain, fled from the court, and rode until he found King Arthur, and told him all that had befallen. But the king would scarce believe him till he came and saw the bodies of Sir Agravaine and all the other knights. Then felt he in himself that all was true, and with his passing grief his heart nigh broke. "Alas!" cried he, "now is the fellowship of the Round Table for ever broken: yea, woe is me! I may not with my honour spare my queen." Anon it was ordained that Queen Guinevere should be burned to death, because she had dishonoured King Arthur. But when Sir Gawain heard thereof, he came before the king, and said, "My lord, I counsel thee be not too hasty in this matter, but stay the judgment of the queen a season, for it may well be that Sir Lancelot was in her chamber for no evil, seeing she is greatly beholden to him for so many deeds done for her sake, and peradventure she had sent to him to thank him, and did it secretly that she might avoid slander." But King Arthur answered, full of grief, "Alas! I may not help her; she is judged as any other woman." Then he required Sir Gawain and his brethren, Sir Gaheris and Sir Gareth, to be ready to bear the queen to-morrow to the place of execution. "Nay, noble lord," replied Sir Gawain, "that can I never do; for neither will my heart suffer me to see the queen die, nor shall men ever say I was of your counsel in this matter." Then said his brothers, "Ye may command us to be there, but since it is against our will, we will be without arms, that we may do no battle against her." So on the morrow was Queen Guinevere led forth to die by fire, and a mighty crowd was there, of knights and nobles, armed and unarmed. And all the lords and ladies wept sore at that piteous sight. Then was she shriven by a priest, and the men came nigh to bind her to the stake and light the fire. At that Sir Lancelot's spies rode hastily and told him and his kindred, who lay hidden in a wood hard by; and suddenly, with twenty knights, he rushed into the midst of all the throng to rescue her. But certain of King Arthur's knights rose up and fought with them, and there was a full great battle and confusion. And Sir Lancelot drave fiercely here and there among the press, and smote on every side, and at every blow struck down a knight, so that many were slain by him and his fellows. Then was the queen set free, and caught up on Sir Lancelot's saddle and fled away with him and all his company to the Castle of La Joyous Garde. Now so it chanced that, in the turmoil of the fighting, Sir Lancelot had unawares struck down and slain the two good knights Sir Gareth and Sir Gaheris, knowing it not, for he fought wildly, and saw not that they were unarmed. When King Arthur heard thereof, and of all that battle, and the rescue of the queen, he sorrowed heavily for those good knights, and was passing wroth with Lancelot and the queen. But when Sir Gawain heard of his brethren's death he swooned for sorrow and wrath, for he wist that Sir Lancelot had killed them in malice. And as soon as he recovered he ran in to the king, and said, "Lord king and uncle, hear this oath which now I swear, that from this day I will not fail Sir Lancelot till one of us hath slain the other. And now, unless ye haste to war with him, that we may be avenged, will I myself alone go after him." Then the king, full of wrath and grief, agreed thereto, and sent letters throughout the realm to summon all his knights, and went with a vast army to besiege the Castle of La Joyous Garde. And Sir Lancelot, with his knights, mightily defended it; but never would he suffer any to go forth and attack one of the king's army, for he was right loth to fight against him. So when fifteen weeks were passed, and King Arthur's army wasted itself in vain against the castle, for it was passing strong, it chanced upon a day Sir Lancelot was looking from the walls and espied King Arthur and Sir Gawain close beside. "Come forth, Sir Lancelot," said King Arthur right fiercely, "and let us two meet in the midst of the field." "God forbid that I should encounter with thee, lord, for thou didst make me a knight," replied Sir Lancelot. Then cried Sir Gawain, "Shame on thee, traitor and false knight, yet be ye well assured we will regain the queen and slay thee and thy company; yea, double shame on ye to slay my brother Gaheris unarmed, Sir Gareth also, who loved ye so well. For that treachery, be sure I am thine enemy till death." "Alas!" cried Sir Lancelot, "that I hear such tidings, for I knew not I had slain those noble knights, and right sorely now do I repent it with a heavy heart. Yet abate thy wrath, Sir Gawain, for ye know full well I did it by mischance, for I loved them ever as my own brothers." "Thou liest, false recreant," cried Sir Gawain, fiercely. At that Sir Lancelot was wroth, and said, "I well see thou art now mine enemy, and that there can be no more peace with thee, or with my lord the king, else would I gladly give back the queen." Then the king would fain have listened to Sir Lancelot, for more than all his own wrong did he grieve at the sore waste and damage of the realm, but Sir Gawain persuaded him against it, and ever cried out foully on Sir Lancelot. When Sir Bors and the other knights of Lancelot's party heard the fierce words of Sir Gawain, they were passing wroth, and prayed to ride forth and be avenged on him, for they were weary of so long waiting to no good. And in the end Sir Lancelot, with a heavy heart, consented. So on the morrow the hosts on either side met in the field, and there was a great battle. And Sir Gawain prayed his knights chiefly to set upon Sir Lancelot; but Sir Lancelot commanded his company to forbear King Arthur and Sir Gawain. So the two armies jousted together right fiercely, and Sir Gawain proffered to encounter with Sir Lionel, and overthrew him. But Sir Bors, and Sir Blamor, and Sir Palomedes, who were on Sir Lancelot's side, did great feats of arms, and overthrew many of King Arthur's knights. Then the king came forth against Sir Lancelot, but Sir Lancelot forbore him and would not strike again. At that Sir Bors rode up against the king and smote him down. But Sir Lancelot cried, "Touch him not on pain of thy head," and going to King Arthur he alighted and gave him his own horse, saying, "My lord, I pray thee forbear this strife, for it can bring to neither of us any honour." And when King Arthur looked on him the tears came to his eyes as he thought of his noble courtesy, and he said within himself, "Alas! that ever this war began." But on the morrow Sir Gawain led forth the army again, and Sir Bors commanded on Sir Lancelot's side. And they two struck together so fiercely that both fell to the ground sorely wounded; and all the day they fought till night fell, and many were slain on both sides, yet in the end neither gained the victory. But by now the fame of this fierce war spread through all Christendom, and when the Pope heard thereof he sent a Bull, and charged King Arthur to make peace with Lancelot, and receive back Queen Guinevere; and for the offence imputed to her absolution should be given by the Pope. Thereto would King Arthur straightway have obeyed, but Sir Gawain ever urged him to refuse. When Sir Lancelot heard thereof, he wrote thus to the king: "It was never in my thought, lord, to withhold thy queen from thee; but since she was condemned for my sake to death, I deemed it but a just and knightly part to rescue her therefrom; wherefore I recommend me to your grace, and within eight days will I come to thee and bring the queen in safety." Then, within eight days, as he had said, Sir Lancelot rode from out the castle with Queen Guinevere, and a hundred knights for company, each carrying an olive branch, in sign of peace. And so they came to the court, and found King Arthur sitting on his throne, with Sir Gawain and many other knights around him. And when Sir Lancelot entered with the queen, they both kneeled down before the king. Anon Sir Lancelot rose and said, "My lord, I have brought hither my lady the queen again, as right requireth, and by commandment of the Pope and you. I pray ye take her to your heart again and forget the past. For myself I may ask nothing, and for my sin I shall have sorrow and sore punishment; yet I would to heaven I might have your grace." But ere the king could answer, for he was moved with pity at his words, Sir Gawain cried aloud, "Let the king do as he will, but be sure, Sir Lancelot, thou and I shall never be accorded while we live, for thou has slain my brethren traitorously and unarmed." "As heaven is my help," replied Sir Lancelot, "I did it ignorantly, for I loved them well, and while I live I shall bewail their death; but to make war with me were no avail, for I must needs fight with thee if thou assailest, and peradventure I might kill thee also, which I were right loth to do." "I will forgive thee never," cried Sir Gawain, "and if the king accordeth with thee he shall lose my service." Then the knights who stood near tried to reconcile Sir Gawain to Sir Lancelot, but he would not hear them. So, at the last, Sir Lancelot said, "Since peace is vain, I will depart, lest I bring more evil on my fellowship." And as he turned to go, the tears fell from him, and he said, "Alas, most noble Christian realm, which I have loved above all others, now shall I see thee never more!" Then said he to the queen, "Madam, now must I leave ye and this noble fellowship for ever. And, I beseech ye, pray for me, and if ye ever be defamed of any, let me hear thereof, and as I have been ever thy true knight in right and wrong, so will I be again." With that he kneeled and kissed King Arthur's hands, and departed on his way. And there was none in all that court, save Sir Gawain alone, but wept to see him go. So he returned with all his knights to the Castle of La Joyous Garde, and, for his sorrow's sake, he named it Dolorous Garde thenceforth. Anon he left the realm, and went with many of his fellowship beyond the sea to France, and there divided all his lands among them equally, he sharing but as the rest. And from that time forward peace had been between him and King Arthur, but for Sir Gawain, who left the king no rest, but constantly persuaded him that Lancelot was raising mighty hosts against him. So in the end his malice overcame the king, who left the government in charge of Modred, and made him guardian of the queen, and went with a great army to invade Sir Lancelot's lands. Yet Sir Lancelot would make no war upon the king, and sent a message to gain peace on any terms King Arthur chose. But Sir Gawain met the herald ere he reached the king, and sent him back with taunting and bitter words. Whereat Sir Lancelot sorrowfully called his knights together and fortified the Castle of Benwicke, and there was shortly besieged by the army of King Arthur. And every day Sir Gawain rode up to the walls, and cried out foully on Sir Lancelot, till, upon a time, Sir Lancelot answered him that he would meet him in the field and put his boasting to the proof. So it was agreed on both sides that there should none come nigh them or separate them till one had fallen or yielded; and they two rode forth. Then did they wheel their horses apart, and turning, came together as it had been thunder, so that both horses fell, and both their lances broke. At that they drew their swords and set upon each other fiercely, with passing grievous strokes. Now Sir Gawain had through magic a marvellous great gift. For every day, from morning till noon, his strength waxed to the might of seven men, but after that waned to his natural force. Therefore till noon he gave Sir Lancelot many mighty buffets, which scarcely he endured. Yet greatly he forbore Sir Gawain, for he was aware of his enchantment, and smote him slightly till his own knights marvelled. But after noon Sir Gawain's strength sank fast, and then, with one full blow, Sir Lancelot laid him on the earth. Then Sir Gawain cried out, "Turn not away, thou traitor knight, but slay me if thou wilt, or else I will arise and fight with thee again some other time." "Sir knight," replied Sir Lancelot, "I never yet smote a fallen man." At that they bore Sir Gawain sorely wounded to his tent, and King Arthur withdrew his men, for he was loth to shed the blood of so many knights of his own fellowship. But now came tidings to King Arthur from across the sea, which caused him to return in haste. For thus the news ran, that no sooner was Sir Modred set up in his regency, than he had forged false tidings from abroad that the king had fallen in a battle with Sir Lancelot. Whereat he had proclaimed himself the king, and had been crowned at Canterbury, where he had held a coronation feast for fifteen days. Then he had gone to Winchester, where Queen Guinevere abode, and had commanded her to be his wife; whereto, for fear and sore perplexity, she had feigned consent, but, under pretext of preparing for the marriage, had fled in haste to London and taken shelter in the Tower, fortifying it and providing it with all manner of victuals, and defending it against Sir Modred, and answering to all his threats that she would rather slay herself than be his queen. Thus was it written to King Arthur. Then, in passing great wrath and haste, he came with all his army swiftly back from France and sailed to England. But when Sir Modred heard thereof, he left the Tower and marched with all his host to meet the king at Dover. Then fled Queen Guinevere to Amesbury to a nunnery, and there she clothed herself in sackcloth, and spent her time in praying for the king and in good deeds and fasting. And in that nunnery evermore she lived, sorely repenting and mourning for her sin, and for the ruin she had brought on all the realm. And there anon she died. And when Sir Lancelot heard thereof, he put his knightly armour off, and bade farewell to all his kin, and went a mighty pilgrimage for many years, and after lived a hermit till his death. When Sir Modred came to Dover, he found King Arthur and his army but just landed; and there they fought a fierce and bloody battle, and many great and noble knights fell on both sides. But the king's side had the victory, for he was beyond himself with might and passion, and all his knights so fiercely followed him, that, in spite of all their multitude, they drove Sir Modred's army back with fearful wounds and slaughter, and slept that night upon the battle-field. But Sir Gawain was smitten by an arrow in the wound Sir Lancelot gave him, and wounded to the death. Then was he borne to the king's tent, and King Arthur sorrowed over him as it had been his own son. "Alas!" said he; "in Sir Lancelot and in you I had my greatest earthly joy, and now is all gone from me." And Sir Gawain answered, with a feeble voice, "My lord and king, I know well my death is come, and through my own wilfulness, for I am smitten in the wound Sir Lancelot gave me. Alas! that I have been the cause of all this war, for but for me thou hadst been now at peace with Lancelot, and then had Modred never done this treason. I pray ye, therefore, my dear lord, be now agreed with Lancelot, and tell him, that although he gave me my death-wound, it was through my own seeking; wherefore I beseech him to come back to England, and here to visit my tomb, and pray for my soul." When he had thus spoken, Sir Gawain gave up his ghost, and the king grievously mourned for him. Then they told him that the enemy had camped on Barham Downs, whereat, with all his hosts, he straightway marched there, and fought again a bloody battle, and overthrew Sir Modred utterly. Howbeit, he raised yet another army, and retreating ever from before the king, increased his numbers as he went, till at the farthest west in Lyonesse, he once more made a stand. Now, on the night of Trinity Sunday, being the eve of the battle, King Arthur had a vision, and saw Sir Gawain in a dream, who warned him not to fight with Modred on the morrow, else he would be surely slain; and prayed him to delay till Lancelot and his knights should come to aid him. So when King Arthur woke he told his lords and knights that vision, and all agreed to wait the coming of Sir Lancelot. Then a herald was sent with a message of truce to Sir Modred, and a treaty was made that neither army should assail the other. But when the treaty was agreed upon, and the heralds returned, King Arthur said to his knights, "Beware, lest Sir Modred deceive us, for I in no wise trust him, and if swords be drawn be ready to encounter!" And Sir Modred likewise gave an order, that if any man of the king's army drew his sword, they should begin to fight. And as it chanced, a knight of the king's side was bitten by an adder in the foot, and hastily drew forth his sword to slay it. That saw Sir Modred, and forthwith commanded all his army to assail the king's. So both sides rushed to battle, and fought passing fiercely. And when the king saw there was no hope to stay them, he did right mightily and nobly as a king should do, and ever, like a lion, raged in the thickest of the press, and slew on the right hand and on the left, till his horse went fetlock deep in blood. So all day long they fought, and stinted not till many a noble knight was slain. But the king was passing sorrowful to see his trusty knights lie dead on every side. And at the last but two remained beside him, Sir Lucan, and his brother, Sir Bedivere, and both were sorely wounded. "Now am I come to mine end," said King Arthur; "but, lo! that traitor Modred liveth yet, and I may not die till I have slain him. Now, give me my spear, Sir Lucan." "Lord, let him be," replied Sir Lucan; "for if ye pass through this unhappy day, ye shall be right well revenged upon him. My good lord, remember well your dream, and what the spirit of Sir Gawain did forewarn ye." "Betide me life, betide me death," said the king; "now I see him yonder alone, he shall never escape my hands, for at a better vantage shall I never have him." "God speed you well," said Sir Bedivere. Then King Arthur got his spear in both his hands, and ran towards Sir Modred, crying, "Traitor, now is thy death-day come!" And when Sir Modred heard his words, and saw him come, he drew his sword and stood to meet him. Then King Arthur smote Sir Modred through the body more than a fathom. And when Sir Modred felt he had his death wound, he thrust himself with all his might up to the end of King Arthur's spear, and smote his father, Arthur, with his sword upon the head, so that it pierced both helm and brain-pan. And therewith Sir Modred fell down stark dead to the earth, and King Arthur fell down also in a swoon, and swooned many times. Then Sir Lucan and Sir Bedivere came and bare him away to a little chapel by the sea-shore. And there Sir Lucan sank down with the bleeding of his own wounds, and fell dead. And King Arthur lay long in a swoon, and when he came to himself, he found Sir Lucan lying dead beside him, and Sir Bedivere weeping over the body of his brother. Then said the king to Sir Bedivere, "Weeping will avail no longer, else would I grieve for evermore. Alas! now is the fellowship of the Round Table dissolved for ever, and all my realm I have so loved is wasted with war. But my time hieth fast, wherefore take thou Excalibur, my good sword, and go therewith to yonder water-side and throw it in, and bring me word what thing thou seest." So Sir Bedivere departed; but as he went he looked upon the sword, the hilt whereof was all inlaid with precious stones exceeding rich. And presently he said within himself, "If I now throw this sword into the water, what good should come of it?" So he hid the sword among the reeds, and came again to the king. "What sawest thou?" said he to Sir Bedivere. "Lord," said he, "I saw nothing else but wind and waves." "Thou hast untruly spoken," said the king; "wherefore go lightly back and throw it in, and spare not." Then Sir Bedivere returned again, and took the sword up in his hand; but when he looked on it, he thought it sin and shame to throw away a thing so noble. Wherefore he hid it yet again, and went back to the king. "What saw ye?" said King Arthur. "Lord," answered he, "I saw nothing but the water ebbing and flowing." "Oh, traitor and untrue!" cried out the king; "twice hast thou now betrayed me. Art thou called of men a noble knight, and wouldest betray me for a jewelled sword? Now, therefore, go again for the last time, for thy tarrying hath put me in sore peril of my life, and I fear my wound hath taken cold; and if thou do it not this time, by my faith I will arise and slay thee with my hands." Then Sir Bedivere ran quickly and took up the sword, and went down to the water's edge, and bound the girdle round the hilt and threw it far into the water. And lo! an arm and hand came forth above the water, and caught the sword, and brandished it three times, and vanished. So Sir Bedivere came again to the king and told him what he had seen. "Help me from hence," said King Arthur; "for I dread me I have tarried over long." Then Sir Bedivere took the king up in his arms, and bore him to the water's edge. And by the shore they saw a barge with three fair queens therein, all dressed in black, and when they saw King Arthur they wept and wailed. "Now put me in the barge," said he to Sir Bedivere, and tenderly he did so. Then the three queens received him, and he laid his head upon the lap of one of them, who cried, "Alas! dear brother, why have ye tarried so long, for your wound hath taken cold?" With that the barge put from the land, and when Sir Bedivere saw it departing, he cried with a bitter cry, "Alas! my lord King Arthur, what shall become of me now ye have gone from me?" "Comfort ye," said King Arthur, "and be strong, for I may no more help ye. I go to the Vale of Avilion to heal me of my grievous wound, and if ye see me no more, pray for my soul." Then the three queens kneeled down around the king and sorely wept and wailed, and the barge went forth to sea, and departed slowly out of Sir Bedivere's sight. 
33047	----	[Transcriber's Notes 1. This etext was produced from Amazing Stories November 1948. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed. 3. Variations in spelling ("gray" vs. "grey") have been retained as they appear in the original publication. 2. Obvious misprints were corrected. Full list of corrections made is available at the end.] [Illustration: There was a cloud of smoke, a horrid visage, and Mook's legs grew weak beneath him.] The EYE of WILBUR MOOK by H. B. HICKEY "Wilbur!" his mother called. "Better get up or you'll be late for work!" Slowly but surely Wilbur Mook came out of his beautiful dream. And what a dream it was! He had Peter Bellows down and was busily punching his head. What a dream! Then his mother's voice pulled him away from Pete Bellows and dragged him back to reality. Wilbur opened one eye and looked at the clock on his bedside table. Its hand said eight o'clock. Wilbur flung off the covers and slid his bare feet into lamb's wool bedroom slippers. If he didn't hurry, Wilbur thought, he'd be late to work. At the thought of facing Pete Bellows' angry stare Wilbur shuddered. It was all right to dream, but real life was quite another thing. Quickly, he ran water into the washbowl and washed his hands and face. No time to shower or shave. Running his hand over his chin Wilbur found he didn't need a shave anyway. By skipping that operation he could get to the office early. [Illustration: When the world's most cowardly man met the world's bravest--history was changed] He took a moment to survey himself in the long mirror on the back of the bathroom door. "Every day in every way I am getting better and better," Wilbur muttered. Then he heard his mother's footsteps outside in the hall and he hurried to put on his robe. Just in time he got his head out of the way as the door swung inward. "You look nice this morning," Mrs. Mook said. "Now hurry before your breakfast gets cold." He did look pretty good, Wilbur admitted to himself as he looked again into the mirror. At twenty-five his skin was firm and healthy looking, his body straight and neither too thin nor too fat. His reddish-brown hair was free of dandruff, his blue eyes clear. Only one thing wrong with the picture. He had the soul of a rabbit. He was a coward. There was a tinge of desperation in his voice as he spoke again to his image in the mirror: "Every day in every way I am getting braver and braver." Unfortunately it was not true and Wilbur Mook knew it. And the only reason he was not growing more timid, Wilbur reflected miserably, was that such a thing lay outside the realm of possibility. What was even worse was the fact that everyone else knew it too. It could not have been more evident had Wilbur carried a sign. The only thing he could say was that his mother loved him anyway. Small consolation. "Read the paper on the streetcar," she said as she helped him into his coat. "And don't run. You know it upsets your stomach when you've just eaten breakfast." His breakfast had consisted, as always, of orange juice, one poached egg on toast and warm milk. Anything stronger than warm milk, Mrs. Mook had discovered, disturbed Wilbur no end. * * * * * As he walked to the car Wilbur's mind went back over the dream. That was the stuff! And one of these days he was going to make that dream come true. Pete Bellows was going to find out a thing or two. "Whyncha look where you're goin'?" a shrill voice demanded. Wilbur stopped abruptly. In his trance-like state he had stepped on the heel of a twelve-year-old boy bound for school. The boy was glaring at him fiercely and Wilbur cringed. "I'm dreadfully sorry," he said, knowing that his face was losing color. "Yah!" the boy snarled. "Look where you're goin' and you won't have to be sorry." For a moment Wilbur feared the boy was going to hit him. Then a call came from down the street as another school-bound lad hove into sight, and the first one promptly forgot about Wilbur. Heaving a sigh of relief, Wilbur crossed gingerly to the safety island and waited for his car. When it came he found that all the seats were occupied but he discovered a vacant corner at the front and huddled there. Unfolding his paper carefully he scanned the world news and found it depressing. It always was, Wilbur thought. He turned to the sport pages for solace. That too was depressing, for it featured the doings of those public heroes who battered each other to a pulp for profit and applause. Not that Wilbur would have been unwilling to attend a prize fight. No indeed. He would have enjoyed it immensely, except that he could not stand the sight of men beating each other. And the blood! Even the thought of blood made him slightly ill. He turned quickly to the want ads. Those were always safe, sometimes even exciting. Today there was a man who needed a bodyguard. Wilbur reflected wistfully that he would have made a fine bodyguard, if only things were different. Actually he was a writer of greeting-card poetry, and as he swung off the car his mind was already busy on a poem for Mother's Day. All he needed was a good last line. So far it went: "To the Mother so loving and tender, On this day that is yours alone, Homage I willingly render, Ta ta-ta tum ta ta." The last line would come to him, Wilbur knew. It always did. In the meantime he nodded shyly to the elevator starter and found himself a place at the back of the car. It rose swiftly and his heart pounded. What if it should stop suddenly between floors? There was a beautiful girl standing next to Wilbur and he thought how fear would flood her face. That was the time when a cool and confident voice could avert panic. But Wilbur was aware that there was more chance that the voice would be the girl's rather than his. His mind went back to the last line of the ditty he had been composing. He almost had it, then it was gone. He bit down on his tongue in concentration, unaware that he was staring at the girl next to him. "My devotion you'll always own," Wilbur murmured. "On such short acquaintance?" the girl smiled. * * * * * Wilbur turned pink, then red. He wanted to tell her he hadn't meant it that way, and he found himself wishing he had. She was the kind of girl he sometimes dreamed about, tall and not too thin, with golden hair and gray eyes in which flecks of color danced. "I meant my mother," Wilbur managed at last. "How sweet. Now would you mind getting out of my way?" Wilbur looked down and found that he had somehow managed to walk from the elevator to his office without knowing it. He had his hand on the doorknob. "I beg your pardon," he mumbled, and flung the door open in what he hoped was a gallant gesture. There was a crash as the door swung inward for a few feet and stopped. The crash was immediately followed by a howl of pain. A moment later Pete Bellows' flushed and furious face came around the side of the door. He was rubbing his head. "Mook, you idiot!" Bellows roared. "I ought to punch your nose for this!" "He didn't know your head was in the way," the girl said. "Huh?" Bellows grunted. He took a good look at the girl and the anger drained from his face. Without thinking he straightened his tie and slicked back his oily black hair. "You must be Miss Burnett, the girl the agency said they were sending," Bellows murmured in his most dulcet tones. "Well, well, Wilbur, this is my new secretary." "But how do you know I'll do?" Miss Burnett said, startled. "Oh, you'll do. I just know you will," Bellows told her. "You and I are going to get along just dandy." "My shorthand is a little rusty," the girl said. "What's a little thing like that?" Bellows laughed, ignoring the fact that he had fired his last secretary because she had misspelled an eight-syllable word. But the last secretary had worn thick glasses, Wilbur recalled. That would make a difference to Pete Bellows. He was suddenly aware that Bellows was frowning at him. "Get to work, Mook," Bellows said cheerfully. "Mother's Day is coming, you know." With what he pretended was a gentle pat on the back Bellows flung Wilbur toward the tiny cubicle he occupied at the rear of the large office. Once Bellows had played tackle on a football team and although he was beefier now he was still very strong. Wilbur almost went through the thin partition. He bounced off and recovered his balance, then went into his cubicle through the door. It was a windowless hole, lit by a single small bulb. Wilbur worked at an old table which was neatly stacked with sheets of blank paper. He furnished his own pen. There was a small window in Wilbur's door, but contrary to what a visitor might have expected, it had not been placed there for Wilbur's convenience. The window was the means by which Bellows could watch his poet and be certain that he was working every minute of the time. * * * * * Today Wilbur found himself at a loss for rhymes. By mid-morning he had completed only fifteen poems in praise of Mother. He still had some fifty to go. But instead of writing he too often caught himself listening to what was going on in the outer office. "Mr. Bellows--" the new girl started to say. "Call me Pete," Wilbur heard Bellows tell her. "I'll call you Jean. Just one happy family, you know, you and I and Wilbur." "Does Mr. Mook write all the poetry?" Miss Burnett wanted to know. She sounded quite impressed and Wilbur glowed with a new found pride. "Just a knack. Doesn't take any brains," Bellows deprecated. "Any fool could do it." I'd like to see you try, Wilbur thought. You're one fool who couldn't. He thought that was pretty good repartee, even if it was only mental. Wilbur wished he had the nerve to say the words to Bellows' face. But he didn't. His newspaper, still folded to the classified ads, reposed in Wilbur's wastebasket and his eyes chanced to fall upon it. Something stirred in Wilbur. There had been one advertisement in particular. Just below the request for a bodyguard. He wondered if he had read it right. Keeping one eye on the window to make sure Bellows did not observe him, Wilbur retrieved his newspaper. Quickly his eye sped down the column. There it was: Are you timid? Do you lack confidence? I can help you. A. J. Merlin, 136 W. Erie St. Wilbur shook his head and dropped the newspaper into the wastebasket. He was rather inclined to think A. J. Merlin was overestimating his powers. Probably a fake, anyway. Most of those fellows were. Looking out of his window, Wilbur saw Bellows patting Jean on the shoulder as he explained something to her. He was a fast worker, was Pete Bellows. By the time Wilbur got the next line of poetry written Bellows was asking Jean if he could take her to lunch. Before answering she turned her head toward Wilbur and he could see that she was none too happy about the offer. She seemed to be trying to think of a good reason for not accepting. "Well?" Pete asked. Jean looked back at him. "I--I guess so," Wilbur heard her say. Bellows patted her on the shoulder again. I wonder, Wilbur thought, what she would say if I asked her sometime? That looked like a question which would never find an answer. It would take more nerve than he had to ask. But the very thought of him inviting a girl like Jean to lunch sent a pleasant tingle down Wilbur's back. He even allowed himself to think that she might prefer a smoother type of man than Pete Bellows. Smoother, Wilbur reminded himself miserably, not mushier. Just before noon Pete Bellows came in to get the copy Wilbur had turned out through the morning. At the sight of the tiny stack which had accumulated Bellows' mouth turned down. "Loafing!" he accused. "Just because I've been too busy to keep my eyes on you!" It occurred to Wilbur that the only thing he'd seen Pete do that morning was pat Jean's shoulder, and that hardly seemed like hard work. But he didn't say anything. "Probably reading the paper while my back was turned," Pete went on. He reached down and got the paper and put it in his pocket. "Now, listen to me, Mook. You'd better have some work done when Jean and I get back from lunch!" Wilbur nodded without looking up at him. He was always afraid to look at Bellows when the burly man was angry. Pete could get a vicious glint in his eye. After Pete had left the cubicle Wilbur sneaked a look after him. He saw that Jean had heard the whole thing. And at sight of the distaste on her face he flushed. Why couldn't he have told Pete off? Wilbur started to dream about what he should have said. Then he stopped. It was all right to daydream but Pete had sounded sore when he had said he wanted to see some work done. Wilbur put his head down and started writing. Within the hour he had completed six odes to Mother. One of them, Wilbur knew, he could sell to a magazine for twenty times what Bellows would pay. For a moment he was tempted, even going so far as to pick up the sheet of paper preparatory to putting it in his pocket. Then he thought of what Pete Bellows might do if he found out. Wilbur set the paper back on the pile. He was just in time. There were footsteps out in the hall and then the door swung open. Bellows and Jean came in. The girl was laughing now, and as Pete helped her off with her coat he was practically breathing down her neck. It looked as though he had made some progress. "Is it all right if I go to lunch now?" Wilbur asked timidly. He had to wait until Pete had checked over his work. Then he got permission to go. * * * * * Until he was outside Wilbur felt hungry. For an hour his stomach had been reminding him that it was time to eat. But suddenly the pangs of hunger were gone. The thought of food was even unpleasant. Maybe a short walk would give him fresh appetite, Wilbur thought. The day was pleasant and sunny. If he spent a half hour walking he would still have twenty minutes in which to gulp a sandwich. Pete Bellows had decreed that fifty minutes constituted a lunch hour for Wilbur. It was with no conscious motive that Wilbur headed south. He found himself walking at a gait much faster than his usual one, but attributed that to the fine weather which he assured himself was exhilarating. Before he realized how fast he was going he had covered a dozen blocks. The neighborhood had changed. Behind him lay the business district with its skyscrapers. All about him were the sagging and unsightly houses of a once fine residential neighborhood which had deteriorated into a slum area. The only places which seemed at all cared for were the rooming houses. A poem of protest rose in Wilbur's breast, and was stilled as he became aware that he was on Erie street. The street had some meaning for him but it took several minutes before he realized why. Then he gasped. Only two doors from where he stood was 136 West Erie Street! For a long time Wilbur stood looking at the house. It was an old red brick structure three stories high. The upper two floors appeared untenanted. If they were not, the occupants must have liked fresh air for there were no windows. Wilbur directed his attention to the first floor. The windows there were too dusty to see through, but at least there were windows. A fat grey cat sunned itself on the window ledge and regarded Wilbur with unblinking eyes. He shuddered and had to summon all his courage to climb the stairs and look at the card nailed to the front door. A. J. Merlin, the card said, in an unusual script that Wilbur had trouble deciphering. He raised his hand to knock, then changed his mind. But as he was turning away he heard the door open. "Looking for me, bub?" a creaking voice said. Wilbur turned around. He found himself face to face with an old gentleman wrapped in what appeared to be a blue dressing gown with white stars all over it. The old man had a wisp of a beard and white eyebrows that slanted way up at the outside corners. He was wearing on his head a blue dunce cap which also had white stars on it. "Are you-uh-Mr. A. J. Merlin?" Wilbur stammered. "I mean the Mr. Merlin who gives people confidence?" "I might be," the old man said cagily. He stared down at Wilbur, and for the first time Wilbur noticed the old man had eyes as black and mysterious as a pool on a dark night. Those eyes regarded Wilbur, noting his size, weight and general construction. "Bah," the old man snorted. "You won't do. Not timid enough." "Yes, sir," Wilbur chattered. He started backward down the stairs and almost fell. "Wait a minute," the creaky voice ordered. Wilbur halted in mid-step. The black eyes regarded him. A hand tipped by long, curving fingernails stroked the wisp of a beard. "On the other hand," the old man said, "you might be more timid than you look. Come on in." * * * * * Wilbur trailed after him down a long dark hallway that was musty with age. At the end of the hall was an equally musty room, sparsely furnished with sagging and broken odds and ends. It was not the furniture which engaged Wilbur's attention, but the other features of the place. On an ancient stand a sun-dial reposed, and next to it a large and milk-white glass ball. Near the stand a tripod stood over a sheet of metal on which a small fire blazed, and from the tripod a kettle was suspended. Something bubbled in the kettle, something that gave off a strange and noxious odor. Around the room jugs were scattered, and as Wilbur caught sight of the labels a chill ran up his back. There were such unusual items as _Essence of Dried Toad_, _Basilisk Oil_, _Chimera's Breath-Distilled_. "Sit down," A. J. Merlin said suddenly. Wilbur sat down with such abruptness that he almost went through an ancient sofa to the floor. Merlin's eyes lit up. "You really are timid," he said. "Yes, sir," Wilbur agreed hastily. "Do you think you can help me?" "Depends. It isn't my regular line. I came here looking for a special kind of person. If you're that person you can help me. In return I'll do the same for you. All depends on how cowardly you are." "I've never been brave about anything in my life," Wilbur said truthfully. He went on in detail. In a short history of his life he made it clear that he was a complete and abject coward. He was afraid of anything that walked or swam or flew, no matter how small. He was afraid of dark rooms. A dirty look made him tremble. "Perfect," Merlin breathed. He rubbed his taloned hands together. "Not a shred of courage in you." "Is that good?" Wilbur gasped. Merlin smiled, and with his smile his eyebrows slanted more than ever. His ears were suddenly elongated. "Ordinarily not," he said. Wilbur had a hunch that this time there would be nothing extraordinary to alter the case. "I've tried everything," he told Merlin. "I've gone to psychologists, read books, even tried Yoga. Nothing helps." "Naturally," Merlin said. "I'll tell you why: Everyone is a mixture of traits handed down from his ancestors. Somewhere in every man's ancestry is a brave person. Even if that bravery is hidden, it's still there, and it can be brought out." "What happened to me?" Wilbur wanted to know. "You got cheated," Merlin said as though he were immensely pleased. "You got only half the traits, and they were the cowardly ones. That's why you couldn't be cured. There was no bravery in you to be brought out." "Oh," Wilbur gulped. "I guess I'd better be going." He started to rise. "Sit down," Merlin said. Wilbur plunked back into the sofa. He watched Merlin walk to the stand and lift the glass ball. The old man peered into the ball and its color changed to rose, then purple. Something was going on inside it but Wilbur couldn't see what. "Who's this fellow Pete Bellows?" Merlin wanted to know. Wilbur was astonished. He hadn't mentioned Pete's name. When he told the old man who Pete was Merlin chuckled. "Thinks he's quite a man with the ladies, doesn't he? I'll fix him." Merlin made a pass over the glass ball and muttered a few words which Wilbur didn't catch. There was a sudden thump, clearly audible to Wilbur, and Merlin chuckled gleefully. "What happened?" Wilbur asked. "The door opened just as he was going by and he walked into the edge of it. He's got a black eye." "Good-bye," Wilbur said. The hair on the back of his neck was standing on end as he moved toward the door of the room. "Come back here," Merlin commanded. "You want me to make you brave, don't you?" Wilbur's mind whirled. He had fallen into the hands of this old madman and now he didn't know how to get away. Who knew what might happen to him? He had to think of something. "What do you charge?" he asked. No matter what Merlin said Wilbur was prepared to say he didn't have that much. In no way was he prepared for Merlin's words. "Your right eye." * * * * * A cold sweat formed on Wilbur Mook's brow. His teeth chattered. Down at his little toe a tremor started and worked its way up along his spine. The roof of his mouth turned dry as dust and his throat was parched. "I haven't got it," he choked. Because he had been ready to say that he had said it automatically. Too late he realized it was the wrong answer. "Don't be a fool," Merlin told him sternly. "Wouldn't you rather be a one-eyed hero than a two-eyed coward?" "No," Wilbur said. Merlin glared at him balefully and Wilbur quailed and cringed. What sort of nightmare had he wandered into? He would gladly have given everything he owned to be back in the office. Even Pete Bellows was better than this maniac! "Could I please go, Mr. Merlin?" Wilbur begged. "I'll be late if I don't. Pete will be sore." "Tell you what I'll do," Merlin said, in a manner of one offering an added incentive. "You let me have your right eye and I'll see to it that Bellows falls down the stairs and breaks his neck." He picked up the glass ball again and Wilbur felt himself grow faint. Now he was certain that this old man was not only a maniac but a _homicidal_ maniac! "Wouldn't anything but my right eye do?" he asked plaintively. "I don't think so, but I'll look it up," Merlin said. Out of the folds of his white-starred gown he drew a book. Wetting his index finger, Merlin turned pages until he came to the one he wanted. "_Elixir of Caution_," Merlin read aloud. "One part _Fawn's Breath_, one part _Dove's Heart-Dried_, one part _Tears of Despair_, and _Right Eye of Complete Coward_. Simmer for one hour with proper incantations." "But I'm cautious enough already!" Wilbur protested. He got to his feet hopefully. "Well, I guess this has been a mistake. I'd better be running along." Merlin regarded him with a steady eye and Wilbur wished he could divine what was going on behind those black and glittering orbs. Maybe Merlin was going to let him go. From the way Merlin was nodding his head it seemed that way. "Very well," the old man said. "But we must have a drink together." "Oh, I never drink," Wilbur assured him virtuously. Merlin waved aside the protest. "Nothing stronger than tea," he said. He went to a far corner of the room and lifted a small vial which was made of some material that shimmered irridescently. Wilbur watched fascinated as Merlin poured a small amount of a smoky liquid from the vial into a pair of tiny cups. "Are you sure this isn't strong?" Wilbur asked as Merlin handed him one of the cups. Inside the cup the strange liquid bubbled, and from its surface a fine vapor rose. "No." That was all. Then Merlin went to the sun-dial on the stand and turned it around several times. When he had adjusted it to his satisfaction he turned back to Wilbur and lifted his cup. "Here's how," Merlin said. Wilbur lifted his cup to his lips and drank. Merlin was right. The liquid seemed no stronger than tea. In fact it tasted much like tea, except that it had a smoky flavor, not at all unpleasant. "Thank you," he said politely, and started for the door. But he had no more than started than he turned back and sat down again. It was a strange feeling which assailed Wilbur Mook. His legs seemed weak, yet through the rest of him a strength flowed which was like liquid fire. Then there came a giddiness. His head was feather light. Merlin receded, not walking but floating back and back. And as his figure drifted away from Wilbur it grew strangely taller. The eyebrows were more slanted than ever and the ears were longer and more pointed. And as Merlin's figure grew larger it began to dissolve. Now Wilbur's entire body seemed as light as air to him. It felt as though he too could float if he tried. He saw, as through a haze and at a great distance, Merlin bending over the kettle which hung from the tripod. From inside his flowing gown Merlin produced a wand and a packet. Out of the packet drifted a fine white powder into the kettle. There was a wave of the wand, and out of the kettle poured a thick black smoke which filled the room until there was nothing but blackness. Wilbur's ears were filled with a roaring. He felt himself lifted and whirled. Around and around he whirled, and faster and faster. He was being sucked into a vortex, pulled down into a black tunnel that was endless. * * * * * Somewhere nearby there was a crowd of people. Wilbur knew that because he could hear the murmur of many voices. But when he opened his eyes he found himself in a forest glade. The sun was bright overhead and on a limb above him a bird sang. He shook himself and looked around. He was not alone. Only a few feet away stood Merlin, still wearing his blue robe and his conical hat. He nodded when he saw that Wilbur was awake. "How do you feel?" the old man asked. "Fine, thank you," Wilbur answered without thinking. It was when he looked down at his body that he sucked in his breath. Not only was he no longer in that musty room, but he no longer wore his own clothes! His body was encased in a gown of brown monk's cloth! "Your clothes would have been out of place here," Merlin told him, guessing what Wilbur thought. "But--where am I?" "Near Camelot," Merlin said. "Better get up now. We haven't much time." Wilbur got to his feet slowly, his eyes darting about. If he saw a chance he would make a run for it. But Merlin's hand was like a claw on the sleeve of Wilbur's robe. "You try to run and I'll put a curse on you that will fix you permanently," the old man whispered hoarsely. Wilbur followed him like a lamb to the slaughter. They took a path that led out of the glade and to a road only a few yards away. Ten yards or so down the road they came on the crowd whose voices Wilbur had heard. His hair stood on end. They were before the doors of an ancient church. And in the cleared space before those doors milled a strange throng. Men on foot wore robes of the plain monk's cloth and carried wooden staves. Towering above them were mounted men, men dressed in hauberks and doublets of chain mail. All of them had their eyes fixed on something in the center of the crowd. Then someone caught sight of Merlin and his name was whispered. As by magic the people parted to let him and Wilbur through. For the first time Wilbur saw what they had been staring at. It was a rough block of stone, and buried to the hilt in the stone was a sword! "Merlin," a voice said, a voice that was heavy and assured. Wilbur looked up and shrank away from the armored giant on horseback who towered over him and the old man. The giant raised the visor of his helmet and Wilbur beheld a face that was as cruel as a hawk's. Dark eyes gleamed from beneath black and bristling brows. "What mummery is this?" the dark man asked. "No mummery, but the good bishop's prayer answered," Merlin said calmly. "Is not the stone inscribed, Sir Kay?" "Inscribed," Sir Kay echoed. "And its message is that he who withdraws the sword shall be king of England." His scowl made Wilbur's knees weaken, but Merlin remained unaffected. In fact the old man seemed quite cheerful. "Excalibur it is called," Merlin said. "He who wrenches it free shall rule." "Hear me," Sir Kay grated. "If this be one of your tricks, know this: none but a son of Uther Pendragon will reign." For a moment Wilbur forgot the two. He had caught sight of the inscription of the stone and was reading it. Apparently it was meant to be a poem but it did not rhyme. On the spot Wilbur produced what he thought was a better one. He tried it out, not realizing he spoke aloud. "Who from this stone Excalibur draws Shall be England's king and make her laws." Sir Kay frowned blackly and his hand hovered near a dagger at his side. "What have you to do with this, varlet?" he demanded. "He is but a troubadour," Merlin interjected quickly. "A bard who will sing your praises after the tourney." "I had forgotten the tourney," Sir Kay grunted. "But see you forget not my warning." He reined away, knocking people aside like tenpins. Behind him the other knights followed, and after them went the common people. In a few minutes Wilbur and Merlin found themselves alone. In the distance, and in the direction the crowd had vanished, Wilbur saw the towers of a medieval castle. "Camelot," Merlin told him. "I don't like this," Wilbur said. "That fellow looked as though he wanted to slit my throat." "Yours wouldn't be the first one he's slit," Merlin said. "But you stay close to me and you'll be safe enough. Although I must admit that Kay has become quite a problem since his father died." "Is he a son of Uther Pendragon?" "Why do you think he insists that none but Uther's sons may rule?" Merlin snarled. "But with a king like him we'd have nothing but corpses around. That's why I needed you." * * * * * Wilbur was bewildered, but not completely baffled. It had become painfully clear to him that Merlin had found him, not vice versa. The advertisement in the paper had been a trick to lure a timid man. But there was still a little clearing up to be done. "Would you please explain what I have to do with all this?" Wilbur asked plaintively. Merlin clawed gently at his beard and shrugged. "I suppose it would be only fair, after abducting you from the twentieth century and dragging you back here. The point is this: after Uther died there was a squabble over who should be king. We couldn't stand a civil war so the bishop of this church prayed for a sign, and the next day this stone and sword were found here. So far nobody has been able to pull it out." "You didn't have anything to do with that, did you?" Wilbur asked naively. "I'm not saying. Anyway, Sir Kay is the logical man for the job, except that he's too quick with his blade. That left only one other, and he's got his fault too." Wilbur was thinking about his right eye. A little flattery might go a long way. "I should think you would make a good king, Mr. Merlin." "My father was an incubus," Merlin said, as though that explained everything. He peered down the road as the sound of hoofs reached them. Wilbur followed Merlin's gaze and saw a young man on horseback coming toward them from the direction of Camelot. The young fellow wore a shirt of mail but no helmet, and his horse was not armored. Merlin held up his hand and the mounted man drew rein. Wilbur got a good look at him. He was almost as big as Sir Kay, but with a fair complexion and light hair. He could not have been much over fifteen, despite his size. His manner was easy, giving the suggestion of enormous strength in reserve, yet with a hint of gentleness. But it was his eyes which were his outstanding feature. They were a clear brown, wide, and with an expression of complete fearlessness. "Where to, Arthur?" Merlin asked. "My brother Kay has broken his sword. I must get him another." "Tarry a moment," Merlin said. "I have a question which troubles me. The enemies of our land march against us, and they outnumber us five to one. Were you king, what would you do?" Arthur laughed, a clear ringing laugh that showed rows of white teeth. His brown eyes glowed with an inward fire. "Do? I would take the field against them, of course! Even though they outnumber us fifty to one." Wilbur thrilled to the words. But Merlin shuddered slightly and Wilbur heard a faint groan of distress come from his lips. "Got here in the nick of time," the old man muttered. He looked up at Arthur and said aloud: "You may have your chance. But first you must make me a promise. You must come to my castle this very night and drink the draught I shall prepare for you." "I promise," Arthur said unthinkingly. "And now I'll be getting that sword for Kay." "This looks like a good one," Merlin said. He pointed to the sword in the stone. "It does indeed," Arthur agreed. Without a second look he bent and seized the hilt and wrenched it free. He raised the sword in a salute to Merlin and Wilbur, laughed his ringing carefree laugh, and was gone in a cloud of dust. * * * * * Merlin's castle was not overly large, and as far as Wilbur could see after he got inside, most of it was under ground. He and the old man were in a great damp chamber, the walls of which were solid rock. The room was filled with Merlin's jugs, with tripods from which boiling kettles hung, and with great black cats which prowled everywhere. The door was of solid oak and immovable. Wilbur knew; he had tried it once when Merlin had gone out. At the moment Merlin and he were sitting facing each other on a pair of stone couches. They had been sitting so for some hours and the silence was wearing Wilbur down. "So Arthur is going to be king," he said at last, in an effort to start a conversation. "He looks like a fine boy." "He is," Merlin agreed. "Chivalrous and all that. It was foreordained. That's why I had to get back. I knew he was going to be along that road today, and I knew he was going to pull out that sword." "I thought you said he had a fault." "What a fault," Merlin sighed. "He's got your trouble, but in reverse. He was born without fear. It's a bad thing for a king to be like that. He'd lead his people into sure death. You heard what he said this afternoon. Even odds of fifty to one mean nothing to him." For the first time Wilbur saw the whole thing. Until now he had entertained a faint hope that Merlin might not really want his eye. But this was the clincher. The _Elixir of Caution_! Desperately he cast about for a means of escape. There was none. And Merlin was watching him with an eagle eye. "Maybe," Wilbur offered weakly, "a few drops of my blood would do the trick. You don't want Arthur to get _too_ timid." "Nice of you to think of it," Merlin said. "But I really couldn't fool with that recipe." Wilbur wished with all his heart that he had the courage to put up some kind of fight. Merlin was an old and feeble man. But he knew his genetics. Wilbur had been born without a gene of courage. Wilbur rubbed his right eye, the one he would soon be without, and felt tears well up. His last glimmer of hope was borne on a sigh. "Maybe he won't come." "He'll come all right. Arthur never breaks a promise. That's one of his best points. What I'm trying to do is see to it that he isn't so rash about making them in the first place." It seemed that Merlin was right, for just then there came to their ears the sound of iron shod hoofs in the courtyard above their heads. The ceiling trembled slightly and a drop of water fell on Wilbur's head. Then footsteps clattered down a long flight of stairs and the door swung open. It was Arthur, and from his appearance it was plain he had been in a fight. * * * * * From a cut alongside his temple blood dripped. His shirt of mail had been pierced at the left shoulder and blood glistened redly there. Some had trickled down and lay in beads like rubies on the gleaming mail. His face was streaked with sweat and dirt and his hair lay in wet clumps, and he was breathing hard. "What happened?" Merlin asked quickly. Arthur let out a laugh and his eyes glowed fierce. "A band of varlets tried to ambush me on my way here. Had I not been in so great a hurry to keep my appointment with you I'd have brought you some heads on Excalibur's point." He held up the great sword and Wilbur turned faint at the sight of the gore along its blade. He put his hand over his mouth and his eyes rolled upward. "Wipe that blade before this one perishes of fright," Merlin said quickly. Then he became solicitous. "Are you sore wounded?" "There were only ten," Arthur laughed. "They were too busy defending their lives to do me much harm. Now, where is that drink you invited me here for?" "It will take a while to prepare," Merlin said. He busied himself with a kettle and some jugs and powders. Wilbur was turning a pale green from fright. He had to think of something. Suddenly he turned to Arthur. "You won't like this drink," he whispered urgently. "It may even poison you!" Arthur stared down at him. "Even so I needs must drink it. I have given my word. A promise may not be broken." Merlin was coming toward them now and Wilbur saw that the old man held in his hand an instrument which looked like a surgeon's scalpel. He let out a shriek of terror and would have run had his legs not been paralyzed. "What is this womanly fright?" Arthur asked, wrinkling his nose. "I need his right eye to make the _Elixir of Caution_," Merlin explained. He laid a claw on Wilbur's shoulder and it was like the hand of doom. "Yeeow!" Wilbur howled. He began to babble. "You lied to me! You said you'd make me brave! False pretenses!" He stopped abruptly. Merlin's hand had fallen from his shoulder. There was a sudden silence that grew thick and ominous. Looking up fearfully, Wilbur saw that Arthur had fixed Merlin with a hostile glare. "Did you so promise?" Arthur demanded. He stood straight and regal. "Answer me, and forget not I am your king." Merlin's hands made feeble and apologetic gestures. "What could I do?" he pleaded. "One like him is born seldom. I had searched the centuries, and there was no more time." He turned to Wilbur and his face betrayed an apprehension that made Wilbur's hopes rise. Arthur did not act like he would stand for any promise-breaking among his subjects. "Tell you what I could do," Merlin said. "I could put your eye back when I'm through with it. In fact, that's a promise." "Will that make him brave?" Arthur demanded. "Well...." Merlin hesitated. Arthur's finger slid suggestively along the blade of his sword. "I'll look it up," the old man finished hurriedly. * * * * * His hand dipped beneath his robe and came out with the ancient book. A long nailed finger ran through the pages. There was a pause, and then Merlin began to mumble. "_Elixir of Fortitude_: One part _Eagle's Heart-Dried_, one part _Lion's Breath-Distilled_, one part _Essence of Steel_, hm-m-m." His voice trailed off in a hum, then picked up again. "Simmer for one hour. _Caution_: MUST BE FINISHED BEFORE MIDNIGHT." "Well?" Arthur said. "I've got everything except the last ingredient," Merlin said unhappily. Suddenly his face lit up. "We'd better hurry. There is only an hour and a half left." He scurried to a bottle which hung on the wall and brought it back to Wilbur. "Drink some quickly. You will feel no pain." When Wilbur had gulped some down Merlin took the bottle and handed it to Arthur. "You too." * * * * * Above their heads there was a rumbling and the pounding of hoofs in the courtyard. Quickly Merlin ran to the oak door and slammed it shut. He seemed to be expecting trouble. It turned out he was right again. More than one pair of feet was on the stone stairway. Loud voices shouted, "Open up!" Wilbur recognized one of the voices and he groaned. Then bodies were hurled against the door. It held against the first assault, and against the second. The third time there was a splintering of wood. Wilbur held his breath. A hinge had torn loose. Once more there was the crash of armored bodies against the oak and the door flew inward. Sir Kay was inside in a flash, and behind him came five more. The dark man's eyes lit on Wilbur. "So, varlet!" Kay bellowed hoarsely. "My suspicion was right. You are in the plot against me!" Without waiting for a denial he flung himself at Wilbur and his sword swished through the air. How he managed it Wilbur never knew, but he ducked in time. The flat of Kay's sword caught him a glancing blow on the head and knocked him off the stone bench. Then the great room was filled with the clash of steel as Arthur went into action. Out of eyes that were glassy Wilbur saw him decapitate two men with a single stroke. Another fell dead before he could raise his shield. The other two fled with Kay's curses following them. Only Arthur's brother was left. "Yield," Arthur warned grimly. Kay's reply turned Wilbur's ears red. The two went at it. For a few minutes it was an even battle, and then suddenly both swords came together with a force that drew sparks. Kay was left with only a hilt in his hand. What happened next Wilbur hardly knew. There was a clang as something bounced on the stone floor, and a great round object that looked like a helmet rolled past him. "Quickly now," Wilbur heard Merlin say. "There is barely the hour left to us." Wilbur could hear but he could see nothing. There was a black veil over his eyes. Powerful arms lifted him and laid him on the stone bench. Then there was the sound of bottles being emptied into kettles. Wilbur heard feet approach him but he was too sleepy to care. Something touched his eye but he felt no pain. In his dazed state time passed quickly for him. There was always the scuffling of Merlin's feet, and now and again the old man's creaky voice rose in weird incantations. Then something hot was pressed against Wilbur's lips. "Drink," Merlin said. Wilbur opened his mouth and felt a hot liquid gush down his throat. "I want my eye," Wilbur mumbled. "Don't worry," Merlin told him. "I'm getting it." He was taking his time about it, Wilbur thought. He could hear a great stirring going on. There were muffled curses and he heard something bouncing on the floor. "Darn stuff is so thick I can't tell them apart," Merlin was muttering. "Hurry!" Arthur called. "The cock crows midnight!" "I'm doing my best," Merlin said. He was breathing hard as he bent over Wilbur. There was a quick pressure against Wilbur's eye socket and Merlin grunted triumphantly. "There!" the old man said. "I've kept my promise. Now I'm going to send you back where I found you, and good riddance. You've been nothing but trouble." Again something hot was poured down Wilbur's throat. It had a familiar taste, a sort of smoky flavor. Liquid fire coursed through his veins, he felt his body grow light and buoyant, he was floating. Then he was being sucked down into a black vortex and through a Stygian passage. The passage seemed endless but it was not, and at the end was a tiny hole of light which grew steadily larger. * * * * * Wilbur found himself on a sagging porch, before a door that leaned on sprung hinges. His head ached, and raising his hand he ran it along his scalp until he found a large bump. He rolled his eyes upward as though to see where he had been hurt. All he saw was a jagged hole in the porch roof. At his feet was a chunk of plaster. It took a minute for the realization to filter through that he was standing on the porch of 136 W. Erie Street. Wilbur recalled walking up the stairs. After that everything was a blur. He scrutinized the door. There was no card bearing the name of A. J. Merlin. In fact, there was no card at all! "Hey, mister," a boy's voice called. Wilbur turned around and saw a tattered urchin regarding him gravely. "Ain't nobody lived in that house for years," the boy said. "It's haunted." Wilbur shuddered and at the same instant became aware of a peculiar phenomenon. He seemed to be seeing the boy through only one eye. The other was strangely blurred. Wilbur pulled out his handkershief and wiped his right eye. His vision improved but as he moved toward the head of the stairs he swayed slightly. "You get hurt or something?" the boy asked as Wilbur came toward him. Wilbur rubbed his head. "I'm all right," Wilbur told him. He said it partly to reassure himself. He looked at his wrist watch and found he had only twenty minutes to get back to work. That was puzzling. There was a lapse of time. Being a man of imagination, Wilbur reflected that if he had actually been in the past he would not have used up any time in the present. On the other hand, it was more probable that he had been hit on the head by falling plaster and had incurred a slight lapse of consciousness, memory, or both. He was inclined to accept that explanation. At any rate he was going to be late if he didn't hurry, and Pete Bellows would be mad as a hornet. Wilbur speeded up his pace. Then he slowed down again. If anyone should be angry it was himself. He had missed his lunch. Riding up in the elevator Wilbur checked his watch again and found he was only five minutes late. In his working life that represented two lines of doggerel. It didn't seem like much to get excited about. But Pete Bellows didn't see it that way. "Mook!" he roared, as Wilbur came through the door. "You're late!" If he had expected Wilbur to fall into his usual fit of trembling he was disappointed. Wilbur was staring at him. "Your eye!" Wilbur gasped. Pete's left eye was swollen half shut and had a blue ring around it. "He walked into the door," Miss Burnett said. "Honest." Wilbur smiled at her. She was a very pretty girl. Too pretty to be working for a wolf like Pete Bellows. Wilbur had a notion to tell her so. "I said you're late, Mook," Pete told him ominously. "So what?" Wilbur asked quietly. "If you don't like it you can fire me. In fact, considering that you find so much fault with my work I'm surprised you haven't discharged me long ago. But I'll save you the trouble. I quit." Pete was staring at him as though Wilbur had gone mad. Maybe he had, Wilbur thought. Maybe Pete was going to get sore and punch him in the nose. It didn't seem to matter. "Not only that," Wilbur added. "I'm going into business for myself. How would you like to work for me, Miss Burnett?" "I think I'd like that just fine," she said. She took her purse out of a drawer in her desk and got her coat and put it on. Pete Bellows was a stricken man. For once he had nothing to say. His mouth dropped open and he leaned against his desk. "W-wait a minute, Wilbur, old pal," he managed to gasp finally. "Goodbye," was all Wilbur had to say. He held the door open carefully for Miss Burnett, then shut it behind them as carefully. Wilbur knew that he was outwardly calm. Inside, he was filled with amazement at himself. Never had he thought to see the day when he would stand up to Pete Bellows. Now he had not only done it, he had got away with it! He took Miss Burnett's elbow. She was looking at him rather queerly, he thought. "What's the matter?" "I just noticed the strangest thing about you," she said. "You're the first person I've ever seen who had different colored eyes!" Wilbur gasped. His knees felt weak, and out of the past he heard a creaky voice say, "... I can't tell them apart." Now he understood that _Arthur's_ right eye had been the last ingredient in the _Elixir of Fortitude_! Wilbur smiled. There was nothing to be angry about. He certainly hadn't got the worst of the bargain! His shoulders were squared as he helped Miss Burnett into the elevator car. "Let's go, Jean," Wilbur said. [Transcriber's Corrections Changed "widow" to "window" (A fat grey cat sunned itself on the window ledge) Removed extra "and" (He picked up the glass ball again and Wilbur felt himself grow faint) Changed "is it" to "it is" ("Excalibur it is called," Merlin said.) Changed "face" to "fact" (In fact, there was no card at all!) Changed "handkershief" to "handkerchief" (Wilbur pulled out his handkerchief and wiped his right eye) Removed extraneous doublequote at the end of the sentence (Arthur's right eye had been the last ingredient in the Elixir of Fortitude!)] 
35598	----	[Illustration: THREE TIMES THEY BROKE SPEARS] TALES FROM TENNYSON BY MOLLY K. BELLEW EDITOR OF "TALES FROM LONGFELLOW" "DICKENS' CHRISTMAS STORIES FOR CHILDREN" ETC., ETC. ILLUSTRATED BY H. S. CAMPBELL NEW YORK AND BOSTON H. M. CALDWELL CO. PUBLISHERS COPYRIGHT, 1902 BY JAMIESON-HIGGINS CO. CONTENTS. The Coming of King Arthur 9 Gareth and Lynette 29 The Marriage of Geraint 46 Geraint's Quest of Honor 64 Merlin and Vivien 85 Balin and Balan 95 Lancelot and Elaine 104 The Holy Grail 119 Pelleas and Ettarre 132 The Last Tournament 142 The Passing of Arthur 150 To my Young Readers. Alfred Lord Tennyson was the typically English poet, and none, perhaps not even Shakespeare, has appealed so keenly to the human heart. No other man's poems have caused as many readers to shed tears of sympathy nor have awakened higher sentiments in the human heart. The critics agree in pronouncing him the ideal poet laureate. In his "Idylls from the King" are found the loftiest and proudest deeds of English history and even in the retelling of these in prose the high spirit that is an inspiration to the noblest deeds cannot fail to be preserved. MOLLY K. BELLEW. THE COMING OF KING ARTHUR. Over a thousand years ago everybody was talking about the wonderful King Arthur and his brilliant Knights of the Round Table, who everywhere were pursuing bold quests, putting to rout the band of outlaws and robbers which in those days infested every highway and by-way of the country, going to war with tyrannical nobles, establishing law and order among the rich, redressing the wrongs of women, the poor and the oppressed, and winning glorious renown for their valor and their successes. That was in England which at that time was not England as it is today, all one kingdom under a single ruler, but was divided into many bits of kingdoms each with its own king and all warring against each other. Arthur's kingdom was the most unpeaceful of all. This was because for twenty years or more, ever since the death of old King Uther, the country had been without a ruler. Old King Uther had died about a score of years before without leaving an heir to the throne, and all the nobles of the realm had immediately gone to war with one another each trying to get the most land and each trying to get the throne for himself. [Illustration: OLD MERLIN APPEARS.] Suddenly, however, old Merlin, the wizard who had been King Uther's magician, appeared one day in the royal council hall with a handsome young man, Arthur, and declared him to be the king of the realm. Arthur was crowned and for a time the nobles were quiet, for he ruled with a strong hand of iron, put down all the evils in his kingdom and everywhere gave it peace and order. People in every part of the island sent for him and his knights, begging him to come to help them out of their difficulties. But presently the nobles became troublesome again; they said that Arthur was not the true king, that he was not the son of Uther and that, therefore, he had no right to reign over them. So there was fighting and unrest again, and in the midst of it Leodogran, the king of the Land of Cameliard, asked Arthur to come with his knights and drive away the enemies besetting him on every side. The country of Cameliard had gone to waste and ruin, because of the continual warfare that was waged with the kings that lived in the little neighboring countries and a mass of wild-eyed foreign heathen peoples who invaded the land. And so it happened that Cameliard was ravaged with battles, its strong men were cut down with the sword and wild dogs, wolves, and bears from the tangled weeds came rooting up the green fields and wallowing into the palace gardens. Sometimes the wolves stole little children from the villages and nursed them like their own cubs, until finally these children grew up into a race of wolf-men who molested the land worse than the wolves themselves. Then another king fought Leodogran, and at last the heathen hordes came swarming from over the seas and made all the earth red with his soldiers' blood, and they made the sun red with the smoke of the burning homes of his people. Leodogran simply did not know which way to turn for help until at last he thought of young Arthur of the Round Table who recently had been crowned king. So Leodogran sent for Arthur beseeching him to come and help him, for between the men and the beasts his country was dying. [Illustration: PRINCESS GUINEVERE.] King Arthur and his men welcomed the chance and went at once into the Land of Cameliard to drive away the heathen marauders. As he marched with his men past the castle walls, pretty Princess Guinevere stood outside to watch the glittering soldiers go by. Among so many richly dressed knights she did not particularly notice Arthur, for he wore nothing to show that he was king, although his kingly bearing and brave forehead might suggest leadership. But no royal arms were engraved upon his helmet or his shield, and he carried simple weapons not nearly so gorgeously emblazoned as those of some of the others. [Illustration: HE LED HIS WARRIORS BOLDLY.] Although Guinevere did not see the fair young King, Arthur spied her beside the castle wall; he felt the light of her beautiful eyes glimmering out into his heart and setting it all aflame with a fire of love for her. He led his warriors boldly to the forests where they pitched their tents, then fought all the heathen until they scampered away to their own territories, he slew the frightful wild beasts that had plundered the fields, cut down the forest trees so as to open out roads for the people of Cameliard to pass over from one part of their land to the other, then he traveled quietly away with his men, back to fight his own battles in his own country. For there was fighting everywhere in those days. But all the time in Arthur's heart, while he was doing those wonderful things for Leodogran, he was thinking still, not of Leodogran, but of the lovely Guinevere, and yearning for her. If only she could be his queen he thought they two together could rule on his throne as one strong, sweet, delicious life, and could exert a mighty power over all his people to make them good and wise and happy. Each day increased his love until he could not bear even to think for a moment of living without her. So from the very field of battle, while the swords were flashing and clashing about him, as he fought the barons and great lords who had risen up against him, Arthur dispatched three messengers to Leodogran, the King of Cameliard. These three messengers were Ulfius, Brastias and Bedivere, the very first knight Arthur had knighted upon his throne. They went to Leodogran and said that if Arthur had been of any service to him in his recent troubles with the heathen and the wild beasts, he should give the Princess Guinevere to be Arthur's wife as a mark of his good will. [Illustration: ARTHUR DISPATCHED THREE MESSENGERS TO LEODOGRAN.] Well, when they had said this, Leodogran did not know what to do any better than when the heathen and the beasts had come upon him. For while he thought Arthur a very bold soldier and a very fine man, and, although he felt very grateful indeed to him for all the great things he had done, still he was not certain that Guinevere ought to marry him. For, as Guinevere was the daughter of a king she should become the wife of none but the son of a king. And Leodogran did not know precisely who this King Arthur was; but he did know that the barons of Arthur's court had burst out into this uproar against him because they said he was not their true king and not the son of King Uther who had reigned before him. Some of them declared him to be the child of Gerlois, and others avowed that Sir Anton was his father. As poor, puzzled Leodogran knew nothing about the matter himself, he sent for his gray-headed trusty old chamberlain, who always had good counsel to give him in any dilemma; and he asked the chamberlain whether he had heard anything certainly as to Arthur's birth. The chamberlain told him that there were just two men in all the world who knew the truth with respect to Arthur and where he had come from, and that both these men were twice as old as himself. One of them was Merlin the wizard, the other was Bleys, Merlin's teacher in magic, who had written a book of his renowned pupil's wonders, which probably related everything regarding the secret of Arthur's birth. "If King Arthur had done no more for me in my wars than you have just now in my present trouble," the king answered the chamberlain, "I would have died long ago from the wild beasts and the heathen. Send me in Ulfius and Brastias and Bedivere again." So the chamberlain went out and Arthur's three men came into Leodogran who spoke to them this way: "I have often seen a big cuckoo chased by little birds and understood why such tiny birds plagued him so, but why are the nobles in your country rebelling against their king and saying that he is not the son of a king. Tell me whether you yourselves think he is the child of King Uther." [Illustration: SIR KING, THERE ARE ALL SORTS OF STORIES ABOUT THAT.] Ulfius and Brastias answered immediately "yes," but Bedivere, the first of all Arthur's knights, became very bold when anyone slandered his sovereign and he replied: "_Sir King, there are all sorts of stories about that_; some of the nobles hate him just because he is good and they are wicked; they cry out that he is no man because his ways are gentler than their rough manners, while others again think he must be an angel dropped from heaven. But I will tell you the facts as I know them, King Uther and Gerlois were rivals long ago; they both loved Ygerne. And she was the wife of Gerlois and had no sons, but three daughters, one of them the Queen of Orkney who has clung to Arthur like a sister. The two rivals, Gerlois and Uther went to war with each other and Gerlois was killed in battle; then Uther quickly married the winsome Ygerne, the widow of Gerlois, for he loved her dearly and impatiently. In a few months Uther died, and on that very night of his death Arthur was born. And as soon as he was born they carried him out by a secret back gateway to Merlin the magician, to be brought up far away from the court so that no one would hear about him until he was grown up ready to sit upon Uther's, his father, throne. "For those were wild lords in those years just like these of today, always struggling for the rule, and they would have shattered the helpless little prince to pieces had they known about him. So Merlin took the baby and gave him over to old Sir Anton, a friend of Uther's, and Sir Anton's wife tended Arthur with her own little ones so that nobody knew who he was or where he had come from. But while the prince was growing up the kingdom went to weed; the great lords and barons were fighting all the time among themselves and nobody ruled. But during this present year Arthur's time for ascending the throne had come, so Merlin brought him from out of his hiding place, set him in the palace hall and cried out to all the lords and ladies, 'This is Uther's heir, your king!' Of course, none of them would have that. A hundred voices cried back immediately: 'Away with him! he is no king of ours, that's the son of Gerlois, or else the child of Anton, and no king.' "In spite of this opposition Merlin was so crafty and clever he won the day for the people, who were clamoring for a king and were glad to see Arthur crowned. But after it all was over the lords banded together and broke out in open war against Arthur. That is the whole story of this war." Although pleased with Bedivere's good account of Arthur, yet when it was ended Leodogran scarcely felt satisfied. Was Bedivere right, he thought to himself, or were the barons right? As he sat pondering over everything in his palace, _three great visitors came to the castle_; these were the Queen of Orkney, the daughter of Gerlois and Ygerne, with her two sons, Gawain and Modred. Leodogran made a great feast for them and while entertaining them at table remembered what Bedivere had said about Arthur and this queen. So he turned to the queen and remarked: [Illustration: THREE VISITORS TO THE CASTLE.] "An insecure throne is no better than a mass of ice in a summer's sea; it all melts away. You are from Arthur's court; tell me, do you think this king with his few loyal Knights of the Round Table can triumph over the rebellious lords, and keep his throne?" "O King, they are few indeed," the Queen of Orkney cried, "but so bold and true, and all of one mind with him. I was there at the coronation when the savage yells of the nobles died away, and Arthur sat crowned upon the dais with all his knights gathered round him to do his service for him forever. Arthur in low, deep tones, with simple words of great authority bound them to him with such wonderfully rigid vows that when they rose from their knees one after the other, some of them looked as pale as if a ghost had passed by them, others were flushed in their faces, and yet others seemed dazed and blind with their awe as if not fully awake. Then he spoke to them, cheering them with divine words that are far more than my tongue can ever tell you, and while he spoke every face flashed, for just a moment with his likeness, and from the crucifix above, three rays in green, blue, scarlet, streamed across upon the bright, sweet faces of the three tall fair queens, his friends who stood silently beside his throne, and who will always be ready to help him if he is in need. "Merlin, the magician, came there too, with his hundred years of art like so many hands of vassals to wait upon the young king. Near Merlin stood the mystical, marvelous Lady of the Lake, who knows a deeper magic than Merlin's own, dressed in white. A mist of incense curled all about her and her face was fairly hidden in the dim gloom. But when the holy hymns were sung a voice like flowing waters sounded through the music. It was the voice of the Lady of the Lake who lives in the lowest waters of the lake where it is always calm, no matter what storms may blow over the earth and who when the waves tumble and roll above her can walk out upon their crests just as our Lord did. "_It was she who gave Arthur his remarkable sword_ Excalibur, with its hilt like a cross wherewith he drove away the heathen for you. That strange sword rose up from out the bosom of the lake, and Arthur rowed over in a little boat and took it. The sword is incrusted with rich jewels on the hilt, with a blade so bright that men are blinded by it. On one side the words 'Take me' are graven upon it in the oldest language of the world, while on the other side the words 'Cast me away' are carved in the tongue that you speak. [Illustration: SHE GAVE ARTHUR HIS REMARKABLE SWORD] "Arthur became very sad when he saw the second inscription, but Merlin advised him to take the beautiful blade and use it; he told him that now was the time to strike and that the time to cast away was very, very far off. So Arthur took the tremendous sword and with it he will beat down his enemies, King Leodogran." Leodogran was pleased with the queen's words, but he wished to test the story Bedivere had told him, so he looked into her eyes narrowly as he observed, with a question in his tones, "The swallow and the swift are very near kin, but you are still closer to this noble prince as you are his own dear sister." "I am the daughter of Gerlois and Ygerne," she answered. "Yes, that is why you are Arthur's sister," the king returned still questioningly. "These are secret things," the Queen of Orkney replied, and she motioned with her hand for her two sons to leave her alone in the room with the king. Gawain immediately skipped away singing, his hair flying after and frolicked outside like a frisky pony, _but cunning Modred laid his ear close beside the door to listen_, so that he half heard all the strange story his mother told the king. This is what the queen said in the beginning to the king. [Illustration: CUNNING MODRED BESIDE THE DOOR TO LISTEN] "What should I know about it? For my mother's hair and eyes were dark, and so were the eyes and hair of Gerlois, and Uther was dark too, almost black, but the King Arthur is fairer than anyone else in Britain. However, I remember how my mother used often to weep and say, 'O that you had some brother, pretty little one, to guard you from the rough ways of the world." "Yes? She said that?" Leodogran rejoined, "but when did you see Arthur first?" "O king, I will tell you all about it," cried the Queen of Orkney. "Once when I was a little bit of a girl and had been beaten for some childish fault that I had not committed, I ran outside and flung myself on a grassy bank and hated all the world and everything in it, and wished I were dead. But all of a sudden little Arthur stood by my side. I don't know how he came or anything about it. Perhaps Merlin brought him, for Merlin, they say, can walk about and nobody see him, if he will, but any rate, Arthur was there by my side, comforting me and drying my tears. After that Arthur came very often without anybody knowing it and we were children together, and in those golden days I felt sure he would be king. "But now I must tell you about Bleys, the old wizard who taught the magician Merlin. You know they both served King Uther, and just a little while ago when Bleys died he sent for me. He said he had something to tell me that I must know before he left the world. He said that they two, Merlin and he, sat beside the bed of King Uther on the night when the king passed away, moaning and wailing because he left no heir to his throne. After the king's death as Merlin and Bleys walked out from the castle walls into the dismal misty night, they saw a wonderful fairy-ship shaped like a winged dragon sailing the heavens, with shining people collected on its decks; but in the twinkling of an eye the ship was gone. "Then Merlin and Bleys passed down into the cove by the seashore to watch the billows, one after the other, as they lapped up against the beach. And as they looked at last a great wave gathered up one-half of the ocean and came full of voices, slowly rising and plunging, roaring all the while. Then all the wave was in a flame; and down in the wave and in the flame they saw lying a naked babe that was carried by the water to Merlin's very feet. "'The king!' cried Merlin. 'Here's an heir for Uther.' "Then as old Merlin spoke the fringe of that terrible great flaming breaker lashed at him as he held up the baby; it rose up round him in a mantle of fire so that he and the child were clothed in fire. Then suddenly there was a calm, the stars looked out and the sky was open. "'And this same child,' Bleys whispered to me, 'is the young king who reigns. And I could not die in peace unless the story had been told.' Then Bleys passed away into the land where nobody can question him. "So I came to Merlin to ask him whether that was all true about the shining dragon-ship and the tiny bare baby floating down from heaven over on the glory of the seas; but Merlin just laughed, as he always does, and answered me in the riddles of the old song, this way: "'Rain, rain and sun! a rainbow in the sky! A young man will be wiser by and by; An old man's wit may wander ere he die. Rain, rain and sun! a rainbow on the lea! And truth is this to me and that to thee; And truth or clothed or naked let it be. Rain, sun and rain! and the free blossom blows; Sun, rain and sun! and where is he who knows. From the great deep to the great deep he goes!' "It vexed me dreadfully to have Merlin be so tantalizing; but you must not be afraid, king, to give your only child Guinevere to this King Arthur. For great poets will sing of his brave deeds in long years after this; and Merlin has said, and not joking, either, that even although Arthur's enemies may wound him in battle he will never, never die, but will only pass away for a time, for a little while, and then will come to us again. And Merlin says too, that sometime Arthur is going to trample all the heathen kings under his feet until all the nations and all the men will call him their king." It pleased Leodogran tremendously to hear what the Queen of Orkney told him of Arthur, and when she had ended he lay thinking over it all, still puzzled as to whether he should say "yes" or "no" to the ambassadors whom Arthur had sent. As he lay buried in his thoughts he grew very, very drowsy and dreamy, and at last, he fell asleep. And while he slept he saw a wonderful vision in a dream. There was a strange, sloping land, rising before his eyes, that ascended higher and higher, field after field, to a very great height and at the top there was a lofty peak hidden in the heavy, hazy clouds; and on the peak a phantom king stood. One moment the king was there, and the next moment he was gone, while everything below him was in a frightful confusion, a battle with swords, and the flocks of sheep and cattle falling back, and all the villages burning and their smoke rolling up in streams to the clouded pinnacle of the peak where the king stood in the fog, hiding him the more. Now and then the king spoke out through the haze, and some one here or there beneath would point upward toward him, but the rest all went on fighting. They cried out, "He is no king of ours, no son of Uther's, no king of ours." Then in a twinkling the dream all changed; the mists had quite blown away, the solid earth below the peak had vanished like a bubble and only the wonderful king remained, crowned with his diadems, standing in the heavens. Then Leodogran while still looking at him woke from his sleep. He called for Ulfius and Brastias and Bedevere, and when they had come into this presence he told them that Arthur should marry the fair Princess Guinevere, and he sent them galloping back to Arthur's court. That was a joyful day for King Arthur when the three knights delivered King Leodogran's message. He made ready at once for his sweet queen. He picked out Lancelot, his favorite Knight of the Round Table, whom he loved better than any other man in all the world, to ride over into the Land of Cameliard and bring back Guinevere for his bride. And as Lancelot mounted his dancing steed and rode away _Arthur watched him from the palace gates_, thinking of the lovely lady who would ride by his side when he returned. [Illustration: LANCELOT MOUNTED HIS DANCING STEED.] Lancelot's horse trampled away among the flowers; for it was April when he left the court of Arthur, and just one month later he came riding back among the flowers of the May-time. Guinevere was with him on her graceful palfrey. Then Dubric, the head of the whole church in Britain, went out to meet her. Happy Arthur was there too. They were married in the greatest and noblest church in the land before the stately altar, with all the Knights of the Round Table dressed in stainless white clothes, gathered about them. And all the knights were as delighted as they could be because their king was so glad. Holy Dubric spread out his hands above the King and the lovely Queen to call down the blessings of heaven, and he said: [Illustration: KING ARTHUR AND THE LOVELY QUEEN.] "Reign, King, and live and love, and make the world better, and may your queen be one with you, and may all the Knights of the Order of the Round Table fulfill the boundless purposes of their king." There was spread a glorious marriage feast. Great lords came thither from far away Rome, which once was the mistress of all the world, but now was slowly fading away. These Roman lords called for the tribute from Arthur that they had always received from Britain ever since Cæsar with his Roman legions had conquered it long years before. But Arthur, the king and bridegroom, pointed to his snowy knights and said: "These knights of mine have sworn to fight for me in all my wars and to worship me as their king. The old order of things has passed away and a new order will take its place. We are fighting for our fair father Christ, while you have been growing so feeble and so weak and so old that you cannot even drive away the heathen from your Roman walls any more. So we will not pay tribute to you nor be your slaves. This is to be our own free country which we will defend and maintain." _The great lords from Rome drew back very angrily_ and went home and told their king all about what Arthur had said. So Arthur had to battle with Rome, but he won in the end. Arthur trained his Knights of the Round Table so that they all felt like one great, vast strong man, all of one will. Thus he became mightier than any of the other kings in any part of Britain. And when he fought with them he always conquered them. In that way he drew in all the little kingdoms under him, so that he was the one king of the land, and they all fought together for him. There were twelve great battles against the heathen hordes that had molested them from across the terrible seas, and each of these battles he won. So he made one great realm and he reigned over it, the king. [Illustration: THE GREAT LORDS FROM ROME DREW BACK.] GARETH AND LYNETTE. Old King Lot and good Queen Bellicent had three sons. Gawain and Modred were Knights of the Round Table at Arthur's court, and young Gareth, who was his mother's pet, sighed to think he had to stay home and be cuddled and fondled like a baby boy instead of riding off like a venturesome soldier fighting gloriously for the king and winning a great name. "There!" he cried impatiently, one chilly spring day as he stood by the brink of a rivulet and saw a bit of a pine tree caught from the bank by the dashing, swollen waters of the stream and whirled madly away. "That's the way the king's enemies would fall before my spear, if I had a spear to use! That stream can do no more than I can, even although it is merely icy water all cold with the snows while I'm tingling with hot blood and have strong arms. When Gawain came home last summer and asked me to tilt with him and Modred was the judge, didn't I shake him so in his saddle that he said I had half overcome him? Humph! and mother thinks I'm still a child!" _Gareth went in to the queen_ and said: "Mother, if you love me listen to a story I will tell. Once there was an egg which a great royal eagle laid high above on the rocks somewhere almost out of sight and there was a lad which saw the splendor sparkling from it, and the lightnings playing around it and the little birds crying and clashing in the nest. The boy thought if he could only reach that egg he would be richer than a houseful of kings, and he was nearly driven from his sense with his desire for it. But whenever he reached to clamber up for it some one who loved him restrained him saying, 'If you love me do not climb, lest you break your neck.' So the boy did not climb, mother, and he did not break his neck, but he broke his heart pining for the glorious egg. How can you keep me tethered here, Mother? Let me go!" [Illustration: MOTHER, IF YOU LOVE ME LISTEN TO A STORY I WILL TELL.] "Have you no pity for me?" Queen Bellicent asked. "Stay here by your poor old father and me; chase the deer in our fir trees and marry some lovely bride I will get for you. You're my best son and so young." "Mother, a king once showed his son two brides and told him that he must either win the beautiful one, or, if he failed, wed the other. The pretty one was Fame and the other was Shame. Why should I follow the deer when I can follow the king? Why was I born a man if I cannot do a man's work?" "But some of the barons say he isn't the true king." "Hasn't he conquered the Romans and driven off the heathen and made all the people free? Who has a right to be king if not the man who has done that? He is the true king." When Bellicent found that she could not turn Gareth from his purpose, she said that if he was determined he must do one thing before he asked the king to make him a knight. "Anything," cried Gareth. "Give me a hundred proofs. Only be quick." The queen looked at him very slowly and said: "You are a prince, Gareth, but before you are fit to serve the king you must go into Arthur's court disguised and hire yourself to serve his meats and drink among the scullions and kitchen knaves. And you must not tell your name to anyone and you must serve that way for a year and a day." The queen made this condition, thinking that Gareth would be too proud to play the slave. But he thought a moment, then answered: "A slave may be free in his soul, and I can see the jousts there. You are my mother so I must obey you and I will be a scullion in King Arthur's kitchen and keep my name a secret from everyone, even the king." So Bellicent grieved and watched Gareth every moment wherever he went, dreading the time when he should leave. And he waited until one windy night when she slept, then called two servants and slipped away with them, all three dressed like poor peasants of the field. They walked away towards the south and as they came to the plain stretching to the mountain of Camelot, they saw the royal city upon its brow. Sometimes its spires and towers flashed in the sunlight; sometimes only the great gate shone out before their eyes, or again the whole fair town vanished away. Then the servants said: "Let us go no further, Lord. It's an enchanted city, and all a vision. The people say anyway, that Arthur isn't the true king, but only a changeling from fairyland, and that Merlin won his battles for him with magic." Gareth laughed and replied that he had magic enough in his blood and hopes to plunge old Merlin into the Arabian sea. And he pushed them on to the gate. There was no other gate like it under heaven. The Lady of the Lake stood barefooted on the keystone and held up the cornice. Drops of water fell from either hand and above were the three queens who were Arthur's friends, and on each side Arthur's wars were pictured in weird devices with dragons and elves so intertwined that they made men dizzy to look at them. The servants cried out, "Lord, the gateway is alive!" Then a blast of music pealed out of the city, and the three queens stepped aside while an old man with a long beard came out and asked: "Who are you, my sons?" "We are peasants," answered Gareth, "who have come to see the glories of your king, but the city looked so strange through the morning mist that my men are wondering whether it is not a fairy city or perhaps no city at all. So tell us the truth about it." "Oh, it's a fairy city," the old man answered, "and a fairy king and queen came out of the mountain cleft at sunrise with harps in their hands and built it to music, which means it never was built at all, and therefore built forever." "Why do you mock me so?" Gareth cried angrily. "I am not mocking you so much as you are mocking me and every one who looks at you, for you are not what you seem, still I know what you truly are." Then the old man turned away and Gareth said to his men: "Our poor little white lie stands like a ghost at the very beginning of our enterprise. Blame my mother's love for it and not her nor me." So they all laughed and came into the city of Camelot with its shadowy and stately palaces. Here and there a knight passed in or out, his arms clashing and the sound was good to Gareth's ears. Or out of a casement window glanced the pure eyes of lovely women. But Gareth made at once for the hall of the king where his heart fairly hammered into his ears as he wondered whether Arthur would turn him aside because of the half shadow of a lie he had told the old man by the gate about being a peasant. There were many supplicants coming before the king to tell him of some hurt done them by marauders or the wild beasts, and each one was given a knight by the king to help them. When Gareth's turn came, he rested his arms, one on each servant, and stepped forward saying: "A boon, Sir King! Do you see how weak I seem, leaning on these men? Pray let me go into your kitchen and serve there for a year and a day, and do not ask me my name. After that I will fight for you." "You are a handsome youth," said the king, "and worth something better from the king, but if that is what you wish, go and serve under the seneschal, Sir Kay, Master of the Meats and Drinks." Sir Kay thought the boy had probably run away from the farm belonging to some Abbey where he had not had enough to eat, and he promised that if Gareth would work well he would feed him until he was as plump as a pigeon. But Lancelot, the king's favorite, said to Kay: "You don't understand boys as well as dogs and cattle. Can't you see by this lad's broad fair forehead and fine hands that he is nobly born? Treat him well or he may shame you." "Fair and fine, forsooth," cried Kay. "If he had been a gentleman he would have asked for a horse and armor." So he hustled and harried Garreth, _set him to draw water_, _hew wood_ and labor harder than any of the grimy and smudgy kitchen knaves. Gareth did all with a noble sort of ease and graced the lowliest act, and when the knaves all gathered together of an evening to tell stories about Arthur on the battlefields or of Lancelot in the tournament, Gareth listened delightedly or made them all, with gaping mouths, listen charmed, to some prodigious tale of his own about wonderful knights cutting their scarlet way through twenty folds of twisted dragons. When there was a Joust and Sir Kay let him attend it, he went half beside himself in an ecstasy watching the warriors clash their springing spears, and the sniffing chargers reel. At the end of the first month, lonely Queen Bellicent felt sorry for her poor, dear son, toiling and moiling among pots and pans, so she sent a servant to Camelot with the beaming armor of a knight and freed him from his vow. Gareth colored redder than any young girl and went alone in to the king and told him all. [Illustration: SET HIM TO DRAW WATER, HEW WOOD.] "Make me your knight in secret," he begged Arthur, "and give me the very next quest from your court!" "Son," answered the king, "my knights are sworn to vows of utter hardihood, of utter gentleness, of utter faithfulness in love and of utter obedience to the king." Gareth sprang lightly from his knees: "My king, I can promise you for my hardihood; respecting my obedience, ask Sir Kay, and as for love I have not loved yet, but God willing some day I will, and faithfully." The reply so pleased the great king, he laid his hand on Gareth's arm and smiled and knighted him. A few days later _a noble maiden_ with a brow like a May-blossom and a saucy nose _passed into the king's hall with her page_ and told Arthur that her name was Lynette, and that her beautiful sister, the Lady Lyonors lived in the Castle Perilous which was beset with bandit knights. [Illustration: A NOBLE MAIDEN WITH HER PAGE.] "A river courses about the castle in three loops," said she, "each loop has a bridge and every bridge is guarded by a wicked outlaw warrior, Sir Morning-star, Sir Noon-sun and Sir Evening-star, while a fourth called Death, a huge man-beast of boundless savageries, is besieging my sister in her own castle so as to break her will and make her wed with him. They are four fools," cried the maiden disdainfully, "but they are mighty men so I have come to ask for Lancelot to ride away with me to help us." Gareth was up in a twinkling with kindled eyes. "A boon, Sir King, this quest," he cried. "I am only a knave from your kitchen, but I can topple over a hundred such fellows. Your promise, king." "You are rough and sudden and worthy to be a knight. Therefore go," said Arthur to the great amazement of the court. "Fie on you, King!" exclaimed Lynette in a fury. "I asked you for your best knight, Lancelot, and you give me a slave from your kitchen," and she scampered down the aisle, leaped to her horse and flitted out of the weird white gate. "A kitchen slave!" she sputtered as she flew. "Why didn't the king send me a knight that fights for love and glory?" Gareth in the meantime had strode to the side doorway of the royal hall where he saw a war-horse awaiting him, the gift of Arthur and worth half the price of a town. His two servants stood by with his shield and helmet and spear. Dropping his coarse kitchen cloak to the floor, he instantly harnessed himself in his armor, leaped to the back of his beautiful steed and flashed out of the gateway while all his kitchen mates threw up their caps and cried, "God bless the king and all his fellowship!" "Maiden, the quest is mine," he said to Lynette as he overtook her, "Lead and I follow." "Away with you!" she cried, nipping her slender nose. "You smell of kitchen grease. See there, your master is coming!" Indeed she told the truth, for Sir Kay, infuriated with Gareth's boldness in the king's hall was hounding after them. "Don't you know me?" he shouted. "Yes, too well," returned Gareth. "I know you to be the most ungentle knight in Arthur's court." "Have at me, then," cried Kay, whereupon Gareth pounced upon him with his gleaming lance and struck him instantly to the earth, then turned for Lynette and said again, "Lead and I follow." But Lynette had hurried her galloping palfrey away and would not stop the beast until his heart had nearly burst with its violent throbbing. Then she turned and eyed Gareth as scornfully as ever. As he pranced to her side she observed: "Do you suppose scullion, that I think any more of you now that by some good luck you have overthrown your master. You dishwasher and water-carrier, you smell of the kitchen quite as much as before." "Maiden," Gareth rejoined gently, "Say what you will, but whatever you say, I will not leave this quest until it is ended or I have died for it." "O, my, how the knave talks! But you'll soon meet with another knave whom in spite of all the kitchen concoctions ever brewed, you'll not dare look in the face." "I'll try him," answered Gareth with a smile that maddened Lynette. And away she darted again far into the strange avenues of the limitless woods. Gareth plunged on through the pine trees after her and a serving-man came breaking through the black forest crying out, "They've bound my master and are throwing him into the lake!" "Lead and I follow," cried Gareth to Lynette, and she led, plunging into the pine trees until they came upon a hollow sinking away into a lake, where six tall men up to their thighs in reeds and bulrushes were dragging a seventh man with a stone about his neck toward the water to drown him. Gareth sprang upon three and stilled them with his doughty blows, but three scurried away through the trees; then Gareth loosened the stone from the gentleman and set him on his feet. He proved to be a baron and a friend of Arthur and asked Gareth what he could do to show his gratitude for the saving of his life. Gareth said he would like a night's shelter for the lady who was with him. So they rode over toward the graceful manor house where the baron lived, and as they rode he said to Gareth. "I believe you are of the Table," meaning that Gareth was a Knight of the Round Table. "Yes, he is of the table after his own fashion," Lynette laughed, "for he serves in Arthur's kitchen." And turning toward Gareth she added, "Do not imagine that I admire you the more for having routed these miserable cowardly foresters; any thresher with his flail could have done that." And when they were seated at the baron's table, Gareth by Lynette's side, she cried out to their host, "It seems dreadfully rude in you, Lord Baron, to place this knave beside me. Listen to me: I went to King Arthur's court to ask for Sir Lancelot to come to help my sister, and as I ended my plea, up bawls this kitchen boy: 'Mine's the quest.' And Arthur goes mad and sends me this fellow who was made to kill pigs and not redress the wrongs of women." So Gareth was seated at another table and the baron came to him and asked him whether it might not be better for him to relinquish his quest, but the lad replied that the king had given it to him and he would carry it through. The next morning he said again to proud Lynette, "Lead and I follow." But the maiden responded, "We are almost at the place where one of the knaves is stationed. Don't you want to go home? He will slay you and then I'll go back to Arthur and shame him for giving me a knight from his kitchen cinders." "Just let me fight," cried Gareth, "and I'll have as good luck as little Cinderella who married the prince." So they came to the first coil of the river and on the other side saw a rich white pavilion with a purple dome and a slender crimson flag fluttering above. The lawless Sir Morning-star paced up and down outside. "Damsel, is this the knight you've brought me?" he shouted. "Not a knight, but a knave. The king scorned you so he sent some one from his kitchen." "Come Daughters of the Dawn and arm me!" cried Sir Morning-star, and three bare-footed, bare-headed maidens in pink and gold dresses brought him a blue coat of mail and a blue shield. "A kitchen knave in scorn of me!" roared the blue knight. "I won't fight him. Go home, knave! It isn't proper for you to be riding abroad with a lady." "Dog, you lie! I'm sprung from nobler lineage than you," and saying this, Gareth sprang fiercely at his adversary who met him in the middle of the bridge. The two spears were hurled so harshly that both knights were thrown from their horses like two stones but up they leaped instantly. Gareth drew forth his sword and drove his enemy back down the bridge and laid him at his feet. "I yield," Sir Morning-star cried, "don't kill me." "Your life is in the hands of this lady," Gareth replied. "If she asks me to spare you I will." "Scullion!" Lynette cried, reddening with shame. "Do you suppose I will ask a favor of you?" "Then he dies," and Gareth was about to slay the wounded knight when Lynette screamed and told him he ought not to think of killing a man of nobler birth than himself. So Gareth said, "Knight, your life is spared at this lady's command. Go to King Arthur's court and tell him that his kitchen knave sent you, and crave his pardon for breaking his laws." "I thought the smells of the odors of the kitchen grew fainter while you were fighting on the bridge," Lynette remarked to Gareth as he took his place behind her and told her to lead, "but now they are as strong as ever." So they rode on until they arrived at the second loop of the river where the knight of the Noonday-Sun flared with his burning shield that blazed so violently that Gareth saw scarlet blots before his eyes as he turned away from it. "Here's a kitchen knave from Arthur's hall who has overthrown your brother," Lynette called across the river to him. "Ugh!" returned Sir Noonday-Sun, raising his visor to reveal his round foolish face like a cipher, and with that he pushed his horse into the foaming stream. Gareth met him midway and struck him four blows of his sword. As he was about to deal the fifth stroke the horse of the Noonday-Sun slipped and the stream washed his dazzling master away. Gareth plucked him out of the water and sent him back to King Arthur. "Lead and I follow," he said to Lynette. "Do not fancy," she rejoined, as she guided him toward the third passing of the river, "that I thought you bold or brave when you overcame Sir Noonday-Sun; he just slipped on the river-bed. Here we are at the third fool in the allegory, Sir Evening-star. You see he looks naked but he is only wrapped in hardened skins that fit him like his own. They will turn the blade of your sword." "Never mind," Gareth said, "the wind may turn again and the kitchen odors grow faint." Then Lynette called to the Evening-star: "Both of your brothers have gone down before this youth and so will you. Aren't you old?" "Old with the strength of twenty boys," said Sir Evening-star. "Old in boasting," Gareth cried, "but the same strength that slew your brothers can slay you." Then the Evening-star blew a deadly note upon his horn and a storm-beaten, russet, grizzly old woman came out and armed him in a quantity of dingy weapons. The two knights clashed together on the bridge and Gareth brought the Evening-star groveling in a minute to his feet on his knees. But the other vaulted up again so quickly that Gareth panted and half despaired of winning the victory. Then Lynette cried: "Well done, knave; you are as noble as any knight. Now do not shame me; I said you would win. Strike! strike! and the wind will change again." Gareth struck harder, he hewed great pieces of armor from the old knight, but clashed in vain with his sword against the hard skin, until at last he lashed the Evening-star's sword and broke it at the hilt. "I have you now!" he shouted, but the cowardly knight of the Evening-star writhed his arms about the lad till Gareth was almost strangled. Yet straining himself to the uttermost he finally _tossed his foe headlong over the side of the bridge_ to sink or to swim as the waves allowed. "Lead and I follow," Gareth said to Lynette. "No, it is lead no longer," the maiden replied. "Ride beside me the knightliest of all kitchen knaves. Sir I am ashamed that I have treated you so. Pardon me. I do wonder who you are, you knave." "You are not to blame for anything," Gareth said, "except for your mistrusting of the king when he sent you some one to defend you. You said what you thought and I answered by my actions." At that moment he heard the hoofs of a horse clattering in the road behind him. "Stay!" cried a knight with a veiled shield, "I have come to avenge my friend, Sir Kay." Gareth turned, and in a thrice had closed in upon the stranger, but when he felt the touch of the stranger knight's magical spear, which was the wonder of the world he fell to the earth. As he felt the grass in his hands he burst into laughter. [Illustration: TOSSED HIS FOE OVER THE SIDE OF THE BRIDGE.] "Why do you laugh?" asked Lynette. "Because here am I, the son of old King Lot and good Queen Bellicent, the victor of the three bridges, and a knight of Arthur's thrown by no one knows whom." "I have come to help you and not harm you," said the strange knight, revealing himself. It was Lancelot, whom King Arthur had sent to keep a guardian eye upon young Gareth in this his first quest, to prevent him from being killed or taken away. "And why did you refuse to come when I wanted you, and now come just in time to shame my poor defender just when I was beginning to feel proud of him?" asked Lynette. "But he isn't shamed," Lancelot answered. "What knight is not overthrown sometimes? By being defeated we learn to overcome, so hail Prince and Knight of our Round Table!" "You did well Gareth, only you and your horse were a little weary." [Illustration: SHE TENDED HIM AS GENTLY AS A MOTHER.] Lynette led them into a glen and a cave where they found pleasant drinks and meat, and where Gareth fell asleep. "You have good reason to feel sleepy," cried Lynette. "Sleep soundly and wake strong." _And she tended him as gently as a mother_, and watched over him carefully as he slept. When Gareth woke Lancelot gave him his own horse and shield to use in fighting the last awful outlaw, but as they drew near Lynette clutched at the shield and pleaded with him: "Give it back to Lancelot," said she. "O curse my tongue that was reviling you so today. He must do the fighting now. You have done wonders, but you cannot do miracles. You have thrown three men today and that is glory enough. You will get all maimed and mangled if you go on now when you are tired. There, I vow you must not try the fourth." But Gareth told her that her sharp words during the day had just spurred him on to do his best and he said he must not now leave his quest until he had finished. So Lancelot advised him how best to manage his horse and his lance, his sword and his shield when meeting a foe that was stouter than himself, winning with fineness and skill where he lacked in strength. But Gareth replied that he knew but one rule in fighting and that was to dash against his foe and overcome him. "Heaven help you," cried Lynette, and she made her palfrey halt. "There!" They were facing the camp of the Knight of Death. There was a huge black pavilion, a black banner and a black horn. Gareth blew the horn and heard hollow tramplings to and fro and muffled voices. Then on a night-black horse, in night-black arms rode forth the dread warrior. A white breast-bone showed in front. He spoke not a word which made him the more fearful. "Fool!" shouted Gareth sturdily. "People say that you have the strength of ten men; can't you trust to it without depending on these toggeries and tricks?" But the Knight of Death said nothing. Lady Lyonors at her castle window wept, and one of her maids fainted away, and Gareth felt his head prickling beneath his helmet and Lancelot felt his blood turning cold. Every one stood aghast. Then the chargers bounded forward and Gareth struck Death to the ground. Drawing out his sword he split apart the vast skull; one half of it fell to the right and one half to the left. Then he was about to strike at the helmet when out of it peeped the face of a blooming young boy, as fresh as a flower. "O Knight!" cried the laddie. "Do not kill me. My three brothers made me do it to make a horror all about the castle. They never dreamed that anyone could pass the bridges." Then Lady Lyonors with all her house had a great party of dancing and revelry and song and making merry because the hideous Knight of Death that had terrified them so was only a pretty little boy. And there was mirth over Gareth's victorious quest. And some people say that Gareth married Lynette, but others who tell the story later say he wedded with Lyonors. THE MARRIAGE OF GERAINT. King Arthur had come to the old city of Caerleon on the River Usk to hold his court, and was sitting high in his royal hall when a woodman, all bedraggled with the mists of the forests came tripping up in haste before his throne. "O noble King," he cried, "today I saw a wonderful deer, a hart all milky white running through among the trees, and, nothing like it has ever been seen here before." The king, who loved the chase, was very pleased and immediately gave orders that the royal horns should be blown for all the court to go a hunting after the beautiful white deer the following morning. Queen Guinevere wished to go with them to watch the hounds and huntsmen and dancing horses in the chase. She slept late, however, the next day with her pleasant dreams, and Arthur with his Knights of the Round Table had sped gloriously away on their snorting chargers when she arose, called one of her maids to come with her, mounted her palfrey and forded the River Usk to pass over by the forest. [Illustration: A WOODMAN ALL BEDRAGGLED CAME IN HASTE BEFORE HIS THRONE.] There they climbed up on a little knoll and stood listening for the hounds, but instead of the barking of the king's dogs they heard the sound of a horse's hoofs trampling behind them. It was Prince Geraint's charger as he flashed over the shallow ford of the river, then galloped up the banks of the knoll to her side. He carried not a single weapon except his golden-hilted sword and wore, not his hunting-dress, but gay holiday silks with a purple scarf about him swinging an apple of gold at either end and glancing like a dragon-fly. He bowed low to the sweet, stately queen. "You're late, very late, Sir Prince," said she, "later even than we." "Yes, noble queen," replied Geraint, "I'm so late that I'm not going to the hunt; I've come like you just to watch it." "Then stay with me," the queen said, "for here on this little knoll, if anywhere, you will have a good chance to see the hounds, often they dash by at its very feet." So Geraint stood by the queen, thinking he would catch particularly the baying of Cavall, Arthur's loudest dog, which would tell him that the hunters were coming. As they waited however, along the base of the knoll, came a knight, a lady and a dwarf riding slowly by on their horses. The knight wore his visor up showing his imperious and very haughty young face. The dwarf lagged behind. "That knight doesn't belong to the Round Table, does he?" asked the queen. "I don't know him." "No, nor I," replied Geraint. So the queen sent her maid over to the dwarf to find out the name of his master. But the dwarf was old and crotchety and would not tell her. "Then I'll ask your master himself," cried the maid. "No, indeed, you shall not!" cried the dwarf, "you are not fit even to speak of him," and as the girl turned her horse to approach the proud young knight, the misshapen little dwarf of a servant struck at her with his whip, and she came scampering back indignantly to the queen. [Illustration: HE STRUCK OUT HIS WHIP AND CUT THE PRINCE'S CHEEK.] "I'll learn his name for you," Geraint exclaimed, and he rode off sharply. But the impudent dwarf answered just as before and when Prince Geraint moved on toward his master he struck out his whip and cut the prince's cheek so that the blood streamed upon the purple scarf dyeing it red. Instantly Geraint reached for the hilt of his sword to strike down the vicious little midget but then remembering that he was a prince and disdaining to fight with a dwarf, he did not even say a word, but cantered back to Queen Guinevere's side. "Noble Queen," he cried fiercely. "I am going to avenge this insult that has been done you. I'll track these vermin to the earth. For even although I am riding unarmed just now, as we go along I will come to some place where I can borrow weapons or hire them. And then when I have my man I'll fight him, and on the third day from today I'll be back again unless I die in the fight. So good-bye, farewell." "Farewell, handsome prince," the queen answered. "Good fortune in your quest and may you live to marry your first love whoever that may be. But whether she will be a princess or a beggar from the hedgerows, before you wed with her bring her back to me and I will robe her for her wedding day." Prince Geraint bowed and with that he was off. One minute he thought he heard the noble milk-white deer brought to bay by the dogs, the next he thought he heard the hunter's horn far away and felt a little vexed to think he must be following this stupid dwarf while all the others were at the chase. But he had determined to avenge the queen and up and down the grassy glades and valleys pursued the three enemies until at last at sundown they emerged from the forest, climbed up on the ridge of a hill where they looked like shadows against the dark sky, then sank again on the other side. Below on the other side of the ridge ran the long street of a clamoring little town in a long valley, on one side a new white fortress and on the other, across a ravine and a bridge, a fallen old castle in decay. The knight, the lady and the dwarf rode on to the white fortress, then vanished within its walls. "There!" cried Geraint, "now I have him! I have tracked him to his hole, and tomorrow when I'm rested I'll fight him." Then he turned wearily down the long street of the noisy village to look for his night's lodging, but he found every inn and tavern crowded, and everywhere horses in the stables were being shod and young fellows were busy burnishing their master's armor. "What does all this hubbub mean?" asked Geraint of one of these youths. The lad did not stop his work one instant, but went on scouring and replied, "It's the sparrow-hawk." As Prince Geraint did not know what was meant by the sparrow-hawk he trotted a little farther along the street until he came to a quiet old man trudging by with a sack of corn on his back. "Why is your town so noisy and busy to-night, good old fellow?" he cried. "Ugh! the sparrow-hawk!" the old fellow said gruffly. So the prince rode his horse yet a little farther until he saw an armor-maker's shop. The armor-maker sat inside with his back turned, all doubled over a helmet which he was riveting together upon his knee. "Armorer," cried Geraint, "what is going on? Why is there such a din?" The man did not pause in his riveting even to turn about and face the stranger, but said quickly as if to finish speaking as rapidly as he could, "Friend, the people who are working for the sparrow-hawk have no time for idle questions." At this Geraint flashed up angrily. "A fig for your sparrow-hawk! I wish all the bits of birds of the air would peck him dead. You imagine that this little cackle in your baby town is all the noise and murmur of the great world. What do I care about it? It is nothing to me. Listen to me, now, if you are not gone hawk-mad like the rest, where can I get a lodging for the night, and more than that, where can I get some arms, arms, arms, to fight my enemy? Tell me." The hurrying armor-maker looked about in amazement to see this gorgeous cavalier in purple silks standing before his bit of a shop. "O pardon me, stranger knight," said he very politely. "We are holding a great tournament here tomorrow morning and there is hardly any time to do one-half the work that has to be finished before then. Arms, did you say? Indeed I cannot tell you where to get any; all that there are in this town are needed for to-morrow in the lists. And as for lodging, I don't know unless perhaps at Earl Yniol's in the old castle across the bridge." Then he again picked up his helmet and turned his back to the prince. So Geraint, still a wee mite vexed, rode over the bridge that spanned the ravine, to go to the ruined castle. There upon the farther side sat the hoary-headed Earl Yniol, dressed in some magnificent shabby old clothes which had been fit for a king's parties when they were new. "Where are you going, son?" he queried of Geraint, waking from his reveries and dreaminess. "O friend, I'm looking for some shelter for the night," Geraint replied. "Come in then," Yniol said, "and accept of my hospitality. Our house was rich once and now it is poor, but it always keeps its door open to the stranger." "Oh, anything will do for me," cried Geraint. "If only you won't serve me sparrow-hawks for my supper I'll eat with all the passion of a whole day's fast." The old earl smiled and sighed as he rejoined, "I have more serious reason than you to curse this sparrow-hawk. But go in and we will not have a word about him even jokingly unless you wish it." Whereupon Geraint passed into the desolate castle court, where the stones of the pavement were all broken and overgrown with wild plants, and the turrets and walls were shattered. As he stood awaiting the Earl Yniol, the voice of a young girl singing like a nightingale rang out from one of the open castle windows. It was the voice of Enid, Earl Yniol's daughter as she sang the song of Fortune and her Wheel: "Turn, Fortune, thy wheel with smile or frown, With that wild wheel we go not up or down; Our hoard is little, but our hearts are great." "The song of that little bird describes the nest she lives in," cried Earl Yniol approaching. "Enter." Geraint alighted from his charger and stepped within the large dusky cobwebbed hall, where an aged lady sat, with Enid moving about her, like a little flower in a wilted sheath of a faded silk gown. "Enid, the good knight's horse is standing in the court," cried the earl. "Take him to the stall and give him some corn, then go to town and buy us some meat and wine." [Illustration: GERAINT STEPPED WITHIN THE DUSKY COBWEBBED HALL.] Geraint wished that he might do this servant's work instead of this pretty young lady, but as he started to follow her the old gray earl stopped him. "We're old and poor," he said, "but not so poor and old as to let our guests wait upon themselves." So Enid fetched the wine and the meat and the cakes and the bread; and she served at the table while her mother, father and Geraint sat around. Geraint wished that he might stoop to kiss her tender little thumb as it held the platter when she laid it down. [Illustration: ENID FETCHED THE WINE AND THE MEAT AND THE CAKES.] "Fair host and Earl," he said after his refreshing supper, "who is this sparrow-hawk that everybody in the town is talking about? And yet I do not wish you to give me his name, for perhaps he is the knight I saw riding into the new fortress the other side of the bridge at the other end of the town. His name I am going to have from his own lips, for I am Geraint of Devon. This morning when the queen sent her maid to find out his name he struck at the girl with his whip, and I've sworn vengeance for such a great insult done our queen, and have followed him to his hold, and as soon as I can get arms I will fight him." "And are you the renowned Geraint?" cried Earl Yniol beaming. "Well, as soon as I saw you coming toward me on the bridge I knew that you were no ordinary man. By the state and presence of your bearing I might have guessed you to be one of Arthur's Knights of the Round Table at Camelot. Pray do not suppose that I am flattering you foolishly. This dear child of mine has often heard me telling glorious stories of all the famous things you have done for the king and the people. And she has asked me to repeat them again and again. "Poor thing, there never has lived a woman with such miserable lovers as she has had. The first was Limours, who did nothing but drink and brawl, even when he was making love to her. And the second was the 'sparrow-hawk,' my nephew, my curse. I will not let his name slip from me if I can help it. When I told him that he could not marry my daughter he spread a false rumour all round here among the people that his father had left him a great sum of money in my keeping and that I had never passed it over to him but had retained it for myself. He bribed all my servants with large promises and stirred up this whole little old town of mine against me, my own town. That was the night of Enid's birthday nearly three years ago. They sacked my house, ousted me from my earldom, threw us into this dilapidated, dingy old place and built up that grand new white fort. He would kill me if he did not despise me too much to do so; and sometimes I believe I despise myself for letting him have his way. I scarcely know whether I am very wise or very silly, very manly or very base to suffer it all so patiently." "Well said," cried Geraint eagerly. "But the arms, the arms, where can I get arms for myself? Then if the sparrow-hawk will fight tomorrow in the tourney I may be able to bring down his terrible pride a little." "I have arms," said Yniol, "although they are old and rusty, Prince Geraint, and you would be welcome to have them for the asking. But in this tournament of tomorrow no knight is allowed to tilt unless the lady he loves best come there too. The forks are fastened into the meadow ground and over them is placed a silver wand, above that a golden sparrow-hawk, the prize of beauty for the fairest woman there. And whoever wins in the tourney presents this to the lady-love whom he has brought with him. Since my nephew is a man of very large bone and is clever with his lance he has always won it for his lady. That is how he has earned his title of sparrow-hawk. But you have no lady so you will not be able to fight." Then Geraint leaned forward toward the earl. "With your leave, noble Earl Yniol," he replied, "I will do battle for your daughter. For although I have seen all the beauties of the day never have I come upon anything so wonderfully lovely as she. If it should happen that I prove victor, as true as heaven, I will make her my wife!" Yniol's heart danced in his bosom for joy, and he turned about for Enid, but she had fluttered away as soon as her name had been mentioned, so he tenderly grasped the hands of her mother in his own and said: "Mother, young girls are shy little things and best understood by their own mothers. Before you go to rest to night, find out what Enid will think about this." So the earl's wife passed out to speak with Enid, and Enid became so glad and excited that she could not sleep the entire happy night long. But very early the next morning, as soon as the pale sky began to redden with the sun she arose, then called her mother, and hand in hand, tripped over with her to the place of the tournament. There they awaited for Yniol and Geraint. Geraint came wearing the Earl's rusty, worn old arms, yet in spite of them looked stately and princely. Many other knights in blazing armor gathered there for the jousts, with many fine ladies, and by and by the whole town full of people flooded in, settling in a circle around the lists. Then the two forks were fixed into the earth, above them a wand of silver was laid, and over it the golden sparrow-hawk. The trumpet was blown and Yniol's nephew rose and spoke: "Come forward, my lady," he cried to the maiden who had come with him. "Fairest of the fair, take the prize of beauty which I have won for you during the past two years." "Stay!" Prince Geraint cried loudly. "There is a worthier beauty here." The earl's nephew looked round with surprise and disdain to see his uncle's family and the prince. "Do battle for it then," he shouted angrily. Geraint sprang forward and the tourney was begun. Three times the two warriors clashed together. _Three times they broke their spears._ Then both were thrown from their horses. They now drew their swords; and with them lashed at one another so frequently and with such dreadfully hard strokes that all the crowd wondered. Now and again from the distant walls came the sounds of applause, like the clapping of phantom hands. The perspiration and the blood flowed together down the strong bodies of the combatants. Each was as sturdy as the other. [Illustration] "Remember the great insult done our queen!" Earl Yniol cried at last. This so inflamed Geraint that he heaved his vast sword-blade aloft, cracked through his enemy's helmet, bit into the bone of his head, felled the haughty knight, and set his feet upon his breast. "Your name!" demanded Geraint. "Edryn, the son of Nudd," groaned the fallen warrior. "Very well, then Edryn, the son of Nudd," returned Geraint, "you must do these two things or else you will have to die. First, you with your lady and your dwarf must ride to Arthur's court at Caerleon and crave their pardon for the insult you did the queen yesterday morning, and you must bide her decree in the punishment she awards you. Secondly, you must give back the earldom to your uncle the Earl of Yniol. You will do these two things or you die." "I will do them," cried Edryn. "For never before was I ever overcome. But now all of my pride is broken down, for Enid has seen me fall." With that Edryn rose from the ground like a man, took his lady and the dwarf on their horses to Arthur's court. There receiving the sweet forgiveness of the queen, he became a true knight of the Round Table, and at the last died in battle while he fought for his king. But Geraint when the tourney was over and he had come back to the castle, drew Enid aside to tell her that early the next morning he would have to start for Caerleon and that she should be ready to ride away with him to be married at the court with tremendous pomp. For that would be three days after the King's chase, when the prince had promised Queen Guinevere he would be back. But of that he did not speak to Enid, who wondered why he was so bent on returning immediately, and why she could not have time at home to prepare herself some pretty robes to wear. Imagine, she thought, such a grand and frightful thing as a court, the queen's court, with all the graceful ladies staring at her in that faded old silk dress! And although she promised Geraint that she would go as he wished, when she woke to the dread day for making her appearance at court, she still yearned that he would only stay yet a little while so that she could sew herself some clothes, that she had the flowered silk which her mother had given her three years ago for her birthday and which Edryn's men had robbed from her when they sacked the house and scattered everything she ever owned to all the winds. How she wished that handsome Geraint had known her then, those three years ago when she wore so many pretty dresses and jewels! But while she lay dreamily thinking, softly in trod her mother bearing on her arm a gorgeous, delicate robe. "Do you recognize it, child?" she cried. It was that self-same birthday dress, three years old, but as beautiful as new and never worn. "Yesterday after the jousts your father went through all the town from house to house and ordered that all sack and plunder which the men had taken from us should be brought back, for he was again to be in his earldom. So last evening while you were talking with the prince some one came up from the town and placed this in my hands. I did not tell you about it then for I wished to keep it as a sweet surprise for you this morning. And it is a sweet surprise, isn't it? For although the prince yesterday did say that you were the fairest of the fair there is no handsome girl in the world but looks handsomer in new clothes than in old. And it would have been a shame for you to go to the court in your poor old faded silk which you have worn so long and so patiently. The great ladies there might say that Prince Geraint had plucked up some ragged robin from the hedges." [Illustration: BEARING A GORGEOUS ROBE.] So Enid was put into the fine flowered robe. Her mother said that after she had gone to the queen's court, she, the poor old mother at home, who was too feeble to journey so far with her daughter, would think over and over again of her pretty princess at Camelot. And the old gray Earl Yniol went in to tell Geraint of Enid's fanciful apparel. But Geraint was not delighted with the magnificence. "Say to her," he answered the earl, "that by all my love for her, although I give her no other reason, I entreat Enid to wear that faded old silk dress of hers and no other." This amazing and hard message from Geraint made poor little Enid's face fall like a meadowful of corn blasted by a rainstorm. Still she willingly laid aside her gold finery for his sake, slipped into the faded silk, and pattered down the steps to meet Geraint. He scanned her so eagerly from her tip to her toe that both her rosy cheeks burned like flames. Then as he noted her mother's clouded face he said very kindly: "My new mother don't be very angry, or grieved with your new son because of what I have just asked Enid to do. I had a very good reason for it and I will explain it all to you. The other day when I left the queen at Caerleon to avenge the insult done her by Edryn, the son of Nudd, she made me two wishes. The one was that I should be successful with my quest and the other was that I should wed with my first love. Then she promised that whoever my bride should be she herself with her own royal hands would dress her for her wedding day, splendidly, like the very sun in the skies. So when I found this lovely Enid of yours in her shabby clothes I vowed that the queen's hands only should array her in handsome new robes that befitted her grace and beauty. But never mind, dear mother, some day you will come to see Enid and then she will wear the golden, flowered birthday dress which you gave her three years ago." Then the earl's wife smiled through her tears, wrapped Enid in a mantle, kissed her gentle farewells, and in a moment saw her riding far, far away beside Geraint. The queen Guinevere that day had three times climbed the royal tower at Caerleon to look far into the valley for some sign of Geraint, who had promised to be back that day, if he did not fall in battle, and who would certainly come now, since Edryn had been vanquished and had come to the court. At last when evening had fallen she spied the prince's charger pacing nobly along the road, and Enid's palfrey at his side. Instantly Queen Guinevere sped down from the small window in the high turret, tripped out to the gate to greet him and embrace the lovely Enid as a long-loved friend. The old City of Caerleon was gay for one whole week, over the wedding week of Geraint and Enid. The queen herself dressed Enid for her marriage like the very sunlight, Dubric, the highest saint of the church, married them, and they lived for nearly a year at the court with Arthur and sweet Guinevere. And so the insult done the queen was avenged, and her two wishes were fulfilled. For Geraint overcame his enemy and wedded with his first-love, dressed for her marriage by the queen. GERAINT'S QUEST OF HONOR. One morning Prince Geraint went into Arthur's hall and said: "O King, my princedom is in danger. It lies close to the territory which is infested with bandits, earls and caitiff knights, assassins and all sorts of outlaws. Give me your kind good leave and I will go there to defend my lands." The king said the prince might go, and sent fifty armed knights to protect him and pretty Enid as they traveled away on their horses across the Severn River into their own country, the Land of Devon. After Geraint had come into Devon he forgot what he had said to the king of ridding his princedom of outlawry, he forgot the chase where he had always been so clever in tracking his game, forgot the tournament where he had won victory after victory, forgot all his former glory and his name, forgot his lands and their cares, forgot everything he ever did, and did nothing at all but lie about at home and talk with Enid. At last all his people began to gossip about their fine prince who once had been illustrious everywhere and now had become an idle stay-at-home who spent his time in making love to his wife. [Illustration: ENID HEARD OF GERAINT FROM HER HAIR-DRESSER.] Enid heard of the tattling about Geraint from her hair-dresser, and one morning as he lay abed, she went over it all to herself, talking aloud. She wished, that he would not abandon all his knightly pursuits but would hunt and fight again and add to his lustre. She felt very bashful about mentioning the matter to him as she was very shy by nature and lived in a time when wives were altogether over-ruled by their husbands, yet to say nothing she thought would not be showing herself a true wife to Geraint. All this and more Enid went over to herself. The drowsy prince, half awake, just half heard her and quite misunderstood her meaning. When she said that in keeping quiet about the gossip she was not a true wife to him he supposed she meant that she no longer cared for him, that he was not a handsome and strong enough man to suit her. This grieved him deeply and made him very angry with her, for Geraint had really given up all the glory of the king's court just to be alone with Enid, although no one knew it. And the thought that now she looked down upon him infuriated all his heart. A word would have made everything right but he didn't say it. Springing up quickly from his bed he roused his squire and said, "Get ready our horses, my charger and the princess' palfrey. And you," turning a frowning face to the princess, "put on the worst looking, meanest, poorest dress you have and come away with me. We are going on a quest of honor and then you will see what sort of soldier I am." Enid wondered why her lord was so vexed with her and replied, "If I have displeased you surely you will tell me why." But Geraint would not say; he could not bear to speak of it. So Enid hurried after her poor old faded silk gown with the summer flowers among its folds, which she had worn to ride from her old home to Caerleon, and hastily dressed. "Do not ride at my side," Geraint said as they both mounted their horses to start away. "Ride ahead of me, a good way ahead of me, and no matter what may happen, do not speak a word to me, no not a word." Enid listened, wondering what had come over her lord. "There!" he cried as they were off, "we will make our way along with our iron weapons, not with gold money." So saying, he loosed the great purse which dangled from his belt and tossed it back to his squire who stood on the marble threshold of the doorway where the golden coins flashed and clattered as they scattered every which-way over the floor. "Now then, Enid, to the wild woods!" At that they made for the swampy, desolated forest lands that were famous for their perilous paths and their bandits, Enid with a white face going before, Geraint coming gloomily nearly a quarter of a mile after. The morning was only half begun when the white princess became aware that behind a rock hiding in the shadow stood three tall knights on horseback, armed from tip to toe, bandit outlaws lying in wait to fall upon whoever should pass. She heard one saying to his comrades as he pointed toward Geraint: "Look here comes some lazy-bones who seems just about as bold as a dog who has had the worst of it in a fight. Come, we will kill him, and then we will take his horse and armor and his lady." Enid thought, "I'll go back a little way to Geraint and tell him about these ruffians, for even if it will madden him I should rather have him kill me than to have him fall into their hands." She guided her palfrey backward and bravely met the frowning face which greeted her, saying timidly: "My lord, there are three bandit knights behind a rock a little way beyond us who are boasting that they will slay you and steal your horse and armor and make me their captive." "Did I tell you," cried Geraint angrily, "that you should warn me of any danger. There was only one thing which I told you to do and that was to keep quiet; and this is the way you have heeded me! a pretty way! But win or lose, you shall see by these fellows that my vigor is not lost." Then Enid stood back as the three outlaws flashed out of their ambush and bore down upon the prince. Geraint aimed first for the middle one, driving his long spear into the bandit's breast and out on the other side. The two others in the meanwhile had dashed upon him with their lances, but they had broken on his magnificent armor like so many icicles. He now turned upon them with his broadsword, swinging it first to the right and then to the left, first stunning them with his blows, then slaying them outright. And when all three had fallen he dismounted, and like a hunter skinning the wild beasts he has shot, he stripped the three robber knights of their gay suits of armor, and leaving the bodies lie, bound each man's sword, spear and coat of arms to his horse, tied the three bridle reins of the three empty horses together and cried to Enid. "Drive these on before you." Enid drove them on across the wastelands, Geraint following after. As she passed into the first shallow shade of the forest she described three more horsemen partly hidden in the gloom of three sturdy oak-trees. All were armed and one was a veritable giant, so tall and bulky, towering above his companions. [Illustration: THE THREE OUTLAWS BORE DOWN UPON THE PRINCE.] "See there, a prize!" bellowed the giant and set Enid's pulses in a quiver. "Three horses and three suits of armor, and all in charge of--whom? A girl! Isn't that simple? Lay on, my men!" "No," cried the second, "behind is coming a knight. A coward and a fool, for see how he hangs his head." The giant thundered back gaily. "Yes? Only one? Wait here and as he goes by make for him." "I will go no farther until Geraint comes," Enid said to herself stopping her horse. "And then I will tell him about these villains. He must be so weary with his other fight and they will fall upon him unawares. I shall have to disobey him again for his own sake. How could I dare to obey him and let him be harmed? I must speak; if he kills me for it I shall only have lost my own life to save a life that is dearer to me than my own." So she waited until the prince approached when she said with a timid firmness, "Have I your leave to speak?" "You take it without asking when you speak," he replied, and she continued: "There are three men lurking in the woods behind some oaks and one of them is larger than you, a perfect giant. He told them to attack you as you passed by them." "If there were a hundred men in the wood and each of them a giant and if they all made for me together I vow it would not anger me so as to have you disobey me. Stand aside while we do battle and when we are done stand by the victor." At this, while Enid fell back breathing short fits of prayer but not daring to watch, Geraint proceeded to meet his assailants. The giant was the first to dash out for him aiming his lance at Geraint's helmet, but the lance missed and went to one side. Geraint's spear had been a little strained with his first encounter, but it struck through the bulky giant's corselet and pierced his breast, then broke, one-half of it still fast in the flesh as the giant knight fell to the earth. The other two bandits now felt that their support and hero was gone, and when Geraint darted rapidly on them, uttering his terrible warcry as if there were a thousand men behind him to come to his aid, they flew into the woods. But they were soon overtaken and pitilessly put to death. Then Geraint, selecting the best lance, the brightest and strongest among their spears to replace the one he had broken on the giant, he plucked off the gaudy armor from each brigand's body, laid it on the backs of the three horses, tied the bridle reins together and handed them to Enid with the words, "Drive them on before you." So Enid now followed the wild paths of the gloomy forest with two sets of three horses, each horse laden with his master's jingling weapons and coat of mail. Geraint came after. As they passed out of the wood into the open sky they came to a little town with towers upon a rocky hill, and beneath it a wide meadowland with mowers in it, mowing the hay. Down a stony pathway from the town skipped a fair-haired lad carrying a basket of lunch for the laborers in the field. "Friend!" cried Geraint, as the lad trotted past him, for he saw that Enid looked very white, "let my lady have something to eat. She is so faint." "Willingly," the youth answered, "and you too, my lord, even although this feed is very coarse and only fit for the mowers." He set down his basket and Enid and Geraint alighted and put all the horses to graze, while they sat down on the green sward to have some bread and barley. Enid felt too faint at heart, thinking of the prince's strange conduct, to care a great deal for food, but Geraint was hungry enough and had all the mowers' basket emptied almost before he knew it. "Boy," he cried half-ashamed, "everything is gone, which is a disgrace. But take one of my horses and his arms by way of payment, choose the very best." The poor lad, who might as well have had a kingdom given him, reddened with his extreme surprise and delight. "My lord, you are over-paying me fifty times," he cried. "You will be all the wealthier then," returned the prince, gaily. "I'll take it as free gift, then," the lad answered. "The food is not worth much. While your lady is resting here I can easily go back and fetch more, some more for the earl's mowers. For all these mowers belong to our great earl, and all these fields are his, and I am his, too. I'll tell him what a fine man you are, and he will have you to his palace and serve you with costly dinners." "I wish no better fare than I have had," Geraint said, "I never ate better in my life than just now when I left your poor mowers dinnerless. And I will go into no earl's palace. If he desires to see me, let him come to me. Now you go hire us some pleasant room in the town, stall our horses and when you return with the food for these men tell us about it." "Yes, my kind lord," the glad youth cried, and he held his head high and thought he was a gorgeous knight off to the wars as he disappeared up the rocky path leading his handsome horse. The prince turned himself sleepily to watch the lusty mowers laboring under the sun as it blazed on their scythes, while Enid plucked the long grass by the meadows' edge to weave it round and round her wedding ring, until the boy returned and showed them the room he had got in the town. "If you wish anything, call the woman of the house," Prince Geraint said to Enid as the door closed behind them. "Do not speak to me." "Yes, my lord," returned Enid, still marvelling at his cold ways. Silently they sat down, she at one end, he at the other, as quiet as pictures. But suddenly a mass of voices sounded up the street, and heel after heel echoing upon the pavement. In a twinkling the door to their room was pushed back to the wall while a mob of boisterous young gentlemen tumbled in led by the Earl of Limours, the wild lord of the town, and Enid's old suitor whom her father had rejected long ago, a man as beautiful as a woman and very graceful. He seized the prince's hand warmly, welcomed him to the town and stealthily, out of the corner of his eye, caught a glimpse of unhappy Enid nestled all alone at the farther end of the room. The prince immediately sent for every sort of delicious things to eat and drink from the town, told the earl, to bid all his friends for a feast and soon was gaily making merry with the men, drinking, laughing, joking. "May I have your leave, my lord," cried Earl Limours, "to cross the room and speak a word with your lady who seems so lonely?" "My free leave," cried the merry Prince Geraint, who did not know the earl, "Get her to speak with you; she has nothing to say to me." As Limours stepped to Enid's side he lifted his eyes adoringly, bowed at her side and said in a whisper: "Enid, you pilot star of my life, I see that Geraint is very unkind to you and loves you no longer. What a laughing stock he is making of you with that wretched old dress you have on! But I, I love you still as always. Just say the word and I will have him put into the keep and you will come with me. I will be kind to you forever." The tears fluttered into the earl's eyes as he spoke. "Earl," replied Enid, "if you love me as you used to do in the years long ago, and are not joking now, come in the morning and take me by force from the prince. But leave me tonight. I am wearied to death." So the earl made a low bow, brandishing his plumes until they brushed his very insteps, while the stout prince bade him a loud good night, and he moved away talking to his men. [Illustration: THE EARL MADE A LOW BOW.] But as soon as he was gone Enid began to plan how she could escape with Geraint before Earl Limours should come after her in the morning. She was too afraid of Geraint to speak with him about it, but when he had fallen asleep she stepped lightly about the room and gathered the pieces of his armor together in one place ready for an early departure on the morrow. Then she dropped off into slumber. But suddenly she heard a loud sound, the earl with his wild following blowing his trumpet to call her to come out, she thought. But it was only the great red cock in the yard below crowing at the daylight which had begun to glimmer now across the heap of Geraint's armor. She rose immediately in her fright to see that all was well, went over to examine the weapons and unwittingly let the casque fall jangling to the floor. This woke Geraint, who started up and stared at her. "My lord," began Enid, and then she told him all that Earl Limours had said to her and how she had put him off by telling him to come this morning. "Call the woman of the house and tell her to bring the charger and the palfrey," Geraint cried angrily. "Your sweet face makes fools of good fellows." Geraint loved Enid still and he was in as great perplexity as she, for after misunderstanding what she had said he no more knew whether she cared for him truly than she knew what was troubling him and making him act in this unaccountable manner. Enid slipped through the sleeping household like a ghost to deliver the prince's message to the landlord, hurried back to help Geraint with his armor and came down with him to spring upon her palfrey. "What do I owe you, friends?" the prince asked his host, but before the man could reply he added "take those five horses and their burdens of arms." "My lord, I have scarcely spent the price of one of them on you!" cried the landlord astonished. "You'll have all the more riches then," the prince laughed, then turning to Enid, "today I charge you more particularly than ever before that whatever you may see, hear, fancy or imagine, do not speak to me, but obey." "Yes, my lord," answered Enid, "I know your wish and should like to obey, but when I go riding ahead, I hear all the violent threats you do not hear and see the danger you cannot see, and then not to give you warning seems hard, almost beyond me. Yet, I wish to obey you." "Do so, then," said he. "Do not be too wise, seeing that you are married, not to a clown but a strong man with arms to guard his own head and yours, too." The broad beaten path which they now took passed through toward the wasted lands bordering on the castle of Earl Doorm, the Bull, as his people called him, because of his ferocity. It was still early morning when Enid caught the sound of quantities of hoofs galloping up the road. Turning round she saw cloudsful of dust and the points of lances sparkling in it. Then, not to disobey the prince, yet to give him warning, she held up her finger and pointed toward the dust. Geraint was pleased at her cunning, and immediately stopped his horse. The moment after, the Earl of Limours dashed in upon him on a charger as black and as stormy as a thunder-cloud. Geraint closed with the earl, bore down on him with his spear, and in a minute brought him stunned or dead to the ground. Then he turned to the next-comer after Limours, overthrew him and blindly rushed back upon all the men behind. But they were so startled at the flash and movement of the prince that they scrambled away in a panic, leaving their leader lying on the public highway. The horses also of the fallen warriors whisked off from their wounded masters and wildly flew away to mix with the vanishing mob. "Horse and man, all of one mind," remarked Geraint, smiling, "not a hoof of them left. What do you say, Enid, shall we strip the earl and pay for a dinner or shall we fast? Fast? Then go on and let us pray heaven to send us some Earl of Doorm's men so that we can earn ourselves something to eat." Enid sadly eyed her bridle-reins and led the way, Geraint coming after, scarcely knowing that he had been pricked by Limours in his side, and that he was bleeding secretly beneath his armor. But at last his head and helmet began to wag unsteadily, and at a sudden swerving of the road he was tossed from his horse upon a bank of grass. Enid heard the clashing of the fall, and too terrified to cry out, came back all pale. Then she dismounted, loosed the fastenings of his armor and bound up his wounds with her veil. Then she sat down desolately and began to cry, wondering what ever she should do. [Illustration: ENID SAT DOWN DESOLATELY AND BEGAN TO CRY.] Many men passed by but no one took any notice of her. For in that lawless, turbulent earldom no one minded a woman weeping for a murdered lover than they now mind a summer shower. One man scurrying as fast as ever he could travel toward the bandit earl's castle, drove the sand sweeping into her poor eyes, and another coming in the opposite direction from out the earl's castle park in seeming hot haste, turned all the long dusty road into a column of smoke behind him, and frightened her little palfrey so that it scoured off into the coppices and was lost. But the prince's charger stood beside them and grieved over the mishap like a man. At noon a huge warrior with a big face and russet beard and eyes rolling about in search of prey, came riding hard by with a hundred spearmen at his back all bound for some foray. It was the frightful Earl Doorm. "What, is he dead?" cried the earl loudly to Enid, as he spied her on the wayside. "No, no, not dead," she quickly answered. "Would some of your kind people take him up and bear him off somewhere out of this cruel sun? I am very sure, quite sure that he is not dead." "Well, if he isn't dead, why should you cry for him so? Dead or not dead, you just spoil your pretty face with idiotic tears. They will not help him. But since it is a pretty face, come fellows, some of you, and take him to our hall. If he lives he will be one of our band, and if not, why there is earth enough to bury him in. See that you take his charger, too, a noble one." And so saying, the rude earl passed on, while two brawny horsemen came forward growling to think they might lose their chance of booty from the morning's raid all for this dead man. They raised the prince upon a litter, laying him in the hollow of his shield, and brought him into the barren hall of Doorm, while Enid and the gentle charger followed after. They tossed him and his litter down on an oaken settle in the hall, and then shot away for the woods. Enid sat through long hours all alone with Geraint besides the oaken settle, propping his head and chafing his hands, but in the late afternoon she saw the huge Earl Doorm returning with his lusty spearmen and their plunder. Each hurled down a heap of spoils on the floor, threw aside his lance and doffed his helmet, while a tribe of brightly gowned gentle-women fluttered into the hall and began to talk with them. Earl Doorm struck his knife against the table and bellowed for meat, and wine. In a moment the place fairly steamed and smoked with whole roast hogs and oxen, and everybody sat down in a hodge-podge and ate like cattle feeding in their stalls, while Enid shrank far back startled, into her nook. But suddenly, when Earl Doorm had eaten all he would, and all he could for the moment, he revolved his eyes about the bare hall and caught a glimpse of the fair little lady drooping in her niche. Then he recollected how she had crouched weeping by the roadside for her fallen lord that morning. A wild pity filled his gruff heart. "Eat, eat!" he shouted. "I never before saw any thing so pale. Be yourself. Isn't your lord lucky, for were I dead who is there in all the world who would mourn for me? Sweet lady, never have I ever seen a lily like you. If there were a bit of color living in your cheeks there is not one among my gentle-women here who would be fit to wear your slippers for gloves. But listen to me and you will share my earldom with me, girl, and we will live like two birds in a nest and I will bring you all sorts of finery from every part of the world to make you happy." As the earl spoke his two cheeks bulged with the two tremendous morsels of meat which he had tucked into his mouth. Enid was more alarmed than ever. "How can I be happy over anything," replied she, "until my lord is well again?" The earl laughed, then plucked her up out of the corner, carried her over to the table, thrust a dish of food before her and held a horn of wine to her lips. "By all heaven," cried Enid, "I will not drink until my lord gets up and drinks and eats with me. And if he will not rise again I will not drink any wine until I die." At this the earl turned perfectly red and paced up and down the hall, gnawing first his upper and then his lower lip. "Girl," shouted he, "why wail over a man who shames your beauty so, by dressing it in that rag? Put off those beggar-woman's weeds and robe yourself in this which my gentle-woman has brought you." It was a gorgeous, wonderful dress, colored in the tints of a shallow sea with the blue playing into the green, and gemmed with precious stones all down the front of it as thick as dewdrops on the grass. But Enid was harder to move than any cold tyrant on his throne, and said: "Earl, in this poor gown my dear lord found me first and loved me while I was living with my father; in this poor gown I rode with him to court and was presented to the queen; in this poor gown he bade me ride as we came out on this fatal quest of honor, and in this poor gown I am going to stay until he gets up again, a live, strong man, and tells me to put it away. I have griefs enough, pray be gentle with me, let me be. O God! I beg of your gentleness, since he is as he is, to let me be." Then the brutal earl strode up and down the hall and cried out: "It is of no more use to be gentle with you than to be rough. So take my salute," and with that he slapped her lightly on her white cheek. Enid shrieked. Instantly the fallen Geraint was up on his feet with the sword that had laid beside him in the hollow of the shield, making a single bound for the earl, and with one sweep of it sheared through the swarthy neck. The rolling eyes turned glassy, the russet-bearded head tumbled over the floor like a ball, and all the bandit knights and the gentle-women in the hall flitted, scampering pell-mell away, yelling as if they had seen a ghoul. Enid and Geraint were left alone. [Illustration: THE RUSSET-BEARDED HEAD TUMBLED OVER THE FLOOR LIKE A BALL.] Now Geraint had come out of his swoon before the earl had returned, and he had lain perfectly silent and immovable because he wished to test Enid and see what she would do when she thought he was sleeping or fainted away, or perhaps dead. So he had listened to all that had taken place and had heard everything that Earl Doorm had said to her and all that Enid had replied, so now he knew that she loved him as ever and that she stood steadfast by him. All his heart filled with pity and remorse that he had brought her away on this hard, hard quest, and had made her suffer so much and had been so rough and cold. "Enid," said the prince tenderly, very tenderly. "I have used you worse than that big dead brute of a man used you. I have done you more wrong than he. I misunderstood you. Now, now you are three times mine." Geraint's kindness burst upon Enid so abruptly and was so unforeseen that she could not speak a word only this: "Fly, Geraint, they will kill you, they will come back. Fly. Your horse is outside, my poor little thing is lost." "You shall ride behind me, then, Enid." So they slipped quickly outside, found the stately charger and mounted him, first Geraint, then Enid, climbing up the prince's feet, and throwing her arms about him to hold herself firm as they bounded off. But as the horse dashed outside of the earl's gateway there before them in the highroad stood a knight of Arthur's court holding his lance as if ready to spring upon Geraint. "Stranger!" shrieked Enid, thinking of the prince's wound and loss of blood, "do not kill a dead man!" "The voice of Enid!" cried the stranger knight. Then Enid saw that he was Edryn, the son of Nudd, and feeling the more terrified as she remembered the jousts, cried out: "O, cousin, this is the man who spared your life!" [Illustration: BEFORE THEM IN THE HIGHROAD STOOD A KNIGHT OF ARTHUR'S COURT.] Edryn stepped forward. "My lord Geraint," he said, "I took you for some bandit knight of Doorm's. Do not fear, Enid, that I will attack the prince. I love him. When he overthrew me at the lists he threw me higher. For now I have been made a Knight of the Round Table and am altogether changed. But since I used to know Earl Doorm in the old days when I was lawless and half a bandit myself, I have come as the mouthpiece of our king to tell Doorm to disband all his men and become subject to Arthur, who is now on his way hither." "Doorm is now before the King of Kings," Geraint replied, "And his men are already scattered," and the prince pointed to groups in the thickets or still running off in their panic. Then back to the people all aghast whom they could see huddling, he related fully to Edryn how he had slain the huge earl in his own hall. [Illustration: TO THE ROYAL CAMP WHERE ARTHUR CAME OUT TO GREET THEM.] "Come with me to the king," astonished Edryn said. So they all traveled off to the royal camp where Arthur himself came out to greet them, lifted Enid from her saddle, kissed her and showed her a tent where his own physician came in to attend to Geraint's wound. When that was healed he rode away with them to Caerleon for a visit with Queen Guinevere, who dressed Enid again in magnificent clothes. Then fifty armed knights escorted Enid and the prince as far as the banks of the Severn River, where they crossed over into the land of Devon. And all their people welcomed them back. Geraint after that never forgot his princedom or the tournament, but was known through all the country round as the cleverest and bravest warrior, while his princess was called Enid the Good. MERLIN AND VIVIEN. Vivien was a very clever, wily and wicked woman, who wanted to become a greater magician than even the great Merlin, who was the most famous man of all his times, who understood all the arts, who had built the king's harbors, ships and halls, who was a fine poet and who could read the future in the stars in the skies. He had once told Vivien of a charm that he could work to make people invisible. Whenever he worked it upon anyone that person would seem to be imprisoned within the four walls of a tower and could not get out. The person would seem dead, lost to every one, and could be seen only by the person who worked the charm. Vivien yearned to know what the charm was, for she wanted to cast its spell on Merlin so that no one would know where he was and she could become a great enchantress in the realm, as she foolishly thought. And she planned very cleverly so as to find out the wise old man's secret. She wanted him to think that she loved him dearly. At first she played about him with lively, pretty talk, vivid smiles, and he watched and laughed at her as if she were a playful kitten. Then as she saw that he half disdained her she began to put on very grave and serious fits, turned red and pale when he came near her, or sighed or gazed at him, so silently and with such sweet devotion that he half believed that she really loved him truly. [Illustration: HE LAUGHED AT HER.] But after a while a great melancholy fell over Merlin, he felt so terribly sad that he passed away out of the kings' court and went down to the beach. There he found a little boat and stepped into it. Vivien had followed him without his knowing it. She sat down in the boat and while he took the sail she seized the helm of the boat. They were driven across the sea with a strong wind and came to the shores of Brittany. Here Merlin got out and Vivien followed him all the way into the wild woods of Broceliande. Every step of the way Merlin was perfectly quiet. They sat down together, she lay beside him and kissed his feet as if in the deepest reverence and love. A twist of gold was wound round her hair, a priceless robe of satiny samite clung about her beautiful limbs. As she kissed his feet she cried: "Trample me down, dear feet which I have followed all through the world and I will worship you. Tread me down and I will kiss you for it." But Merlin still said not a word. [Illustration: MERLIN FELT SO TERRIBLY SAD.] "Merlin do you love me?" at last cried Vivien, with her face sadly appealing to him. And again, "O, Merlin, do you love me?" "Great Master, do you love me?" she cried for the third time. And then when he was as quiet as ever she writhed up toward him, slid upon his knee, twined her feet about his ankles, curved her arms about his neck and used one of her hands as a white comb to run through his long ashy beard which she drew all across her neck down to her knees. "See! I'm clothing myself with wisdom," she cried. "I'm a golden summer butterfly that's been caught in a great old tyrant spider's web that's going to eat me up in this big wild wood without a word to me." "What do you mean, Vivien, with these pretty tricks of yours?" cried Merlin at last. "What do you want me to give you?" "What!" said Vivien, smiling saucily, "have you found your tongue at last? Now yesterday you didn't open your lips once except to drink. And then I, with my own lady hands, made a pretty cup and offered you your water kneeling before you and you drank it, but gave me not a word of thanks. And when we stopped at the other spring when you lay with your feet all golden with blossoms from the meadows we passed through you know that I bathed your feet before I bathed my own. But yet no thanks from you. And all through this wild wood, all through this morning when I fondled you, still not a word of thanks." Then Merlin locked her hand in his and said, "Vivien, have you never seen a wave as it was coming up the beach ready to break? Well, I've been seeing a wave that was ready to break on me. It seemed to me that some dark, tremendous wave was going to come and sweep me away from my hold on the world, away from my fame and my usefulness and my great name. That's why I came away from Arthur's court to make me forget it and feel better. And when I saw you coming after me it seemed to me that you were that wave that was going to roll all over me. But pardon me, now, child, your pretty ways have brightened everything again, and now tell me what you would like to have from me. For I owe you something three times over, once for neglecting you, twice for the thanks for your goodness to me, and lastly for those dainty gambols of yours. So tell me now, what will you have?" Vivien smiled mournfully as she answered: "I've always been afraid that you were not really mine, that you didn't love me truly, that you didn't quite trust me, and now you yourself have owned it. Don't you see, dear love, how this strange mood of yours must make me feel it more than ever? must make me yearn still more to prove that you are mine, must make me wish still more to know that great charm of waving hands and woven footsteps that you told me about, just as a proof that you trust me? If you told that to me I should know that you are mine, and I should have the great proof of your love, because I think that however wise you may be you do not know me yet." "I never was less wise, you inquisitive Vivien," said Merlin, "than when I told you about that charm. Why won't you ask me for another boon?" Then Vivien, as if she were the tenderest hearted little maid that ever lived, burst into tears and said: "No, master, don't be angry at your little girl. Caress me, let me feel myself forgiven, for I have not the heart to ask for another boon. I don't suppose that you know the old rhyme, 'Trust not at all or all in all?'" Then Merlin looked at her and half believed what she said. Her voice was so tender, her face was so fair, her eyes were so sweetly gleaming behind her tears. He locked her hand in his again and said, "If you should know this charm you might sometimes in a wild moment of anger or a mood of overstrained affection when you wanted me all to yourself or when you were jealous in a sudden fit, you might work it on me." "Good!" cried Vivien, as if she were angry, "I am not trusted. Well, hide it away, hide it, and I shall find it out, and when I've found it beware, look out for Vivien! When you use me so it's a wonder that I can love you at all, and as for jealousy, it seems to me this wonderful charm was invented just to make me jealous. I suppose you have a lot of pretty girls whom you have caged here and there all over the world with it." Then the great master laughed merrily. "Long, long years ago," he said, "there lived a King in the farthest East of the East. A tawny pirate who had plundered twenty islands or more anchored his boat in the King's port, and in the boat was a woman. For, as he had passed one of the islands the pirates had seen two cities full of men in boats fighting for a woman on the sea; he had pushed up his black boat in among the rest, lightly scattered every one of them and brought her off with half his people killed with arrows. She was a maiden so smooth, so white, so wonderful that a light seemed to come from her as she walked. When the pirate came upon the shore of the Eastern King's island the King asked him for the woman, but he would not give her up. So the King imprisoned the pirate and made the woman his queen. "All the people adored her, the King's councilmen and all his soldiers, the beasts themselves. The camels knelt down before her unbidden, and the black slaves of the mountains rang her golden ankle bells just to see her smile. So little wonder that the King grew very jealous. He had his horns blown through all the hundred under-kingdoms which he ruled, telling the people that he wanted a wizard who would teach him some charm to work upon the queen and make her all his own. To the wizard who could do this he promised a league of mountain land full of golden mines, a province with a hundred miles of coast, a palace and a princess. But all the wizards who failed should be killed and their heads would be hung on the city gates until they mouldered away. "So there were many, many wizards all through the hundred kingdoms who tried to work the charm, but failed; many wizard heads bleached on the walls, and for weeks a troupe of carrion crows hung like a cloud above the towers of the city gateways. But at last the king's men found a little glassy headed, hairless man who lived alone in a great wilderness and ate nothing but grass. He read only one book, and by always reading had got grated down, filed away and lean, with monstrous eyes and his skin clinging to his bones. But since he never tasted wine or flesh--the wall that separates people from spirits became crystal to him. He could see through it, perceive the spirits as they walked and hear them talking; so he learned their secrets. Often he drew a cloud of rain across a sunny sky, or when there was a wild storm and the pine woods roared he made everything calm again. "He was the man that was wanted. They dragged him to the king's court by force, he didn't want to go. There he taught the king how to charm the queen so that no one could see her again, and she could see no one except the king as he passed about the palace. She lay as if quite dead and lost to life. But when the king offered the magician his league of golden mines, the province with a hundred miles of sea coast, the palace and the princess, the old man turned away, went back to his wilderness and lived on grass and vanished away. But his book came down to me." "You have the book!" cried Vivian smiling saucily. "The charm is written in it. Good, take my advice and let me know the secret at once, for if you should hide it away like a puzzle in a chest, if you should put chest upon chest, and lock and padlock each chest thirty times and bury them all away under some vast mound like the heaps of soldiers on the battle-field, still I should hit upon some way of digging it out, of picking it, of opening it and reading the charm. And _then_ if I tried it on you who would blame me?" "You read the book, my pretty Vivien?" cried Merlin. "Well, it's only twenty pages long, but such pages! Every page has a square of text that looks like a blot, the letters no longer than fleas' legs written in a language that has long gone by, and all the borders and margins scribbled, crossed and crammed with notes. You read that book! No one, not even I can read the text, and no one besides me can make out the notes on the margins. I found the charm in the margin. Oh, it is simple enough. Any child might work it and then not be able to undo it. Don't ask me again for it, because even although you would love me too much to try it on me, still you might try it on some of the knights of the Round Table." "O, you are crueller than any man ever told of in a story, or sung about in song!" cried Vivien. She clapped her hands together and wailed out a shriek. "I'm stabbed to the heart! I only wished that prove to you that were wholly mine, that you loved me and now I'm killed with a word. There's nothing left for me to do except crawl into some hole or cave, and if the wolves won't tear me to pieces, just to weep my life away, killed with unutterable unkindness!" She paused, turned away, hung her head while the hair uncoiled itself. Then she wept afresh. The dark wood grew darker with a storm coming over the sky. Merlin sat thinking quietly and half believed that she was true. "Come out of the storm," he called over to her, "come here into the hollow old oak tree." Then since she didn't answer, he tried three times to calm her but quite in vain. At last, however, she let herself be conquered, came back to her old perch, and nestled there, half falling from his knees. Gentle Merlin saw the slow tears still standing in her eyes and threw his arms kindly about her. But Vivien unlinked herself at once, rose with her arms crossed upon her bosom and fled away. "No more love between us two," she cried, "for you do not trust me. Oh, it would have been better if I had died three times over than to have asked you once! Farewell, think gently of me and I will go. But before I leave you let me swear once more that if I've been planning against you in all this, may the dark heavens send one great flash from out the sky to burn me to a cinder!" Just as she ended a bolt of lightning darted across the sky, and sliced the giant oak tree into a thousand splinters and spikes. "Oh, Merlin, save me! save me!" cried Vivien, terrified lest the heavens had heard her oath and were going to kill her. And she flew back to his arms. She called him her dear protector, her lord and liege, her seer, her bard, her silver star of evening, her God, her Merlin, the one passionate love of her life, and hugged him close. All the time overhead the tempest bellowed, the branches snapped above them in the rushing rain. Her glittering eyes and neck seemed to come and go before Merlin's eyes with the lightning. At last the storm had spent its passion, the woodland was all in peace again, and Merlin, overtalked and overworn had told all of the charm and had fallen asleep. [Illustration: IN THE HOLLOW OF THE OLD OAK TREE LEFT HIM LYING DEAD.] Then in a moment Vivien worked the charm with woven footsteps and waving arms, and in the hollow of the old oak tree left him lying dead to all life, use and fame and name. "I have made his glory mine! O fool!" she shrieked, and she sprang down through the great forest, the thicket closed about her behind her and all the woods echoed, "Fool!" BALIN AND BALAN. King Pellam owed Arthur some tribute money so Arthur told three of his knights to go see about it and collect it for him. "Very well," said one of the knights, "but listen, on the way to King Pellam's country, near Camelot, there are two strange knights sitting beside a fountain. They challenge and overthrow every knight that passes. Shall I stop to fight them as we go by and send them back to you?" Arthur laughed, "No, don't stop for anything; let them wait until they can find some one stronger themselves." With that the three men left. But after they had gone Arthur, who loved a good fight himself, started away early one morning for the fountain side of Camelot. On its right hand he saw the knight Balin sitting under an alder tree, with his horse beside him, and on the left hand under a poplar tree with his horse at his side sat the knight Balan. "Fair sirs," cried Arthur, "why are you sitting here?" "For the sake of glory," they answered. "We're stronger than all Arthur's court. We've proved that because we easily overthrow every knight that comes by here." "Well, I'm of Arthur's court, too," replied the king, "although I've never done so much in jousts as in real wars. But see whether you can overthrow me so easily too." So the two brothers came out boldly and fought with Arthur, but he struck them both lightly down, then softly came away and nobody knew anything about it. But that evening while Balin and Balan sat very meekly by the bubbling water a spangled messenger came riding by and cried out to them: "Sirs, you are sent for by the King." So they followed the man back to the court. "Tell me your names," demanded Arthur, "and why do you sit there by the fountain?" [Illustration: TWO STRANGE KNIGHTS.] "My name is Balin," answered one of the men, "and my brother's name is Balan. Three years ago I struck down one of your slaves whom I heard had spoken ill of me, and you sent me away for a three years' exile. Then I thought that if we would sit by the well and would overcome every knight who passed by you would be a more willing to take me back. But today some man of yours came along and conquered us both. What do you wish with me?" "Be wiser for falling," Arthur said. "Your chair is in the hall vacant. Take it again and be my knight once more." So Balin went back into the old hall of the Knights of the Round Table, and they all clashed their cups together drinking his welcome, and sang until all of Arthur's banners of war hanging overhead began to stir as they always did on the battlefield. Meanwhile the men who had gone to collect the taxes from King Pellam returned. "Sir King," they cried to Arthur, "We scarcely could see Pellam for the gloom in his hall. That man who used to be one of your roughest and most riotous enemies is now living like a monk in his castle and has all sorts of holy things about him, and says he has given up all matters of the world. He wouldn't even talk about the tribute money and told us that his heir Sir Garlon, attended to his business for him, so we went to Garlon and after a struggle we got it. Then we came away, but as we passed through the deep woods we found one of your knights lying dead, killed by a spear. After we had buried him, we talked with an old woodman who told us that there's a demon of the woods who had probably slain the knight. This demon, he said, was once a man who lived all alone and learned black magic. He hated people so much that when he died he became a fiend. The woodman showed us the cave where he has seen the demon go in and out and where he lives. We saw the print of a horse's hoof, but no more." "Foully and villainously slain!" cried Arthur thinking of his poor killed knight in the woods. "Who will go hunt this demon of the woods for me?" "I!" exclaimed Balan, ready to dart instantly away, but first he embraced Balin, saying, "Good brother, hear; don't let your angry passions conquer you, fight them away. Remember how these knights of the Round Table welcomed you back. Be a loving brother with them and don't imagine that there is hatred among them here any more than there is in heaven itself." When bad Balan left, Balin set himself to learn how to curb his wildness and become a courteous and manly knight. He always hovered about Lancelot, the pattern knight of all the court, to see how he did, and when he noticed Lancelot's sweet smiles and his little pleasant words that gladdened every knight or churl or child that he passed, Balin sighed like some lame boy who longed to scale a mountain top and could scarcely limp up one hundred feet from the base. "It's Lancelot's worship of the queen that helps to make him gentle," said he to himself. "If I want to be gentle I must serve and worship lovely Queen Guinevere too. Suppose I ask the King to let me have some token of hers on my shield instead of these pictures of wild beasts with big teeth and grins. Then whenever I see it I'll forget my wild heats and violences." "What would you like to bear on your shield?" asked the king when Balin spoke to him about his wish. "The queen's own crown-royal," replied Balin. Then the queen smiled and turned to Arthur. "The crown is only the shadow of the king," she said, "and this crown is the shadow of that shadow. But let him have it if it will help him out of his violences." "It's no shadow to me, my queen," cried Balan, "no shadow to me, king. It's a light for me." So Balin was given the crown to bear on his shield and whenever he looked at it, it seemed to make him feel gentle and patient. But one morning as he heard Lancelot and the queen talking together on the white walk of lilies that led to Queen Guinevere's bower, all his old passions seemed to come back and filled him and he darted madly away on his horse, not stopping until he had passed the fount where he had sat with his brother Balan and had dived into the skyless woods beyond. There the gray-headed woodman was hewing away wearily at a branch of a tree. [Illustration: BALIN WAS GIVEN THE CROWN TO WEAR ON HIS SHIELD.] "Give me your axe, Churl," cried Balin, and with one sharp cut he struck it down. "Lord!" cried the woodman, "you could kill the devil of this woods if any one can. Just yesterday I saw a flash of him. Some people say that our Sir Garlon has learned black magic too and can ride armed unseen. Just look into the demon's cave." But Balin said the woodman was foolish, and rode off through the glades with a drooping head. He did not notice that on his right a great cavern chasm yawned out of the darkness. Once he heard the mosses beneath him thud and tremble and then the shadow of a spear shot from behind him and ran along the ground. The light of somebody's armor flashed by him and vanished into the woods. Balin dashed after this but he was so blinded by his rage that he stumbled against a tree, breaking his lance and falling from his horse. He sprang to his feet and darted off again not knowing where he was going until the massy battlements of King Pellam's castle appeared. "Why do you wear the crown royal on your shield?" Pellam's men asked him as soon as they saw him. "The fairest and best of ladies living gave it to me," Balin replied, as he stalled his horse and strode across the court to the banquet hall. "Why do you wear the royal crown?" Sir Garlon asked him as they sat at table. "The queen whom Lancelot and we all worship as the fairest, best and purest gave it to me to wear," said Balin. But Sir Garlon only hissed at him and made fun of what he said, and Balin reached for a wonderful goblet embossed with a sacred picture to hurl it at Garlon, but the thought of the gentle queen about whom he was talking soothed his temper. The next morning, however, in the court Sir Garlon mocked him again and Balin's face grew black with anger. He tore out his sword from its shield and crying out fiercely, "Ha! I'll make a ghost of you!" struck Garlon hard on the helmet. The blade flew and splintered into six parts which clinked upon the stones below while Garlon reeled slowly backward and fell. Balin dragged him by the banneret of his helmet and struck again, but in a minute twenty warriors with pointed lances were making for him from the castle. Balin dashed his fist against the foremost face then dipped through a low doorway out along a glimmering gallery until he saw the open portals of King Pellam's chapel. He slipped inside this and crept behind the door while the others howled past outside. Before the golden altar he noticed lying the brightest lance he had ever seen with its point painted red with blood. Seizing it he pushed it out through an open casement, leaned on it and leaped in a half-circle to the ground outside. Running along a path he found his horse, mounted him and scudded away. An arrow whizzed to his right, another to his left and a third over his head while he heard Pellam crying out feebly, "Catch him, catch him! he mustn't pollute holy things!" But Balin quickly dove beneath the tree boughs and raced through miles of thick groves and open meadowland until his good horse, at last wearied and uncertain in his footsteps, stumbled over a fallen oak and threw Balin headlong. As Balin rose to his feet he looked at the Queen's crown on his shield and then drew the shield from off his neck. "I have shamed you," he cried. "I won't carry you any more," and he hung it up on a branch and threw himself on the ground in a passionate sleep. While he slept there the beautiful wicked Vivien came riding by through the woodland alleys with her squire, warbling a song. "What is this?" she cried as she noticed the shield on the tree, "a shield with a crown upon it. And there's a horse. Where's the rider? Oh! there he is sleeping. Hail royal knight, I'm flying away from a bad king and the knight I was riding with was hurt, and my poor squire isn't of much use in helping me. But you, Sir Prince, will surely guide me to the Warrior King Arthur, the Blameless, to get me some shelter." "Oh, no, I'll never go to Arthur's court again," cried Balin. "I'm not a prince any more, or a knight. I have brought the Queen's crown to shame." Then Vivien laughed shrilly, and told Balin a wicked story about the Queen which she just imagined in her wicked mind. But she told it so cunningly and smiled so sunnily as she talked that Balin believed her and he flew into the more passionate rage because he thought he had been deceived in the Queen whom he had worshipped. He ground his teeth together, sprang up with a yell, tore the shield from the branch and cast it on the ground, drove his heel _into the royal crown_, stamped and trampled upon it until it was all spoiled, then hurled the shield from him out among the forest weeds and cursed the story, the queen and Vivien. His weird yell had thrilled through the woods where Balan was lurking for his foe. "There! that's the scream of the wood-devil I'm looking for," he thought. "He has killed some knight and trampled on his shield to show his loathing of our order and the queen. Devil or man, whichever you are, take care of your head!" [Illustration: HE DROVE HIS HEEL INTO THE ROYAL CROWN.] With that he made swiftly for his poor brother whom he did not recognize. Sir Balin spoke not a word but snatched the buckler from Vivien's squire, vaulted on his horse and in a moment had clashed with his brother's armor. King Pellam's holy spear reddened with blood as it pricked through Balan's shield to his flesh. Then Balin's horse, wearied to death, rolled back over his rider and crushed him inward and both men fell and swooned away. "The fools!" cried Vivien to her young squire. "Come, you Sir Chick, loosen their casques and see who they are. They must be rivals for the same woman to fight so hard." "They are happy," her gentle squire answered, "if they died for love. And Vivien, though you beat me like your dog I would die for you." "Don't die, Sir Boy," cried Vivien, "I'd rather have a live dog than a dead lion. Come away, I don't like to look at them," and she made her palfrey leap off over the fallen oak tree. Balin was the first to wake from his swoon. As soon as he saw his brother's face he crawled over to his side moaning. Then Balan faintly opened his eyes and seeing who was with him kissed Balin's forehead. "O Balin," he cried, "why didn't you carry your own shield which I knew, and why did you trample all over this one which bears the queen's own crown which I know?" So Balin slowly gasped out the whole story of his shield. Then they each said good-night to the other and closed their eyes, locked in each other's arms. LANCELOT AND ELAINE. Long before Arthur was crowned king while he was roving one night over the trackless realms of Lyonesse he came upon a glen with a gray boulder and a lake. As he rode up the highway in the misty moonshine he suddenly stepped upon a white skeleton of a man with a crown of diamonds upon its skull. The skull broke off from the body and rolled away into the lake. Arthur alighted, reached down and picked up the crown and set it on his head murmuring to himself, "_You too shall be king some day_," for the skeleton was the bones of a king who had fought with his brother there and been killed. [Illustration: YOU TOO SHALL BE KING SOME DAY.] When Arthur was crowned he plucked the nine gems out of the crown he had found on the skeleton and showed them to his knights with the words: "These jewels belong to the whole kingdom for everybody's use and not to the king. Hereafter there is to be joust for one of them every year and in that way in nine years time we will learn who is the mightiest in the kingdom and we will race with each other to become skilful in the use of arms until at last we shall be able to drive away the heathen horde from the land." Eight years had now passed and there had been eight jousts. Lancelot had won the diamond every year and intended when he had been victorious in all the jousts, to give the nine gems to the queen. When the ninth year came Arthur proclaimed the tournament for the central and largest diamond to be held at Camelot, where he was holding his court. But the queen became ill as the time for the tour jousts drew near and he asked her whether she was too feeble to go to see Lancelot in the lists. "Yes, my lord," replied Guinevere, "and you know it," and she looked up languidly to Lancelot who stood near. Lancelot thinking that she would rather have him near while she was ill than to receive all the diamonds of the crown, said: "Sir King, that old wound of mine is not quite healed so I can hardly ride in my saddle." So the king went, excused Lancelot, and rode away alone to the lists while Lancelot remained, but as soon as Arthur was gone the _queen told Lancelot that he ought by all means go too and fight_. "But how can I go now," replied Lancelot, "after what I have said to the king." "I will tell you what to do," said Guinevere. "Everybody says that men go down before your spear just because of your great name. They are afraid as soon as you appear and of course, they are conquered. Go in today entirely unknown and win for yourself, then after all is over the king will be pleased with you for being so clever." [Illustration: THE QUEEN TOLD LANCELOT THAT HE OUGHT BY ALL MEANS FIGHT.] Lancelot quickly got his horse and leaving the beaten thoroughfare, chose a green path among the downs to take him to the lists. It was a new road to him however and he lost his way and did not know where to go until at last he came upon a faintly traced pathway that led to the castle of Astolat far away on a hill. He went thither, blew the horn at the gate where a _dumb, wrinkled old man came to let him in_. In the castle court he met the lord of Astolat with his two young sons, Sir Torre and Sir Lavaine and behind them the lily maiden Elaine, Astolat's daughter. They were jesting and laughing as they came. [Illustration: A WRINKLED OLD MAN CAME AND LET HIM IN.] "Where do you come from, my guest, and what is your name?" asked Astolat. "By your state and presence I would guess you to be the chief of Arthur's court, for I have seen him although the other knights of the Round Table are strangers to me." Lancelot, Arthur's chief knight replied, "I am of Arthur's court and I am known, and my shield which I have happened to bring with me, is known too. But as I am going to joust for the diamond at Camelot as a stranger do not ask me my name. After it is over you shall know me and my shield. If you have some blank shield around, or one with a strange device, pray lend it to me." "Here is Torre's," the Lord of Astolat replied. "He was hurt in his first tilt and so his shield is blank enough, God knows. You can have his." "Yes," added Sir Torre simply, "since I can't use it you may have it." His father laughed. "Fie, Churl, is that an answer for a noble knight? You must pardon him, but Lavaine, my younger boy, is so full of life he will ride in the lists, joust for the diamond, win and bring it in one hour to set upon his sister's golden hair and make her three times as wilful as before." "Oh, no, good father! don't shame me before this noble knight. It was all a joke. Elaine dreamed that some one had put the diamond into her hand and it was so slippery it dropped into a pool of water. Then I told her that if I fought and won it for her she must keep it safer than that. But it was all in fun. However, if you'll give me your leave, I'll ride to Camelot with this noble knight. I shall not win but I'll do my best to win." Lancelot smiled a moment. "If you'll give me the pleasure of your company over the downs where I lost myself I'll be glad to have you as a friend and guide. You shall win the diamond if you can and then give it to your sister if you wish." "Such diamonds are for queens and not for simple little girls," said Sir Torre. Elaine flushed at this and Lancelot said, "If beautiful things are for beautiful people this maiden may wear as fine jewels as there are in the world." Then the lily maid lifted her eyes and thought that Lancelot was the greatest man that had ever lived. She loved his bruised and bronzed face seamed across with an old sword-cut. They took the pet knight of Arthur's court into the rude hall of Astolat where they entertained him with their best meats, wines and minstrel melodies. They told him about the dumb old man at the gate, how ten years ago he had warned Astolat of the heathen fighters coming, and how they had all escaped to the woods and lived in a boatman's hut by the river while the old man had been caught and had his tongue cut off. "Those were dull days," said the Lord of Astolat, "until Arthur came and drove the heathen away." "O, great Lord!" cried Lavaine to Lancelot, "you fought in those glorious wars with Arthur. Tell us about them!" So Lancelot told him all about the fight all day long at the white mouth of the river Glenn, the four loud battles on the shore of Duglas where the glorious king wore on his cuirass an emerald carved into Our Lady's head. "On the mount of Badon," he said, "I saw him charge at the head of all of his Round Table and break the heathen hosts. Afterward he stood on a heap of the killed, all red, from his spurs to the plumes of his helmet, with their blood, and he cried to me: 'They are broken! they are broken!' In this heathen war the fire of God filled him, I never saw anyone like him, there is no greater leader." "Except yourself," thought the lily maid Elaine. All through the night she saw his dark, splendid face living before her eyes and early in the morning she arose as if to bid goodbye to Lavaine, stole step after step down the long tower stairs and passed out to the court where Lancelot was smoothing the glossy shoulders of his horse. She drew nearer and stood in the dewy light, studying his face as though it was a god. He had never dreamed she was so beautiful. [Illustration: "FAIR LORD," SAID ELAINE.] "Fair lord," said Elaine, "I don't know your name but I believe it is the noblest himself of them all. Will you wear a token of me at the tournament today?" "No, pretty lady," said he, "for I've never worn a token of any woman in the lists; as every one who knows me knows." "Then by wearing mine you'll be less likely to be found out this time." "That's true, my child, well, I'll wear it. Fetch it out to me. What is it?" "A red sleeve bordered with pearls," replied Elaine, and she went in and brought it out to him. Then he wound it round his helmet and said he had never before done so much for any girl in the world. The blood sprang to Elaine's face as he said that, and filled her with delight, although she grew all the paler as Lavaine came out and handed Sir Torre's shield to Lancelot. Lancelot gave his own shield to Elaine saying, "Do me this favor, child, keep my shield for me until I come back." "It's a favor to me," she replied smiling, "I'll be your squire." "Come, Lily Maid," cried Lavaine, "you'll be a lily maid in earnest if you don't get to bed and have some sleep," and he kissed her good-bye. Lancelot kissed her hand as they moved away. She watched them at the gateway until their sparkling arms dipped below the downs, then climbed up to her tower with the shield and there she studied it and mused over it every day. Meanwhile Lancelot and Lavaine passed far over the long downs until they reached an old hermit who lived in a white rock. Here they spent the night. The next morning as they rode away Lancelot said, "Listen to me, but keep what I say a secret, you're riding with Lancelot of the Lake." "The great Lancelot?" stammered Lavaine, catching his breath with surprise. "There is only one other great man to see, and that is Britain's king of kings, Arthur. And he's going to be at the tournament, too." As soon as they reached the lists in the meadows by Camelot, Lancelot pointed out the king who, as he sat in the peopled gallery was very easy to recognize because of his five dragons. A golden dragon clung to his crown, another writhed down his robe while two others in gilded carved wood-work formed the arms of his chair. The canopy above him blazed with the last big diamond. "You call me great," cried Lancelot, "I'm not great, there's the man." Lavaine gaped at Arthur as if he were something miraculous. Then the trumpets blew. The two sides, those who held the lists and those who attacked them, set their lances in rest, then struck their spurs, moved out suddenly and shocked in the center of the field. The ground shook and there was a low thunder of arms. Lancelot waited a little until he saw which was the weaker side, then sprang into the fight with them. In those days of his glory, whomever he struck he overthrew, whether they were kings, dukes, earls, counts or barons. But that day in the field some of his relatives were holding the lists who did not know him and who could not bear the idea that any stranger knight should out do the feats of their own Lancelot. "Who is this?" one of them asked, "Isn't it Lancelot?" "When has Lancelot ever worn a lady's token?" the others replied. "Who is it then?" they cried, furious to guard the name of Lancelot. They pricked their steeds and moving all together bore down upon him like a wild wave that upsets a ship. One spear lamed Lancelot's charger and another pierced through Lancelot's side, snapped there and stuck. Lavaine now did splendidly for he brought a famous old knight down by Lancelot's side. Lancelot in the meantime rose to his feet in all his agony and by a sort of miracle as it seemed to those who were on his side, drove all his opponents back to the barrier. Then the trumpet blew and proclaimed that the knight who wore the scarlet sleeve with pearls was victor. "Go up and get your diamond," his men said to him. "Don't give me any diamonds," said Lancelot. "My prize is death, I'll leave and don't follow." Then he vanished into the poplar grove where he told Lavaine to draw out the lance head. "I'm afraid you'll die, if I do," cried Lavaine. "I'm dying now with it," said Lancelot, so Lavaine drew it out and Lancelot gave a wonderful shriek and swooned away. Then the old hermit came out, carried him into the white rock and stanched his wound. Immediately after he had left the field the men of his side went to the king and said that the knight who had won the day had left without receiving his prize. "Such a knight as that must not go uncared for," said the king. "Gawain, ride out and find him and since he didn't come for his diamond we will send it to him. Don't leave your quest until you have him." Gawain the courteous was a good young knight but he didn't like it that he had to leave the banquet and the king's side to look for a stranger knight, so he mounted his horse rather crossly. He rode all round the country to every place except the right one, poplar grove, and at last very late reached the Castle of Astolat. "What news from Camelot?" cried Elaine as soon as she saw him, "What about the knight with the red sleeve?" "He won." "I knew it," she said. "But he left the jousts wounded in his side." Then Elaine almost swooned away. When the Lord of Astolat came out and heard about Gawain's quest, "Stay with us, noble prince," said he. "For the knight was here and left his shield with us, so he will certainly come back or send for it. Besides my son is with him." Gawain thought he would have a pleasant time with Elaine so he stayed. But Elaine rebelled against his pretty love-making and asked him why he neglected the king's quest and why he didn't ask to see the knight's shield. "I've lost my quest in the light of your blue eyes," said Gawain, "but let me see the shield. Ah! the king was right!" he cried out when Elaine showed it to him. "It was our Lancelot." "I was right too," Elaine said merrily, "for I dreamed that my knight was the greatest of them all." "And suppose that I dreamed that you love this greatest knight?" returned Gawain. "What do I know?" Elaine answered simply. "I don't know whether I know what love is, but I do know that if I do not love him there isn't another man whom I can love." "Yes, you love him well," said Gawain. "And I suppose you know just where your greatest knight is hidden, so let me leave my quest with you. If you love him it will be sweet to you to give him the diamond and if he loves you it will be sweet to him to receive it from you, while even if he doesn't love you, a diamond is always a diamond. Farewell a thousand times. If he loves you I may see you at court after while." Then Gawain lightly kissed her hand as he laid the diamond in it, and, wearied of his quest, leaped on his horse and carrolling a love-ballad airily rode away to the court where it was soon buzzed abroad that a maid of Astolat loved Lancelot and that Lancelot loved a maid of Astolat. The maid meanwhile crept up to her father one day and received his leave to take the diamond to Sir Lancelot. Sir Torre went with her to the gates of Camelot where they saw Lavaine capering about on a horse. "Lavaine!" she cried, "how is it with my lord Sir Lancelot?" and she told him about the diamond. Then Sir Torre went on into the city while Lavaine guided Elaine to the hermit's cave. As she saw her handsome knight on the floor, a sort of skeleton of himself, she gave a little tender dolorous cry. "Your prize, the diamond, sent you by the king," said she, as she put it into his hand and explained how she had received it from Gawain. Then he kissed her as a father would kiss a dear little daughter and she went back to the dim, rich city of Camelot for the night. But the next morning she was back in the cave, and day after day she came, caring for him more mildly, tenderly and kindly than any mother could with a child, until at last the old hermit said she had nursed him back to life, then all three rode back together one morning to Astolat where Lancelot asked Elaine to tell him the dearest wish of her heart so that he could grant it to her. Elaine turned as pale as a ghost when he first spoke but at last one day she told him. She said she wanted him to love her, she wanted to be his wife. "If I had chosen to wed," Lancelot replied, slowly, "I would have been married long before this. But now I shall never marry, sweet Elaine." "No, no," cried Elaine, "it won't matter if I can't be your wife, if I can only go with you always and go round the world with you and serve you." But Lancelot said that would be a poor way for him to requite the love and kindness her father and brothers had shown him. "Noble maid," he went on, "this is only the first flash of love with you. After awhile you will smile at yourself about it when you find a knight who is fitter for you to marry and not three times older than you as I am, and then I will give you broad lands and territories even to a half of my kingdom across the seas and I'll always be ready to fight for you in your troubles. I'll do this, dear girl, but more I cannot." "Of all this I care for nothing," Elaine said growing deathly pale and falling in a swoon. That evening Lancelot sent for his shield from the tower where Elaine sat with it, and as his horse's hoofs clattered off upon the stone of the highway she looked down from her tower, but he did not glance back. After that Elaine dreamed her time sadly away in the tower and only wished that she could die. She begged her father to send for the priest to confess her and asked Lavaine to write a letter for her to Lancelot. Then she arranged it that when she died the dumb old man at the gate was to take her in the barge down the river to the king's palace. Eleven days later this was done. Elaine was dressed like a little sleeping queen and floated along the stream with her letter in one hand and a lily in the other. That day Lancelot was with the queen and as he looked out of the casement upon the river he saw the barge hung with rich black samite, the dumb old man and the lily maid of Astolat gliding up to the palace door. "What is it?" cried everybody streaming round. "A pale fairy queen come to take Arthur to fairy land?" Then the king bade meek Sir Percival and pure Sir Galahad carry her reverently into the hall where the fine Gawain came and wondered at her and Lancelot came and mused over her, and the queen came and pitied her. But King Arthur spied a letter, opened it and read it aloud to all the lords and ladies. It was Elaine's goodbye to Lancelot. [Illustration: A PALE FAIRY QUEEN CAME TO TAKE ARTHUR TO FAIRY LAND.] Then Sir Lancelot told them everything about Elaine and how he had promised to give her his lands and riches when she should be ready to marry some knight of her own age. The king said that he should see that she was buried very grandly. So they had a procession with all the pomp of a queen, with gorgeous ceremonies, mass and rolling music while all the Order of the Round Table followed her to the tomb. Then they laid the shield of Lancelot at her feet and put a lily in her hand. THE HOLY GRAIL. One day a new monk came into the abbey beyond Camelot. There was something about him different from all the other monks there. He was so polished and clever that old Ambrosious who had lived in the old monastery for fifty years and had never seen a bit of the world guessed in a minute that the new brother had come from King Arthur's court. And one windy April morning as Ambrosious stood under the yew tree with this gentle monk he asked him why he left the Knights of the Round Table. Then Sir Percival answered: "It was the sweet vision of the Holy Grail." [Illustration: "THE HOLY GRAIL," CRIED AMBROSIOUS.] "The Holy Grail," cried Ambrosious. "Heaven knows I don't know much, but what is that, the phantom of a cup that comes and goes?" "No, no," said Percival, "what phantom do you mean? It's the cup that our Lord drank from at his sad last supper, and after he died Joseph of Aramathea brought it to Glastonbury at Christmas time, and there it stayed a while and every one who looked at it or touched it was healed of their sicknesses. But the times grew so wicked that the cup was caught up into heaven where nobody could see it." "Yes, I remember reading in our old books," said Ambrosious, "how Joseph built a lonely little church at Glastonbury on the marsh, but that was long ago. Who first saw the vision of the Holy Grail to-day?" "A woman," said Sir Percival, "a nun, my sister who was a holy maid if ever there was one. The old man to whom she used to tell her sins (or what she called her sins), often spoke to her about the legend of the Holy Grail which had been handed down through six people, each of them a hundred years old, from the Lord's time. And when Arthur made the order of the Round Table and all hearts became clean and pure for a time this old man thought surely the Holy Grail would come back again. 'O Christ!' he used to say to my sister, 'if only it would come back and help all the world of its wickedness!' And then my sister asked him whether it might come to her by prayer and fasting. "'Perhaps,' said the father, 'for your heart is as pure as snow.' "So she prayed and fasted until the sun shone and the wind blew through her and one day she sent for me. Her eyes were so beautiful with the light of holiness that I did not know them. "'Sweet Brother,' she said, 'I have seen the Holy Grail. I heard a sound like a silver horn but sweeter than any music we can make, and then a cold silver beam of light streamed in through my cell, and down the beam stole the Holy Grail, rose red and throbbing as if it were alive. All the walls of my cell grew rosy red with quivering rosy colors. Then the music faded away, the Holy Grail vanished and the colors died out in the darkness. So now we know the Holy Thing is here again, Brother fast, too, and pray, and tell your brother-knights about it, then perhaps the vision may be seen by you all, and the whole world will be healed.' [Illustration: MY KNIGHT OF HEAVEN, GO FORTH.] "So I told all the knights and we fasted and prayed for many weeks. Then my sister cut off all her long streaming silken hair which used to fall to her feet and out of it braided a strong sword belt and with silver and crimson thread she wove into it a crimson grail in a silver beam. Then she bound it on our beautiful boy knight, Sir Galahad, and said: "'My knight of heaven, go forth, for you shall see what I have seen and far in the spiritual city you will be crowned king.' Then she sent the deathless passion of her eyes through him and he believed what she said. "Then came a year of miracles. In our great hall there stood a chair which Merlin had fashioned carved with strange figures like a serpent and in and out among the strange figures ran a scroll of strange letters in a language nobody knew like a serpent. Merlin called it the Seat Perilous, because he said if any one sat in it he would get lost. And Galahad said that if he got lost in it he would save himself. So one summer night Sir Galahad sat down in the chair and all at once there was a cracking of the roofs above us, and a blast and thunder, and in the thunder there was a cry and in the blast there was a beam of light seven times clearer than the daylight. Down the beam stole the Holy Grail all covered over with a luminous cloud. Then it passed away but every knight saw his brother knight's faces in a glory and we all rose and stared at each other until at last I found my voice and swore a vow. "I swore that because I had not seen the Holy Grail behind the cloud I would ride away a year and a day in quest of it until I could see it as my sister saw it. Galahad swore too, and good Sir Bors, and Lancelot and many others, knights, and Gawain louder than all the rest. "The king was not in the hall that day for he had gone out to help some poor maiden, but as he came back over the plains beyond Camelot he saw the roofs rolling in smoke and thought that his wonderfully dear, beautiful hall which Merlin had built for him so wonderfully was afire. So he rode fast and rushed into the tumult of knights and asked me what it all meant. "'Woe is me!' cried the king when I told him. 'Had I been here you would not have sworn the vows.' "'My king,' I answered boldly, had you been here you would have sworn the vows yourself.' "'Yes, yes,' said he, 'are you so bold when you didn't see the Grail? You didn't see farther than the cloud, and what can you expect to see now if you go out into the wilderness?' "'No, no, Lord, I didn't see the Grail, I heard the sound, I saw the light and since I didn't see the holy thing I swore the vow that I would follow it until I did see.' "'Then he asked us, knight by knight, whether we had seen it and each one said, 'No, no, Lord, that was why we swore our vows,' but suddenly Galahad called out, 'But I saw the Holy Grail, Sir Arthur, and heard the cry, "O Galahad, follow me."' "Ah, Galahad, Galahad,' said the king, 'the vision is for such as you and for your holy nun but not for these. Are you all Galahads or all Percivals? No, no, you are just men with the strength to right the wrongs and violences of the land. But now since one has seen, all the blind want to see. However, since you have made the vow, go. But oh, how often the distressed people of the kingdom will come into the hall for you to help them and all your chairs will be vacant while you are out chasing a fire in the quagmire! Many of you, yes, most of you will never come back again! But come to-morrow before you go, let us have one more day of field sports so that before you go I can rejoice in the unbroken strength of the Order I have made.' "So the next day there was the greatest tournament that Camelot had ever seen, and Galahad and I, with a strength which we had received from the vision, overthrew so many knights that all the people cheered hotly for Sir Galahad and Sir Percival. The next morning all the rich balconies along the streets of Camelot were laden with ladies and showers of flowers fell over us as we passed out and men and boys astride lions and dragons, griffins and swans at the street corners, called us all by name and cried, 'God Speed!' while many lords and ladies wept. Then we came down to the gate of The Three Queens and there each one went on his own way. "I was feeling glad over my victories in the lists and thought the sky never looked so blue nor the earth so green. All my blood danced within me for I knew that I would see the Holy Grail. But after a while I thought of the dark warning of the king. I looked about and saw that I was quite alone in a sandy thorny place, and I thought I would die of thirst. Then I came to a deep lawn with a flowing brook and apple trees overhanging it. But while I was drinking of the water and eating of the apples they all turned to dust, and I was alone and thirsty again in among the sands and thorns. Next I saw a woman spinning beside a beautiful house. She rose to greet me and stretched out her arms to welcome me into her house to rest, but as soon as I touched her she fell to dust, and the house turned into a shed with a dead baby inside, and then it fell to dust too. "Then I rode on and found a big hill and on the top was a walled city, the spires with incredible pinnacles reaching up to the sky, and at the gateway there was a crowd of people who cried out to me: "Welcome, Percival, you mightiest and purest of men!" "But when I reached the top there was no one there. I passed through to the ruined old city and found only one person a very, very old man. 'Where is the crowd who called out to me?' I asked him. "He could scarcely speak, but he gasped out, 'Where are you from and who are you?' and then fell to dust. [Illustration: NEXT I SAW A WOMAN SPINNING.] "Then I was so unhappy I cried. I felt as though even if I should see the Holy Grail itself and touched it it would crumble into dust. From there I passed down into a deep valley, as low down as the city was high up, where I found a chapel with a hermit in a hermitage near by. I told him about all these phantoms. "'You haven't true humility,' he said, 'which is the mother of all virtue. You haven't lost yourself to find yourself as Galahad did.' "Just as he ended suddenly Sir Galahad shone before us in silver armor. He laid his lance beside the chapel door and we all went in and knelt in prayer. Then my thirst was quenched. But when the mass was burned I saw only the holy elements while Galahad saw the Holy Grail come down upon the shrine. "'The Holy Grail,' he said, 'has always been at my side ever since we came away, fainter in the daytime, but blood-red at night. In its strength I have overcome evil customs wherever I have gone, and have passed through Pagan lands and clashed with Pagan hordes and broken them down everywhere. But the time is very near now when I shall go into the spiritual city far away where some one will crown me king. Come with me for you will see the Holy Grail in a vision when I go.' "At the close of the day I started away with him. We came to a hill which only a man could climb, scarred all over with a hundred frozen streams, and when we reached the top there was a wild storm. Galahad's armor flashed and darkened again every instant with quick, thick lightnings which struck the dead old tree trunks on every side until at last they blazed into a fire. At the base was a great black swamp partly whitened with bones of dead men. A chain of bridges lead across it to the great sea, and Galahad crossed them, one after the other, but each one burned away as soon as he had passed over so that I had to stay behind. When he reached the great sea the Holy Grail hung over his head in a brilliant cloud. Then a boat came swiftly by and when the sky brightened again with the lightning I could see him floating away, either in a boat with full sails or a winged creature which was flying, I couldn't tell which. Above him hung the Holy Grail rosy red without the cloud. I had seen the holy thing at last. When I saw Sir Galahad again he looked like a silver star in the sky, and beyond the star was the spiritual city with all her spires and gateways in a glory like one pearl, no larger than a pearl. From the star a rosy red sparkle from the Grail shot across to the city. But while I looked a flood of rain came down in torrents, and how I ever came away I don't know, but anyway at the dawn of the next day I had reached the little chapel again. There I got my horse from the hermit and rode back to the gates of Camelot. "Just once I met one of the other knights. That was one night when the full moon was rising and the pelican of Sir Bors' casque made a shadow on it. I spurred on my horse, hailed him and we were both very glad to see each other. "'Where is Sir Lancelot,' he asked. 'Have you seen him? Once he dashed across me very madly, maddening his horse. When I asked him why he rode so hotly on a holy quest he shouted, 'Don't keep me, I was a sluggard, and now I'm going fast for there's a lion in the way.' Then he vanished. When I saw how mad he was I felt very sad for I love him, and I cared no more whether I saw the Holy Grail, or not; but I rode on until I came to the loneliest parts of the country where some magicians told me I followed a mocking fire. This vexed me and when the people saw that I quarrelled with their priests they bound me and put me into a cell of stones. I lay there for hours until one night a miracle happened. One of the stones slipped away without any one touching it or any wind blowing. Through the gap it made I saw the seven clear stars which we have always called the stars of the Round Table and across the seven stars the sweet Grail glided past. Close after a clap of thunder pealed. Then a maiden came to me in secret and loosed me and let me go.' [Illustration: ACROSS THE SEVEN STARS THE SWEET GRAIL GLIDED PAST.] "Sir Bors and I rode along together and when we reached the city our horses stumbled over heaps of ruined bits of houses that fell as they trod along the streets. At last brought us to Arthur's hall. "As we came in we saw Arthur sitting on his throne with just a tenth of the knights who had gone out on the quest of the Holy Grail standing before him, wasted and worn, also the knights who had stayed at home. When he saw me he rose and said he was glad to see me back, that he had been worrying about me because of the fierce gale that had made havoc through the town and shaken even the new strong hall and half wrenched the statue Merlin made for him. "'But the quest,' the king went on, 'have you seen the cup that Joseph brought long ago to Glastonbury?' "Then when I told him all that you have been hearing just now and how I was going to give up the tournament and tilt and pass into the quiet of the life of the monk, he answered not a word, but turning quickly to Gawain asked, "'Gawain, was this quest for you?' "'No, Lord,' replied Gawain, 'not for such as I. I talked with a saintly old man about that and he made me very sure that it wasn't for me. I was very tired of it. But I found a silk pavilion in the field with a lot of merry girls in it, then this gale tore it off from the tenting pin and blew my merry maidens all about with a great deal of discomfort. If it hadn't been for that storm my twelve months and a day would have passed very pleasantly for me.' "Then Arthur turned to Sir Bors, who had pushed across the throng at once to Lancelot's side, caught him by the hand and held it there half hidden beside him until the king spied them. "'Hail, Bors, if ever a true and loyal man could see the Grail you have seen it,' cried Arthur. "'Don't ask me about it,' replied Sir Bors with tears in his eyes 'I may not speak about it; I saw it.' "The others spoke only about the perils of their storm, and then it was Lancelot's turn. Perhaps Arthur kept his best for the last. "'My Lancelot,' said the king, 'our Strongest, has the quest availed for you?' "'Our strongest, O King!' groaned Lancelot and as he paused I thought I saw a dying fire of madness in his eyes. 'O King, my friend, a sin lived in me that was so strange that everything pure, noble and knightly in me twined and clung around it until the good and the poisonous in me grew together, and when your knights swore to make the quest I swore only in the hope that could I see or touch the Holy Grail they might be pulled apart. Then I spoke to a holy saint who said that if they could not be plucked apart my quest would be all in vain. So I vowed to him that I would do just as he told me, and while I was out trying to tear them away from each other my old madness came back to me and whipped me off into waste fields far away. "There I was beaten down by little knights whom at one time I would have frightened away just by the shadow of my spear. From there I rode over to the sea-shore where such a blast of wind began to blow that you could not hear the waves even although they were heaped up in mountains and drove the sea like a cataract, while the sand on the beach swept by like a river. A boat, half-swallowed by the seafoam, was moored to the shore by a chain. I said to myself that I would embark in the boat and lose myself and wash away my sin in the great sea. "For seven days I rode around over the dreary water and on the seventh night I felt the boat striking ground. In front of me rose the enchanted towers of Carbonek, a castle like a rock upon a rock, with portals open to the sea and steps that met the waves. A lion sat on each side of them. I went up the steps and drew my sword. Suddenly flaring their manes the lions stood up like men and gripped me on my shoulders. When I was about to strike them a voice said to me, 'Don't be afraid, or the beasts will tear you to pieces; go on.' Then my sword was dashed violently from my hand and fell. Up into the sounding hall I passed but saw not a bench, table, picture, shield or anything else except the moon over the sea through the oriel window, but I heard a sweet voice as clear as a lark singing in the topmost tower to the east. I climbed up a thousand steps with great pain. It seemed as though I was climbing forever but at last I reached a door with light shining through the crannies and I heard voices singing 'Glory and joy and honor to our Lord and the Holy Vessel, the Grail.' "'Then I madly tried the door, it gave way and through a stormy glare of heat that burned me and made me swoon away I thought I saw the Grail, all veiled with crimson samite and around it great angels, awful shapes and wings and eyes!' "The long hall was silent after Lancelot was done, until airy Gawain began with a sudden. "'O King, my liege, my good friend Percival and your holy nun have driven men mad. By my eyes and ears I swear I'll be deeper than a blue-eyed cat and three times as blind as any owl at noon-time hereafter to any holy virgins in their ecstasies.' "'Gawain,' replied the king, 'don't try to become blinder; you're too blind now to want to see. If a sign really came from heaven Bors, Lancelot and Percival are blessed for they have each seen according to their sight.'" PELLEAS AND ETTARRE. When his knights went after the Holy Grail Arthur made many new knights to fill the gaps made by their absence. As he sat in his hall one day at old Caerleon the high doors were softly parted and through these in came a youth, and with him the outer sunshine and the sweet scent of meadows. "Make me your knight, Sir King!" he cried, "because I know all about everything that belongs to a knight and because I love a maiden." This youth was Sir Pelleas-of-the-Isles who had heard that the king had proclaimed a great tournament at Caerleon with a sword for the victor and a golden crown for the victor's sweetheart as the prize. He longed to win them, the circlet for his lady love, the sword for himself. Just a few days before, while riding across the Forest of Dean to find the king's palace hall at Caerleon, Pelleas had felt the sun beating on his helmet so sharply that he reeled and almost fell from his horse. Then, seeing a hillock near-by overgrown with stately beech trees and flowers here and there beneath, he tied his horse to a tree, threw himself down and was very soon lost in sweet dreams about a maiden, not any particular maiden for he had no sweetheart at that time. But suddenly he was wakened with a sound of chatter and laughing at the outskirts of the grove, and glancing through fern he saw a party of young girls in many colors like the clouds at sunset, all of them riding on richly dressed horses. They were all talking together in a hodgepodge, some pointing this way, some that, for they had lost their way. [Illustration: WAS VERY SOON LOST IN SWEET DREAMS ABOUT A MAIDEN.] Pelleas sprang up, loosed his horse and led him into the light. "Just in time!" cried the lady who seemed to be the leader of the party. "See, our pilot-star! Youth, we are wandering damsels riding armed, as you see, ready to tilt against the knights at Caerleon, but we've lost our way. To the right? to the left? straight on? forward? backward? which is it? tell us quickly." Pelleas gazed at her and wondered to himself whether the famous Queen Guinevere herself was as beautiful as this maiden. For her violet eyes, scornful eyes, were large and the bloom on her cheeks was like the rosy dawn. Her beauty made Pelleas timid and when she spoke to him he could not answer but only stammered, for he had come from far away waste islands where besides his sisters, he had scarcely known any women but the tough wives of the islands who made fish nets. With a slow smile the lady turned round to her companions the smile spreading to them all. For she was Ettarre, a very great lady in her land. "O, wild man of the woods," she cried, "don't you understand our language, or has heaven given you a beautiful face and no tongue?" "Lady," he answered, "I just woke from my dreams, and coming out of the gloomy woods I was dazzled by the sudden light, and beg your pardon. But are you going to Caerleon? I'm going too. Shall I lead you to the king?" "Lead," said she. So through the woods they went together but his tender manner, his awe of her and his bashfulness bothered her. "I've lighted on a fool," she muttered to herself, "so raw and yet so stale!" But since she wished to be crowned the Queen of Beauty in the king's tournament, and since Pelleas looked strong she thought perhaps he would fight for her, so she flattered him and was very pleasant and kind. Her three knights and maidens were kind to him too, for she was a very great lady and they had to do as she did. When they reached Caerleon before she passed on to her lodgings she took Pelleas by the hand and said: [Illustration: SHE TOOK PELLEAS BY THE HAND.] "O, how strong your hand is! See; look at my poor little weak one! Will you fight for me and win me the crown, Pelleas, so that I may love you?" Pelleas' heart danced. "Yes! Yes!" he cried, "and will you love me if I win?" "Yes, that I will," answered Ettarre laughing and flinging away his hand as she peeped round to her knights and ladies until they all laughed with her. "O what a happy world!" thought glad Pelleas, "everybody seems happy and I am the happiest of all." He couldn't sleep that night for joy and on the next day when he was knighted he swore to love one maiden only. As he came away from the king's hall the men who met him all turned around to look at his face, for it flamed with happiness, and at the great banquets which Arthur gave to knights from all parts of the country Pelleas looked the noblest of the noble. For he dreamed that his lady loved him and he knew that he was loved by the king. On the morning when the jousts began the first that was called was the tournament of youth. Arthur wanted to keep the older, stronger men out of it so that young Pelleas might win his lady's love as she had promised, and be lord of the tourney. Down by the field along the river Usk where it was held the gilded parapets were crowned with faces and the great tower filled with eyes up to its top. Then the trumpets blew for the tournament to begin. All day long Sir Pelleas held the field. At the close a shout rang round the galleries as Ettarre caught the gold crown from his lance and crowned herself before all the people. Her eyes sparkled as she looked at him, but that was the last time she was kind to her knight. She lingered a few days at Caerleon, sunny to all the other people but always frowning at him. Still when she left for home with her knights and maidens Sir Pelleas followed. "Damsels," cried she as she saw him coming, "I ought to be ashamed to say it and yet I can't bear that Sir Baby. Keep him back with yourselves. I'd rather have some rough old knight who knows the ways of the world to chatter and joke with; so don't let him come near me. Tell him all sorts of baby fables that good mothers tell their little boys, and if he runs off for us--it doesn't matter." [Illustration: ETTARRE CROWNED HERSELF BEFORE ALL THE PEOPLE.] So the young women didn't let him go near Ettarre but made him stay with them, and as soon as they had all passed into Ettarre's castle gate up sprang the drawbridge, down rang the iron grating, and Sir Pelleas was left outside all alone. "These are only the ways of ladies with their lovers when the ladies want to find out whether the lovers are true or not. Well, she can try me with anything, I'll be true through all." So he stayed there until dark, then went to a priory not far off and the next morning came back. Every day he did the same whether it rained or shone, armed on his charger, and stayed all the day beneath the walls, although nobody opened the gate for him. This made Ettarre's scorn turn to anger. She told her three knights to go out and drive him away. But when they came out Pelleas overthrew them all as they dashed upon him one after the other. So they went back inside and he kept his watch as before. This turned Ettarre's anger into hate. As she walked on top of the walls with her three knights about a week later she pointed down to Pelleas and said: "He haunts me, look, he besieges me! I can't breathe. Strike him down, put my hate into your blows and drive him away from my walls." So down they went but Pelleas overthrew them all again so Ettarre called down from the tower above, "Bind him and bring him in." Pelleas heard her say this so he did not resist, but let the men bind him and take him into his lady love. "See me, Lady," he said cheerily, "your prisoner, and if you keep me in your dungeon here I'll be quite content if you'll just let me see your face every day. For I've sworn my vows and you've given me your promise and I know that when you've done proving me you will give me your love and have me for your knight." But she made fun of his vows and told her knights to put him outside again and "if he isn't a fool to the middle of his bones," said she, "he'll never come back." Then the three knights laughed and thrust him out of the gates. But a week later Ettarre called them again, "He's watching there yet. He comes just like a dog that's been kicked out of his master's door. Don't you hate him? Go after him, all of you at once, and if you don't kill him bind him as you did before and bring him in." So the three knights couched their spears all together, three against one, ready to dash upon Pelleas, low down beneath the shadow of the towers. Gawain passing by on a lonely adventure saw them. "The villains!" he shouted to Pelleas, "I'll strike for you!" "No," cried Pelleas, "when one's doing a lady's will one doesn't need any help." Gawain stood by quivering to fight while the three knights sprang down upon Pelleas, but Pelleas all alone beat the three of them together. Then they rose to their feet, and he stood still while they bound him and took him into their lady. "You're scarcely fit to touch your victor, you dogs!" she cried to her men, "far less bind him; but take him out as he is and let whoever wants to untie him. Then if he comes again--" She paused just a minute and Pelleas broke in at once with, "Lady, I loved you and thought you very beautiful, but if you don't love me don't trouble yourself about it; you won't see me again." As soon as Pelleas was put outside the gate Gawain sprang forward, loosed his bonds, flung them over the walls and cried out: "My faith, and why did you let those wretches tie you up so when you were victor of all the jousts?" "O," said Pelleas, "they were just obeying the wishes of my lady, and her wishes are mine." Gawain laughed. "Lend me your horse and armor," he said, "and I'll tell her I've killed you. Then she'll let me in just to hear all about it and when I've made her listen I'll tell her all about you, what a great and good fellow you are. Give me three days to melt her and on the third evening I'll bring you golden news." "Don't betray me," cried Pelleas, as he handed over his horse and all his weapons except his sword. "Aren't you the knight they call 'Light-of-love?'" "That is just because women are so light," Gawain rejoined, laughing. Then he rode up to the castle gate, and blew the bugle so musically that all the hidden echoes in the walls rang out. "Away with you!" cried Ettarre's maidens, running up to the tower window. "Our lady doesn't love you." "I'm Gawain from Arthur's court," cried Gawain, lifting his vizor so that they could see his face. "I've killed Pelleas whom you hate so. Open the gates and I'll make you merry with my story." The ladies ran down crying out to Ettarre, "Pelleas is dead! Sir Gawain of Arthur's court has killed him and is blowing the bugle to come in to tell us." "Let him in," said Ettarre. Then they opened the gates and Gawain rode inside. For three days Pelleas wandered all about, doing nothing but thinking of Gawain and Ettarre, and on the third night, when Gawain did not come, he wondered why Gawain lingered with his golden news. At last he rode up to Ettarre's castle, tied his horse outside and walked in through the wide open gates. The court he found all dark and empty, not a light glimmering from anywhere, so he passed out by the back gate, into the large gardens beyond of red and white roses, where he saw three pavilions. In one he found the three knights with their squires, all red with revelling, and all asleep, in the second he saw the girls with their scornful smiles frozen stiff in slumber, and in the third lay Gawain with Ettarre, the golden crown he had won for her at the joust on her forehead, both sleeping. Pelleas drew back as if he had touched a snake. "I'll kill them just as they lie," he cried in a passion. "O! to think that any knight could be so false!" But he was too manly to kill anyone in sleep, so he just laid his sword across their throats and passed out to his horse, crushed his saddle with his thighs, clenched his hands together and groaned. "I loathe her now just as much as I loved her!" he cried, and dashing his spurs into his horse he bounded out into the darkness and never came back. Meanwhile Ettarre, feeling the cold sword on her neck, awoke. "Liar!" she cried to Gawain, as she saw that it was the sword of Pelleas, "you haven't killed Pelleas, for he's been here and could have killed us both just now." And ever after that, as those who tell the story say, the proud and scornful Ettarre sighed for Pelleas, the one true knight in the world, her only faithful lover, and at last pined away because he never came back. THE LAST TOURNAMENT. One day while King Arthur and Sir Lancelot were riding far, far beneath a winding wall of rock they heard the wail of a child. A half-dead oak tree climbed up the sides of the rock and up in mid-air it held an eagle's nest. Through its branches rushed a rainy wind and through the wind came the voice of a little child. Lancelot sprang up the crag and from the nest at the tree-top he brought down a baby girl. Round her neck was twined a necklace of rubies, wound round and round three times. Arthur took the baby and gave it to Queen Guinevere, who soon loved it very tenderly and named her "Nestling." But Nestling had caught a terrible cold in her strange little home in the wild eagle's nest and died. And after that whenever the Queen looked at the ruby necklace it made her very sad so she gave it to Arthur and said: "Take these jewels of our Dead Innocence and make them a prize at a tournament." "Just as you wish," cried the King, "but why don't you wear the diamonds that I found for you in the tarn, which Lancelot won for you at the jousts?" "Don't you know that they slipped out of my hands the very day that he gave them to me, while I was leaning out of the window to see Elaine in the barge on the river? But these rubies will bring better luck than that to the lady who gets them, for they didn't come from a dead king's skeleton, but from the body of a sweet baby girl. Perhaps, who knows, the purest of your knights will win them at the jousts for the purest of my ladies." So the great jousts were proclaimed with trumpets that blew all along the streets of Camelot and out across the faded fields to the farthest towers, and everywhere the knights armed themselves for a day of glory before the king. But just the day before they were to be held, as King Arthur sat in his great hall, a churl staggered in through the door; his face was all striped with the lashes of a dog whip, his nose was broken, one eye was out, a hand was off and the other hand dangled at his side with shattered fingers. "My poor Churl," cried the king, full of indignant pity, "what beast or fiend has been after you? Or was it a man who hurt you so?" "He took them all away," sputtered the churl, "a hundred good ones. It was the Red Knight. He--Lord, I was tending sheep, my pigs, a hundred good ones, and he drove them all off to his tower. And when I said that you were always kind to poor churls like me as well as gentle lords and ladies, he made for me and would have killed me outright if he didn't want me to bring you message and made me swear that I would tell you. "He said, 'Tell the king that I have made a Round Table of my own in the North, and that whatever his knights swear not to do mine swear that they will do; and tell him his hour has come, and that the heathen are after him, and that his long lance is broken, and that his sword Excalibur is a straw.'" Then Arthur turned to Sir Kay the Seneschal and said: "Take this churl of mine and tend him very carefully as if he were the son of a king until all his hurts are healed," and as Sir Kay left the hall with the churl the king went on to Lancelot: "The heathen have been quiet for a long, long time, but now they are rising again in the North, and I will go with my younger knights to put them down, so as to make the whole island safe from one shore to the other. And while I go away, you, Sir Lancelot, will sit in my chair to-morrow at the tournament and be the judge there of the field. For why should you anyway care to go in again yourself, when you've already won the nine diamonds for the queen?" "Very well," replied Lancelot, "if you wish, although it would be better if you would let me go off with the younger knights and you stay here with the others and watch the tournament. But, if not, all is well?" "Is all really well?" cried the king, "or have I just dreamed that our knights are not quite so true and manly as they used to be and that my noble realm which has been built up by noble deeds and noble vows is going to fall back into beastly roughness and violence again?" He gathered all the younger Knights of the Round Table together and started away with them down the hilly streets of Camelot, and at the gateway turned sharply North. The next morning, the day of the Tournament, the Tournament of the Dead Innocence they called it, a wet wind blew. But the streets were hung with white samite, the fountains were filled with wine, and round each fountain twelve little girls, all dressed in purest white sat with the cups of gold and gave drinks to all that passed. The stately galleries were filled with white-robed ladies. Lancelot mounted the steps to the king's dragon-carved chair, the trumpets blew and the jousts began. [Illustration: TWELVE LITTLE GIRLS GAVE DRINK TO ALL WHO PASSED.] But Lancelot did not think of the sport before him, he was dreaming over and over again the words of the king about the kingdom, and many rules of the tournament were broken, and he didn't say a word. Once one of the knights, who was overthrown cursed the little baby girl, the dead innocence, and the king, and once one of the knight's helmets became unlaced and the wicked face of Modred peeped through like a vermin, but Lancelot didn't see. After a while a roar of welcome shouted all round the galleries and lists as a new knight came in dressed from his head to his feet in green armor all trimmed with tiny silver deer, with holly berries on his helmet crest. It was Sir Tristram of the Woods who had just crossed over the seas from Brittany. Lancelot had fought with him long ago and conquered him, and now he saw him and longed to fight him again. As many, many knights of the Round Table fell down before the new knight Lancelot gripped the golden dragons on each side of his throne to keep himself in his seat, and groaned with passion. "Craven crests! oh, shame!" he muttered, "the glory of the Round Table is gone." So Tristram won the jousts and Sir Lancelot gave him the jewels. "The hands with which you take these rubies are red," he said as he put the necklace in Tristram's hands. Then the thick rain began to fall, the plumes on the helmets of the knights drooped and the dresses of the ladies were mussed. When they went inside to feast the ladies took off their pure white gowns and robed themselves in all the colors of the rainbow and field flowers, like poppies, blue-bells, kingcups, and one said she was glad the time to wear the pure innocent simple white was over. They grew so loud in their frolics that at last the queen, who was angry that Sir Tristram had won the prize and angry with the lawless youths, broke up the banquet. The next morning as Sir Tristram stood before the hall little Dagonet, the fool, came dancing along and Sir Tristram threw his rubies round the little fool's neck as he skipped about like a withered leaf, asking him why he danced. "It's stupid to dance without music," Tristram said, and picked up his harp and began to twangle a tune on it; but as soon as Sir Tristram began to play Dagonet stopped his dance. "And why don't you go on skipping, Sir Fool?" asked Tristram. "Because I'd rather skip twenty years to the music of my little brain than skip a minute to the broken music you make." "And what music have I broken?" cried Sir Tristram. "Arthur the King's music," cried little Dagonet, skipping again and again as Sir Tristram ceased. Then down the city he danced all the way, while Sir Tristram passed out into the lonely avenues of the forests. He rode on toward Lyonesse and the West, thinking of Isolt, the White, whom he loved, and how he would put the rubies round her neck. [Illustration: LITTLE DAGONET SKIPPING AGAIN AND AGAIN.] Arthur, meanwhile, with his hundred spearmen had gone far, far away, until at last over the countless reeds of marshes and islands he saw a huge tower glaring in the wide-winged sunset of the West. As he drew near he saw that the tower doors stood open and heard roars of rioting and wicked songs of ruffian men and women. "Look," cried one of his knights, for there high on a grim dead tree before the tower, a brother of the Round Table was swinging by his neck, his shield flowing with a shower of blood on a branch near by. All the knights wanted to dash forward and blow the great horn that hung beside the gate, but Arthur waved them back and went himself. He blew so hard that the horn roared until all the grasses of the marshes flared up, and out of the castle gate sallied a knight dressed from tip to toe in blood-red arms, the Red Knight. "Aren't you the king?" he bellowed, "the king that keeps us all with such strict vows that we can't have any pleasures, a milky-hearted king? Look to your life now!" Arthur scorned to speak to so vile a man or to fight him with his sword. He simply let the drunkard, stretching out from his horse to strike, fall head-heavy, over from the castle causeway to the swamp below. Then all the Round Table Knights roared and shouted, leaped down on the fallen man, trampled out his face in the mire, sank his head so that it could not be seen, and, still shouting, sprang through the open doors among the people within. They hurled their swords right and left on men and women, hurled over the tables and the wines and slew and slew until all the rafters rang with yells and all the pavements streamed with blood. Then they set the tower all afire and half the night through it flushed the long low meadows and marshlands and lazily plunging sea with its flames. That was how Arthur made the ways of the island safe from one shore to the other. Sir Tristram, not many nights after, reached Tintagil, where Isolt, the White, lived in a crown of towers, where she now sat with the low sea-sunset glorying her hair and glossy throat, thinking of him and of Mark, her Cornish lord. When Tristram's footsteps came grinding up the tower steps she flushed, started out to meet him and threw her white arms about him. "Not Mark, not Mark!" she cried. "At first your footsteps fluttered me, for Mark steals into his own castle like a cat." "No, it's I," said Sir Tristram, "and don't think about your Mark any more, for he isn't yours any longer." "But listen," she cried, "to-day he went away for a three days' hunt, he said, and that means that he may be back in an hour for that's his way. My God, my hate for him is as strong as my love for you. Let me tell you how I sat here one evening thinking of you, one black midsummer night, all alone, dreaming of you, and sometimes speaking your name aloud, when suddenly there Mark stood behind me, for that's his way to steal behind one in the dark. "'Tristram has married her!' he hissed out and then this tower shook with such a roar that I swooned away." "Come," cried Sir Tristram, laughing, "never mind, I'm hungry, give me some meat and wine." So they ate and drank, talked and laughed about Mark with his long crane-like legs, and Sir Tristram took a harp and sang a song. Then while the last light of the day glimmered away he swung the ruby necklace before Isolt. "It's the fruit of a magical oak-tree that grew mid air," he cried, "and was won by Sir Tristram as a tourney prize to bring to you." Flinging the rubies round her neck he had just touched her jeweled throat with his lips when behind him rose a shadow and a shriek. "Mark's way!" cried Mark, the Cornish king, and he clove Tristram through the brain. * * * * * That very night Arthur came back from the North, and as he climbed up the tower steps to go to the queen, in the dark of the tower something pulled at him. It was little Dagonet. "Who are you?" said the king. "I'm little Dagonet, your fool," sobbed the little jester, "and I cry because I can never make you laugh again." THE PASSING OF ARTHUR. One night King Arthur saw Sir Gawain in a dream, and Gawain, who had been killed, shrilly called out to him through the wind: "Hail King! to-morrow you are going to pass away, and there's a land of rest for you. Farewell!" But when Arthur told his dream to Sir Bedivere, good old Sir Bedivere replied, "Don't mind what dreams tell you, but get your knights together and go out to the West to meet Sir Modred, who has stirred up against you so many of the knights you love. They all know in their hearts that you are king. Go and conquer them as of old." So the king took his army by night and pushed upon Modred league after league, until they reached the Western part of Lyonesse where the long mountains ended in the moaning sea. There Modred's men could flee no farther, so on the waste lands by the barren sea they began that last dim weird battle of the West. A white chill mist slept over all the land and water so that even Arthur became confused since he could not see which were his friends and which were his foes. Friends killed friends, some saw the faces of old ghosts looking in upon the battle. Spears were splintered, shields were broken, swords clashed, helmets were shattered, men shrieked and looked up to heaven for help but saw only the white, white mists. There were cries for light and moans. At last toward the close of the day a hush fell over the whole shore; a bitter wind from the North blew the mist aside and the pale king looked across the battlefield. But no one was there only the waves breaking in among the dead faces. But bold Bedivere said: "My King! the man who hates you stands there, Modred, the traitor of your house!" "Don't call this traitor a person of my house," the king replied. "The men of my house are not those who have lived under one roof with me, but those who always call me their king." With that, Arthur dashed after Modred. Modred struck at the king's helmet, which had grown thin with all his heathen wars. Arthur with his sword Excalibur struck Modred dead, then fell down himself almost killed with the wound through his helmet. Sir Bedivere lifted him up and carried him to a chapel near by. "Take my sword, Excalibur," said the King, "and fling it out into the middle of the sea, watch what happens to it and then come back at once and tell me." "It doesn't seem right to leave you all alone here," said Sir Bedivere, "when you are wounded and ill, but since you wish me to go, I will, and will do all that you have told me." He slipped away by zigzag paths, points and jutting rock to the shining level of the sea. There he drew out the sword Excalibur. The winter moon sparkled against its hilt and made it twinkle with its diamond sparks, with myriads of topaz lights and fine jewelry work. Bedivere gazed so long at it that both his eyes were dazzled as he stood, and he wondered whether he ought to throw away so beautiful a thing. At last he decided to hide it away among the water-flags that grew along shore. "Did you do as I said?" asked the king, when he saw him. "What did you see?" "I heard the ripple washing in the reeds," said Sir Bedivere, "and the wild water lapping on the rock." "You are not giving me a true answer," said the king, faint and pale. "It's shameful for men to lie. Quickly go again and as you are true and dear, do just as I bade you. Watch and bring me word." Then Sir Bedivere went the second time and paced up and down beside the pebbly water, counting the dewey pebbles, but when he saw the wonderful sword he clapped his hands together and cried: "If I threw that sword away, a precious thing will be lost forever. The King is ill; he does not know what he is doing. His great sword ought to be kept, then in long years hereafter people will look at it at the tournament and they will say: 'This was the great Arthur's sword Excalibur which was made by the lonely lady of the Lake, working in the deep sea for nine years.'" So the second time he hid Excalibur and strode very slowly back to the king. "What did you see or what did you hear?" asked Arthur breathing very heavily. "I heard the water lapping on the rock and the long ripples washing in the reeds." "Unkind! miserable! untrue! unknightly!" cried Arthur, filled with anger. "I see what you are, for you are the only one left me of all the knights, yet you would betray me for my sword, either to sell it or like a girl, because you love its beauty. Go out now the third time and if you do not throw out my sword Excalibur I'll get up and kill you with my hands." At this Sir Bedivere sprang up like a flash and ran down leaping lightly over the ridges, plunged into the beds of bulrushes, clutched the sword, wheeled it round strongly and threw it as far as he could. Excalibur made lightning in the moonlight as it flashed round and round and whirled in an arch, shooting far out to the water. But before it quite dipped into the sea an arm robed in white samite, mystic and wonderful, rose out of the waves, caught it by the hilt, brandished it three times and drew it under. "Now I can see by your eyes that you have done it!" cried the King. "Speak out; what have you seen or heard?" "Sir King," cried Sir Bedivere, "I closed my eyes when I picked it up so that I would not be turned from my purpose of throwing it into the water, for I could live three lives, Sir King, and I wouldn't again see such a wonderful thing as your sword. Sir, I threw it out with both hands, wheeling it round and when I looked an arm robed in white samite reached up out of the water and caught it by the hilt, brandished it three times and drew it under." "Carry me to the shore," said the king. [Illustration: AN ARM ROBED IN WHITE SAMITE.] So Bedivere lifted him up and walked as swiftly as he could from the ridge, heavily, heavily down to the beach. As they reached the shore they saw a black barge beside the water filled with stately people all dressed in black. Among the people were three queens wearing crowns of gold. "Put me into the barge," cried Arthur. So they came to the barge and the three queens held out their hands and took the king. The tallest and fairest of them held his head upon her lap loosed his shattered helmet and chafed his hands, and moaned tenderly over him. "Ah, my lord Arthur," cried Sir Bedivere, "where shall I go now? For the old times are past now and the whole Round Table is broken." "Go and pray," cried the king. "Farewell, for I am going a very long way to the lovely Island-valley of Avilion where it will never hail nor rain nor snow, and where the loud winds never blow. It lies in deep meadows, beautiful with lawns and fruit trees and flowery glens." Then the barge set sail and oar, and moved away from the shore. "The king is gone!" groaned Bedivere. He walked away from the shore and climbed up to the highest peaks and ridges about him and looked far, far away. And from far away out beyond the world he thought he heard sounds from a beautiful city as if every one in it all together were welcoming a great King who had just come back from his wars. END. Transcriber's Note: Minor spelling and typographical errors have been corrected without note. There are inconsistencies with italicising text that refers to illustrations. I have left these as in the original text. Corrections made include the following: p34. ecstacy => ecstasy p37. meaintime => meantime p52. magnificientn => magnificent p66. Springly => Springing p75. Geriant => Geraint p90. jealously => jealousy p100. though => through p101. passed => past p101. musn't => mustn't p106. heathern => heathen p106. Gunievere => Guinevere p117. to => that p146. Mordred => Modred 
10745	----	THE STORY OF THE CHAMPIONS OF THE ROUND TABLE Written and Illustrated by HOWARD PYLE. In 1902 the distinguished American artist Howard Pyle undertook to retell and illustrate the legend of King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table. His four-volume work has long been considered one of the outstanding interpretations of the Arthur cycle. _The Story of the Champions of the Round Table_, the second of Pyle's volumes, was originally published in 1905. Reissued now, identical in format to the original volume, with Pyle's superb illustrations and decorations, it is destined to reach new generations of readers. _The Story of the Champions of the Round Table_ recounts the full and moving saga of three of Arthur's famous knights: Percival, Tristram, and Launcelot of the Lake. * * * * * _"The period in which Howard Pyle did his work frequently has been spoken of as that Golden Age in children's literature that was to last for the decade to follow. It is difficult to do justice to his contribution to the shining quality of that era. The magnitude and diversity of his work eludes definition. Creative artist and born storyteller, each aspect of his twofold genius enriched and interpreted the other."_ --Elizabeth Nesbitt, in _A Critical History of Children's Literature_ [Illustration: Sir Launcelot of the Lake] Foreword In a book which was written by me aforetime, and which was set forth in print, I therein told much of the history of King Arthur; of how he manifested his royalty in the achievement of that wonderful magic sword which he drew forth out of the anvil; of how he established his royalty; of how he found a splendid sword yclept Excalibur in a miraculously wonderful manner; of how he won the most beautiful lady in the world for his queen; and of how he established the famous Round Table of noble worthy knights, the like of whose prowess the world hath never seen, and will not be likely ever to behold again. Also I told in that book the adventures of certain worthy knights and likewise how the magician Merlin was betrayed to his undoing by a sorceress hight Vivien. Now, if you took any joy in reading that book, I have great hope that that which follows may be every whit as pleasing to you; for I shall hereinafter have to do with the adventures of certain other worthies with whom you may have already become acquainted through my book and otherwise; and likewise of the adventures of certain other worthies, of whom you have not yet been told by me. More especially, I believe, you will find entertainment in what I shall have to tell you of the adventures of that great knight who was altogether the most noble of spirit, and the most beautiful, and the bravest of heart, of any knight who ever lived--excepting only his own son, Galahad, who was the crowning glory of his house and of his name and of the reign of King Arthur. However, if Sir Launcelot of the Lake failed now and then in his behavior, who is there in the world shall say, "I never fell into error"? And if he more than once offended, who is there shall have hardihood to say, "I never committed offence"? Yea, that which maketh Launcelot so singularly dear to all the world, is that he was not different from other men, but like other men, both in his virtues and his shortcomings; only that he was more strong and more brave and more untiring than those of us who are his brethren, both in our endeavors and in our failures. CONTENTS The Story of Launcelot Chapter First How Sir Launcelot Came Forth From the Enchanted Castle of the Lake and Entered Into the World Again, and How King Arthur Made Him Knight Chapter Second How Sir Launcelot and Sir Lionel Rode Forth Errant Together and How Sir Lionel Met Sir Turquine to His Great Dole. Also How Sir Ector Grieved for the Departure of His Brother Launcelot and So, Following Him, Fell into a Very Sorry Adventure Chapter Third How Sir Launcelot was Found in a Sleep by Queen Morgana le Fay and Three Other Queens who were with Her, and How He was Taken to a Castle of Queen Morgana's and of What Befell Him There Chapter Fourth How Sir Launcelot Sought Sir Lionel and How a Young Damsel Brought Him to the Greatest Battle that Ever He Had in All His Life Chapter Fifth How Sir Launcelot Went Upon an Adventure with the Damsel Croisette as Companion, and How He Overcame Sir Peris of the Forest Sauvage Chapter Sixth How Sir Launcelot Took Part in the Tournament Between King Bagdemagus and the King of North Wales, and How He Won that Battle for King Bagdemagus Chapter Seventh How Sir Launcelot Fell Into the Greatest Peril that Ever He Encountered in all His Life. Also How He Freed a Misfortunate Castle and Town From the Giants Who Held Them, and How He Released the Lord Thereof From a Dungeon Chapter Eighth How Sir Launcelot Rescued Sir Kay From a Perilous Pass Also How He Changed Armor with Sir Kay and what Befell The Book of Sir Tristram PART I THE STORY OF SIR TRISTRAM AND THE LADY BELLE ISOULT Chapter First How the new Queen of Lyonesse sought Tristram's life; how he went to France, and how he Returned again to Lyonesse and was Received With Love at that Place Chapter Second How Sir Tristram was made Knight by the King of Cornwall, and how he Fought a Battle with a Famous Champion Chapter Third How Sir Tristram went to Ireland to be healed of his Wound by the King's Daughter of Ireland, and of how he came to love the Lady Belle Isoult. Also concerning Sir Palamydes and the Lady Belle Isoult Chapter Fourth How Sir Tristram encountered Sir Palamydes at the Tournament and of what befell. Also how Sir Tristram was Forced to leave the Kingdom of Ireland Chapter Fifth How Sir Tristram was sent by Command of King Mark to go to Ireland to Bring the Lady the Belle Isoult from Ireland to Cornwall and how it fared with him Chapter Sixth How Sir Tristram had to do in Battle with Three Knights of the Round Table. Also how he had Speech with King Arthur Chapter Seventh How Sir Tristram had Speech with King Angus of Ireland; how he Undertook to Champion the Cause of King Angus and of what Happened Thereafter PART II THE STORY OF SIR TRISTRAM AND SIR LAMORACK Chapter First How Sir Lamorack of Gales came to Tintagel and how he and Sir Tristram Sware Friendship Together in the Forest Chapter Second How Sir Tristram Started to go to Camelot, and how he Stayed by the Way to do Battle with Sir Nabon le Noir Chapter Third How Sir Tristram did justice in the island, and Thereby Released Sir Lamorack from Captivity. Also how Sir Tristram and Sir Lamorack Renewed their Great Tenderness Toward one another PART III THE MADNESS OF SIR TRISTRAM Chapter First How Sir Tristram was Discovered with the Lady Belle Isoult; how he Assaulted King Mark, and how he Escaped from Tintagel into the Forest Chapter Second How Sir Tristram got him a Sword from Sir Kay, and how he Slew Therewith a Huge Knight in the Forest and Rescued a Lady in very Great Distress. Also how Sir Launcelot found Sir Tristram in the Forest and Brought him Thence to Tintagel again Chapter Third How Sir Tristram was Discovered at Tintagel and of what Befell Thereby Chapter Fourth How Sir Tristram and the Lady Belle Isoult Returned to Cornwall, and how they Ended their Days Together The Book of Sir Percival Chapter First How Percival Departed into the World and how he Found a Fair Damsel in a Pavilion; likewise how he came before Queen Guinevere and how he Undertook his First Adventure Chapter Second How Sir Percival was made Knight by King Arthur; how he rode Forth with Sir Lamorack and how he Left Sir Lamorack in quest of Adventure upon his own Account; likewise how a Great Knight Taught him craft in Arms Chapter Third How Sir Percival met two Strange People in the Forest, and how he Succored a Knight who was in very Great Sorrow and Dole Chapter Fourth How Sir Percival Undertook the Adventure of the Castle of Beaurepaire and how he Fared Therein after Several Excellent Adventures Chapter Fifth How Sir Percival Repaid Sir Kay the Buffet he one time gave Yelande the Dumb Maiden, and how, Thereafter, he went Forth to Seek his own Lady of Love LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS Head Piece--Table of Contents Tail Piece--Table of Contents Head Piece--List of Illustrations Tail Piece--List of Illustrations The Lady Nymue beareth away Launcelot into the Lake Head Piece--Prologue Tail Piece--Prologue Sir Launcelot greets Queen Guinevere Head Piece--The Story of Launcelot Sir Lionel of Britain Queen Morgana appears unto Sir Launcelot Sir Launcelot doeth battle with Sir Turquine Sir Launcelot sits with Sir Hilaire and Croisette Sir Launcelot and Elouise the Fair Sir Launcelot climbs to catch the lady's falcon Sir Launcelot takes the armor of Sir Kay Tail Piece--The Story of Launcelot Sir Tristram of Lyonesse Head Piece--Prologue Tail Piece--Prologue Tristram succors the Lady Moeya Head Piece--The Story of Sir Tristram and the Lady Belle Isoult King Mark of Cornwall The Lady Belle Isoult The Queen of Ireland seeks to slay Sir Tristram Sir Tristram harpeth before King Mark Sir Tristram sits with Sir Launcelot Tail Piece Belle Isoult and Sir Tristram drink the love draught Tail Piece--The Story of Sir Tristram and the Lady Belle Isoult Sir Lamorack of Gales Head Piece--The Story of Sir Tristram and Sir Lamorack Sir Tristram cometh to ye castle of Sir Nabon Sir Lamorack herds the swine of Sir Nabon Tail Piece--The Story of Sir Tristram and Sir Lamorack Sir Tristram assaults King Mark Head Piece--The Madness of Sir Tristram Sir Kay and the Forest Madman Sir Tristram leaps into ye Sea King Mark broods mischief Tail Piece--The Madness of Sir Tristram Sir Percival of Gales Head Piece--Prologue The Lady Yvette the Fair Sir Percival and Sir Lamorack ride together Sir Percival overcometh ye Enchantress Vivien The Demoiselle Blanchefleur Sir Kay interrupts ye meditations of Sir Percival Tail Piece--The Book of Sir Percival [Illustration: The Lady Nymue beareth away Launcelot into the Lake] Prologue. It hath already been set forth in print in a volume written by me concerning the adventures of King Arthur when he first became king, how there were certain lesser kings who favored him and were friendly allies with him, and how there were certain others of the same sort who were his enemies. Among those who were his friends was King Ban of Benwick, who was an exceedingly noble lord of high estate and great honor, and who was of a lineage so exalted that it is not likely that there was anyone in the world who was of a higher strain. [Sidenote: Of King Ban and his misfortunes] Now, upon a certain time, King Ban of Benwick fell into great trouble; for there came against him a very powerful enemy, to wit, King Claudas of Scotland. King Claudas brought unto Benwick a huge army of knights and lords, and these sat down before the Castle of Trible with intent to take that strong fortress and destroy it. This noble Castle of Trible was the chiefest and the strongest place of defence in all King Ban's dominions, wherefore he had intrenched himself there with all of his knights and with his Queen, hight Helen, and his youngest son, hight Launcelot. Now this child, Launcelot, was dearer to Queen Helen than all the world besides, for he was not only large of limb but so extraordinarily beautiful of face that I do not believe an angel from Paradise could have been more beautiful than he. He had been born with a singular birth-mark upon his shoulder, which birth-mark had the appearance as of a golden star enstamped upon the skin; wherefore, because of this, the Queen would say: "Launcelot, by reason of that star upon thy shoulder I believe that thou shalt be the star of our house and that thou shalt shine with such remarkable glory that all the world shall behold thy lustre and shall marvel thereat for all time to come." So the Queen took extraordinary delight in Launcelot and loved him to the very core of her heart--albeit she knew not, at the time she spake, how that prophecy of hers concerning the star was to fall so perfectly true. Now, though King Ban thought himself very well defended at his Castle of Trible, yet King Claudas brought so terribly big an army against that place that it covered the entire plain. A great many battles were fought under the walls of the castle, but ever King Claudas waxed greater and stronger, and King Ban's party grew weaker and more fearful. [Sidenote: King Ban bethinks him of King Arthur] So by and by things came to such a pass that King Ban bethought him of King Arthur, and he said to himself: "I will go to my lord the King and beseech help and aid from him, for he will certainly give it me. Nor will I trust any messenger in this affair other than myself; for I myself will go to King Arthur and will speak to him with my own lips." Having thus bethought him, he sent for Queen Helen to come into his privy closet and he said to her: "My dear love, nothing remaineth for me but to go unto the court of King Arthur and beseech him to lend his powerful aid in this extremity of our misfortunes; nor will I trust any messenger in this affair but myself. Now, this castle is no place for thee, when I am away, therefore, when I go upon this business, I will take thee and Launcelot with me, and I will leave you both in safety at King Arthur's court with our other son, Sir Ector, until this war be ended and done." And to these Queen Helen lent her assent. So King Ban summoned to him the seneschal of the castle, who was named Sir Malydor le Brun, and said to him: "Messire, I go hence to-night by a secret pass, with intent to betake me unto King Arthur, and to beseech his aid in this extremity. Moreover, I shall take with me my lady and the young child Launcelot, to place them within the care of King Arthur during these dolorous wars. But besides these, I will take no other one with me but only my favorite esquire, Foliot. Now I charge thee, sir, to hold this castle in my behalf with all thy might and main, and yield it not to our enemies upon any extremity; for I believe I shall in a little while return with sufficient aid from King Arthur to compass the relief of this place." [Sidenote: King Ban with Queen Helen and Launcelot escape from Trible] So when night had fallen very dark and still, King Ban, and Queen Helen, and the young child Launcelot, and the esquire Foliot left the town privily by means of a postern gate. Thence they went by a secret path, known only to a very few, that led down a steep declivity of rocks, with walls of rock upon either side that were very high indeed, and so they came out in safety beyond the army of King Claudas and into the forest of the valley below. And the forest lay very still and solemn and dark in the silence of the nighttime. Having thus come out in safety into the forest, that small party journeyed on with all celerity that they were able to achieve until, some little time before dawn, they came to where was a lake of water in an open meadow of the forest. Here they rested for a little while, for Queen Helen had fallen very weary with the rough and hasty journey which they had traveled. [Sidenote: Foliot seeth a light] Now whilst they sat there resting, Foliot spake of a sudden, saying unto King Ban: "Lord, what is that light that maketh the sky so bright yonder-ways?" Then King Ban looked a little and presently said: "Methinks it must be the dawn that is breaking." "Lord," quoth Foliot, "that cannot very well be; for that light in the sky lieth in the south, whence we have come, and not in the east, where the sun should arise." Then King Ban's heart misgave him, and his soul was shaken with a great trouble. "Foliot," he said, "I believe that you speak sooth and that that light bodes very ill for us all." Then he said: "Stay here for a little and I will go and discover what that light may be." Therewith he mounted his horse and rode away in the darkness. [Sidenote: King Ban beholdeth the burning of Trible] Now there was a very high hill near-by where they were, and upon the top of the hill was an open platform of rock whence a man could see a great way off in every direction. So King Ban went to this place, and, when he had come there, he cast his eyes in the direction of the light and he straightway beheld with a manner of terror that the light came from Trible; and then, with that terror still growing greater at his heart, he beheld that the town and the castle were all in one great flame of fire. When King Ban saw this he sat for a while upon his horse like one turned into a stone. Then, after a while, he cried out in a great voice: "Woe! Woe! Woe is me!" And then he cried out still in a very loud voice, "Certes, God hath deserted me entirely." [Sidenote: The death of King Ban] Therewith a great passion of grief took hold upon him and shook him like to a leaf, and immediately after that he felt that something brake within him with a very sharp and bitter pain, and he wist that it was his heart that had broken. So being all alone there upon the hilltop, and in the perfect stillness of the night, he cried out, "My heart! My heart!" And therewith, the shadows of death coming upon him, he could not sit any longer upon his horse, but fell down upon the ground. And he knew very well that death was nigh him, so, having no cross to pray upon, he took two blades of grass and twisted them into that holy sign, and he kissed it and prayed unto it that God would forgive him his sins. So he died all alone upon that hilltop. Meanwhile, Queen Helen and Foliot sat together waiting for him to return and presently they heard the sound of his horse's hoofs coming down that rocky path. Then Queen Helen said: "Foliot, methinks my lord cometh." So in a little came the horse with the empty saddle. When Foliot beheld that he said: "Lady, here meseems is great trouble come to us, for methinks something hath befallen my lord, and that he is in sore travail, for here is his horse without him." Then it seemed to Queen Helen as though the spirit of life suddenly went away from her, for she foresaw what had befallen. So she arose like one in a dream, and, speaking very quietly, she said: "Foliot, take me whither my lord went awhile since!" To this Foliot said: "Lady, wait until the morning, which is near at hand, for it is too dark for you to go thitherward at this present." Whereunto the Lady Helen replied: "Foliot, I cannot wait, for if I stay here and wait I believe I shall go mad." Upon this, Foliot did not try to persuade her any more but made ready to take her whither she would go. Now the young child Launcelot was then asleep upon the Queen's knees, wherefore she took her cloak and wrapped the child in it and laid him very gently upon the ground, so that he did not wake. Then she mounted upon her palfrey and Foliot led the palfrey up the hill whither King Ban had gone a short time since. [Sidenote: The Lady Helen findeth the King] When they came to that place of open rocks above told of, they found King Ban lying very quiet and still upon the ground and with a countenance of great peace. For I believe of a surety that God had forgiven him all his sins, and he would now suffer no more because of the cares and the troubles of this life. Thus Queen Helen found him, and finding him she made no moan or outcry of any kind, only she looked for a long while into his dead face, which she could see very plainly now, because that the dawn had already broken. And by and by she said: "Dear Lord, thou art at this time in a happier case than I." And by and by she said to Foliot: "Go and bring his horse to this place, that we may bear him hence." "Lady," said Foliot, "it is not good for you to be left here alone." "Foliot," said the Queen, "thou dost not know how much alone I am; thy leaving me here cannot make me more alone." Therewith she fell to weeping with great passion. Then Foliot wept also in great measure and, still weeping like rain, he went away and left her. When he came again with King Ban's horse the sun had risen and all the birds were singing with great jubilation and everything was so blithe and gay that no one could have believed that care and trouble could dwell in a world that was so beautiful. [Sidenote: The Lady Helen bringeth her dead down from the Mountain] So Queen Helen and Foliot lifted the dead king to his horse and then the Queen said: "Come thou, Foliot, at thine own gait, and I will go ahead and seek my child, for I have yet Launcelot to be my joy. Haply he will be needing me at this moment." So the Queen made haste down the steep hill ahead of Foliot and by and by she came to the margin of that little lake where they had rested awhile since. By now the sun had risen very strong and warm so that all the lake, and the meadows circumadjacent, and the forest that stood around about that meadow were illumined with the glory of his effulgence. Now as Queen Helen entered that meadow she beheld that a very wonderful lady was there, and this lady bare the child Launcelot in her arms. And the lady sang to Launcelot, and the young child looked up into her face and laughed and set his hand against her cheek. All this Queen Helen beheld; and she likewise beheld that the lady was of a very extraordinary appearance, being clad altogether in green that glistered and shone with a wonderful brightness. And she beheld that around the neck of the lady was a necklace of gold, inset with opal stones and emeralds; and she perceived that the lady's face was like ivory--very white and clear--and that her eyes, which were very bright, shone like jewels set into ivory. And she saw that the lady was very wonderfully beautiful, so that the beholder, looking upon her, felt a manner of fear--for that lady was Fay. (And that lady was the Lady of the Lake, spoken of aforetime in the Book of King Arthur, wherein it is told how she aided King Arthur to obtain that wonderful, famous sword yclept Excalibur, and how she aided Sir Pellias, the Gentle Knight, in the time of his extremity, and took him into the lake with her. Also divers other things concerning her are told of therein.) Then the Queen came near to where the lady was, and she said to her, "Lady, I pray you give me my child again!" Upon this the Lady of the Lake smiled very strangely and said: "Thou shalt have thy child again, lady, but not now; after a little thou shalt have him again." Then Queen Helen cried out with great agony of passion: "Lady, would you take my child from me? Give him to me again, for he is all I have left in the world. Lo, I have lost house and lands and husband, and all the other joys that life has me to give, wherefore, I beseech you, take not my child from me." To this the Lady of the Lake said: "Thou must endure thy sorrow a while longer; for it is so ordained that I must take thy child; for I take him only that I may give him to thee again, reared in such a wise that he shall make the glory of thy house to be the glory of the world. For he shall become the greatest knight in the world, and from his loins shall spring a greater still than he, so that the glory of the House of King Ban shall be spoken of as long as mankind shall last." But Queen Helen cried out all the more in a great despair: "What care I for all this? I care only that I shall have my little child again! Give him to me!" [Sidenote: The Lady of the Lake taketh Launcelot into the Lake] Therewith she would have laid hold of the garments of the Lady of the Lake in supplication, but the Lady of the Lake drew herself away from Queen Helen's hand and said: "Touch me not, for I am not mortal, but Fay." And thereupon she and Launcelot vanished from before Queen Helen's eyes as the breath vanishes from the face of a mirror. For when you breathe upon a mirror the breath will obscure that which lieth behind; but presently the breath will disappear and vanish, and then you shall behold all things entirely clear and bright to the sight again. So the Lady of the Lake vanished away, and everything behind her where she had stood was clear and bright, and she was gone. Then Queen Helen fell down in a swoon, and lay beside the lake of the meadow like one that is dead; and when Foliot came he found her so and wist not what to do for her. There was his lord who was dead and his lady who was so like to death that he knew not whether she was dead or no. So he knew not what to do but sat down and made great lamentation for a long while. [Sidenote: The Lady Helen taketh to a Nunnery] What time he sat thus there came that way three nuns who dwelt in an abbey of nuns which was not a great distance away from that place. These made great pity over that sorrowful sight, and they took away from there the dead King and the woeful Queen, and the King they buried in holy ground, and the Queen they let live with them and she was thereafter known as the "Sister of Sorrows." [Sidenote: How Launcelot dwelt in the lake] Now Launcelot dwelt for nigh seventeen years with the Lady Nymue of the Lake in that wonderful, beautiful valley covered over with the appearance of such a magical lake as hath been aforetime described in the Book of King Arthur. And that land of the lake was of this sort that shall here be described:-- Unto anyone who could enter into the magic water of that lake (and there were very few of those who were mortal who were allowed to come to those meadows of Faery that were there concealed beneath those enchanted waters) he would behold before him a wide and radiant field of extraordinary beauty. And he would behold that that field was covered all over with such a multitude of exquisite and beautiful flowers that the heart of the beholder would be elated with pure joy to find himself in the midst of that waving sea of multitudinous and fragrant blossoms. And he would behold many fair and shady groves of trees that here and there grew up from that valley, each glade overshadowing a fountain of water as clear as crystal. And he would perhaps behold, at such pleasant places beneath the shade of those trees, some party of the fair and gentle folk of that country; and he would see them playing in sport, or he would hear them chanting to the music of shining golden harps. And he would behold in the midst of that beautiful plain a wonderful castle with towers and roofs uplifted high into the sky, and all shining in the peculiar radiance of that land, like to castles and battlements of pure gold. Such was the land unto which Launcelot was brought, and from what I have told you you may see what a wonderful, beautiful place it was. And the mystery of that place entered into the soul of Launcelot, so that thereafter, when he came out thence, he was never like other folk, but always appeared to be in a manner remote and distant from other of his fellow-mortals with whom he dwelt. For though he smiled a great deal, it was not often that he laughed; and if he did laugh, it was never in scorn, but always in loving-kindness. * * * * * It was here in this land that Sir Pellias had now dwelt for several years, with great peace and content. (For it hath been told in the Book of King Arthur how, when he was upon the edge of death, the Lady Nymue of the Lake brought him back to life again, and how, after that time, he was half fay and half mortal.) And the reason why Launcelot was brought to that place was that Sir Pellias might teach him and train him in all the arts of chivalry. For no one in all the world was more skilful in arms than Sir Pellias, and no one could so well teach Launcelot the duties of chivalry as he. So Sir Pellias taught Launcelot all that was best of knighthood, both as to conduct of manner, and as to the worthiness and skill at arms, wherefore it was that when Launcelot was completely taught, there was no knight in all the world who was his peer in strength of arms or in courtesy of behavior, until his own son, Sir Galahad, appeared in the courts of chivalry as shall by and by be told of. So when Launcelot came forth into the world again he became the greatest knight in all the history of chivalry, wherefore that prophecy of his mother was fulfilled as to his being like to a bright star of exceeding lustre. Accordingly, I have herein told you with great particularity all these circumstances of his early history so that you may know exactly how it was that he was taken away into the lake, and why it was that he was afterward known as Sir Launcelot, surnamed of the Lake. As to how he came into the world to achieve that greatness unto which he had been preordained, and as to how King Arthur made him knight, and as to many very excellent adventures that befell him, you shall immediately read in what followeth. PART I The Story of Launcelot _Here beginneth the story of Sir Launcelot, surnamed of the Lake, who was held by all men to be the most excellent, noble, perfect knight-champion who was ever seen in the world from the very beginning of chivalry unto the time when his son, Sir Galahad, appeared like a bright star of extraordinary splendor shining in the sky of chivalry. In this Book it shall be told how he was taken into a magic lake, how he came out thence to be made knight by King Arthur, and of how he undertook several of those adventures that made him at once the wonder and the admiration of all men, and the chiefest glory of the Round Table of Arthur-Pendragon._ [Illustration: Sir Launcelot greets Queen Guinevere] Chapter First _How Sir Launcelot Came Forth From the Enchanted Castle of the Lake and Entered Into the World Again, and How King Arthur Made Him Knight._ [Sidenote: Of the springtime of long ago] I know not any time of the year that is more full of joyfulness than the early summer season; for that time the sun is wonderfully lusty and strong, yet not so very hot; that time the trees and shrubs are very full of life and very abundant of shade and yet have not grown dry with the heats and droughts of later days; that time the grass is young and lush and green, so that when you walk athwart the meadow-lands it is as though you walked through a fair billowy lake of magical verdure, sprinkled over with a great multitude of little flowers; that time the roses are everywhere a-bloom, both the white rose and the red, and the eglantine is abundant; that time the nests are brimful of well-fledged nestlings, and the little hearts of the small parent fowls are so exalted with gladness that they sing with all their mights and mains, so that the early daytime is filled full of the sweet jargon and the jubilant medley of their voices. Yea; that is a goodly season of the year, for though, haply, the spirit may not be so hilarious as in the young and golden springtime, yet doth the soul take to itself so great a content in the fulness of the beauty of the world, that the heart is elated with a great and abundant joy that it is not apt to feel at another season. [Sidenote: King Arthur and two knights ride a-hunting] Now it chanced upon the day before Saint John's day in the fulness of a summer-time such as this, that King Arthur looked forth from his chamber very early in the morning and beheld how exceedingly fair and very lusty was the world out-of-doors--all in the freshness of the young daylight. For the sun had not yet risen, though he was about to rise, and the sky was like to pure gold for brightness; all the grass and leaves and flowers were drenched with sweet and fragrant dew, and the birds were singing so vehemently that the heart of any man could not but rejoice in the fulness of life that lay all around about him. There were two knights with King Arthur at that time, one was Sir Ewain, the son of Morgana le Fay (and he was King Arthur's nephew), and the other was Sir Ector de Maris, the son of King Ban of Benwick and of Queen Helen--this latter a very noble, youthful knight, and the youngest of all the Knights of the Round Table who were at that time elected. These stood by King Arthur and looked forth out of the window with him and they also took joy with him in the sweetness of the summer season. Unto them, after a while, King Arthur spake, saying: "Messires, meseems this is too fair a day to stay within doors. For, certes, it is a shame that I who am a king should be prisoner within mine own castle, whilst any ploughman may be free of the wold and the green woods and the bright sun and the blue sky and the wind that blows over hill and dale. Now, I too would fain go forth out of doors and enjoy these things; wherefore I ordain that we shall go a-hunting this day and that ye and I shall start before any others of the lords and the ladies that dwell herein are awake. So let us take our horses and our hounds and let us take certain foresters and huntsmen, and let us go forth a-hunting into the green forest; for this day shall be holiday for me and for you and we shall leave care behind us, and for a while we shall disport ourselves in pleasant places." So they all did as King Arthur bade; they made them each man ready with his own hands, and they bade the huntsmen and the foresters to attend thereupon as the King had ordained. Then they rode forth from the castle and out into the wide world that lay beyond, and it was yet so early in the morning that none of the castle folk were astir to know of their departure. All that day they hunted in the forest with much joy and with great sport, nor did they turn their faces toward home again until the day was so far spent that the sun had sunk behind the tops of the tall leafy trees. Then, at that time, King Arthur gave command that they should bend their ways toward Camelot once more. [Sidenote: King Arthur and his companions find a strange damsel and a dwarf] Now this time, being the Eve of Saint John, fairies and those folk who are fay come forth, as is very well known, into the world from which they dwell apart at other times. So when King Arthur and those two knights and their several foresters and huntsmen came to a certain outlying part of the forest, they were suddenly aware of a damsel and a dwarf waiting where the road upon which they were travelling crossed another road, and they perceived, from her very remarkable appearance, that the damsel was very likely Fay. For both she and her dwarf sat each upon a milk-white horse, very strangely still, close to where was a shrine by a hedge of hawthorne; and the damsel was so wonderfully fair of face that it was a marvel to behold her. Moreover, she was clad all in white samite from top to toe and her garments were embroidered with silver; and the trappings and garniture of her horse were of white samite studded with bright silver bosses, wherefore, because of this silver, she glistered with a sudden lustre whensoever she moved a little. When King Arthur and the two knights who were with him drew nigh this damsel, much marvelling at her appearance, she hailed him in a voice that was both high and clear, crying: "Welcome, King Arthur! Welcome, King Arthur! Welcome, King Arthur!" saying three words three times; and "Welcome, Sir Ewain!" "Welcome, Sir Ector de Maris!" addressing each of those lords by his name. "Damsel," quoth King Arthur, "it is very singular that you should know who we are and that we should not know you. Now, will you not tell us your name and whence you come and whither you go? For of a surety I believe you are Fay." "Lord," said the damsel, "it matters not who I am, saving that I am of the court of a wonderful lady who is your very good friend. She hath sent me here to meet you and to beseech you to come with me whither I shall lead you, and I shall lead you unto her." "Damsel," said King Arthur, "I shall be right glad to go with you as you desire me to do. So, if you will lead me to your lady, I and my knights will gladly follow you thitherway to pay our court unto her." [Sidenote: King Arthur and his knights follow the damsel] Upon this the damsel waved her hand, and drawing her bridle-rein she led the way, accompanied by the dwarf, and King Arthur and the two knights followed her, and all their party of foresters and huntsmen and hounds and beagles followed them. By this time the sun had set and the moon had risen very fair and round and as yellow as gold, making a great light above the silent tree-tops. Everything now was embalmed in the twilight, and all the world was enshrouded in the mystery of the midsummer eve. Yet though the sun had gone the light was wonderfully bright, wherefore all that the eye could see stood sharp-cut and very clear to the vision. So the damsel and the dwarf led the way for somewhat of a distance, though not for so very far, until they came of a sudden to where was an open meadow in the forest, hedged all around with the trees of the woodland. And here the King and his knights were aware of a great bustle of many people, some working very busily in setting up several pavilions of white samite, and others preparing a table as for a feast, and others upon this business and others upon that; and there were various sumpter-mules and pack-horses and palfreys all about, as though belonging to a party of considerable estate. Then King Arthur and those who were with him beheld that, at some distance away upon the other side of the meadow, there were three people sitting under a crab-apple tree upon a couch especially prepared for them, and they were aware that these people were the chief of all that company. [Sidenote: King Arthur and his companions are brought to speak with strange folk] The first party of the three was a knight of very haughty and noble appearance, clad all in armor as white as silver; and his jupon was white embroidered with silver, and the scabbard of the sword and the sword-belt were white, and his shield hung in the crab-tree above him and that, too, was all white as of silver. This knight still wore his helmet, so that his countenance was not to be seen. The second party of the three was a lady clad all in white raiment. Her face was covered by her wimple so that her countenance also was not to be seen very clearly, but her garments were of wonderful sort, being of white sarcenet embroidered over with silver in the pattern of lily flowers. Also she wore around her breast and throat a chain of shining silver studded with bright and sparkling gems of divers sorts. The third party of the three was a youth of eighteen years, so beautiful of face that it seemed to King Arthur that he had never beheld so noble a being. For his countenance was white and shining, and his hair was as soft as silk and as black as it was possible to be, and curled down upon his shoulders; and his eyes were large and bright and extraordinarily black, and his eyebrows arched so smoothly that if they had been painted they could not have been marked upon his forehead more evenly than they were; and his lips, which pouted a little, though not very much, were as red as coral, and his upper lip was shaded with a soft down of black. Moreover, this youth was clad altogether in white cloth of satin with no ornaments whatsoever saving only a fine chain of shining silver set with opal-stones and emeralds that hung about his neck. Then when King Arthur approached near enough he perceived by certain signs that the lady was the chiefest of those three, wherefore he paid his court to her especially, saying to her: "Lady, it seems that I have been brought hitherward unto you and that you were aware of my name and estate when you sent for me. Now I should be exceedingly glad if you would enlighten me in the same manner as to yourself." "Sir," she said, "that I shall be glad to do; for if I have known you aforetime, you have also seen me afore time and have known me as your friend." Therewith the lady lowered the wimple from her face and King Arthur perceived that it was the Lady of the Lake. [Sidenote: King Arthur findeth Sir Pellias again] Upon this he kneeled down upon one knee and took her hand and set it to his lips. "Lady," quoth he, "I have indeed cause to know you very well, for you have, as you affirm, been a friend to me and to my friends upon many several occasions." Then King Arthur turned to that knight who was with that Lady of the Lake, and he said unto him: "Messire, if I mistake not, I should know you also; and I doubt not, if you will lift the umbril of your helmet, we shall all three know your face." Upon this the knight without more ado lifted his umbril as King Arthur had desired him to do and the three beheld that it was Sir Pellias, the Gentle Knight. Now it hath already been very fully told about Sir Pellias in the Book of King Arthur, and those of you who read of him therein will remember, no doubt, how sorely he was wounded in a combat with Sir Gawaine, who was his best friend, and of how the Lady of the Lake took him to dwell with her in that wonderful city that was hidden by the appearance as of an enchanted lake, and of how it was Sir Gawaine who last beheld him upon that occasion. But if Sir Gawaine was the dearest friend that Sir Pellias had at that time, then Sir Ewain was only less dear to him. Therefore, when Sir Ewain beheld that the strange knight was Sir Pellias, he wist not what to think for pure wonder; for no mortal eyes had ever beheld Sir Pellias since he had gone into the lake with the Lady of the Lake that time as foretold, and it was not thought that anyone would ever see him again. So when Sir Ewain beheld that the knight was Sir Pellias he emitted a great cry of joy and ran to him and catched him in his arms, and Sir Pellias forbade him not. For though at most times those who are of Faery do not suffer themselves to be touched by mortal hands, yet, upon the Eve of Saint John's Day, fairies and mortals may commune as though they were of the same flesh and blood. Wherefore Sir Pellias did not forbid Sir Ewain, and they embraced, as one-time brethren-in-arms should embrace. And each kissed the other upon the face, and each made great joy the one over the other. Yea, so great was their joy that all those who stood about were moved with pure happiness at beholding them. Then Sir Pellias came to King Arthur and kneeled down before him and kissed his hand, as is the bounden duty of every knight unto his lord. "Ha, Messire," quoth King Arthur, "methought when I beheld this lady, that you would not be very far distant from her." Then he said unto the Lady of the Lake: "Lady, I prithee tell me, who is this fair youth who is with you. For methinks I never beheld before so noble and so beautiful a countenance as his. Maybe you will make us acquainted with him also." "Lord," said the Lady Nymue, "who he is, and of what quality, shall, I hope, be made manifest in due time; just now I would not wish that he should be known even unto you. But touching him, I may say that it was for his sake that I sent my damsel to meet you at the cross-roads awhile ago. But of that, more anon; for see! the feast is now spread which we have prepared for your entertainment. So let us first eat and drink and make merry together, and then we shall speak further of this matter." [Sidenote: The Lady of the Lake prepareth a feast for King Arthur] So they all six went and sat down to the table that had been spread for them in the open meadow-land. For the night was very pleasant and warm and a wonderful full moon shone down upon them with a marvellous lustre, and there was a pleasant air, soft and warm, from the forest, and, what with the scores of bright waxen tapers that stood in silver candlesticks upon the table (each taper sparkling as bright as any star), the night was made all illuminate like to some singular mid-day. There was set before them a plenty of divers savory meats and of several excellent wines, some as yellow as gold, and some as red as carbuncle, and they ate and they drank and they made merry in the soft moonlight with talk and laughter. Somewhiles they told Sir Pellias and the lady of all that was toward at court at Camelot; otherwhiles Sir Pellias and the lady told them such marvellous things concerning the land in which they two dwelt that it would be hard to believe that the courts of Heaven could be fairer than the courts of Fairyland whence they had come. Then, after the feast was ended, the Lady of the Lake said to King Arthur, "Sir, an I have won your favor in any way, there is a certain thing I would ask of you." To the which King Arthur made reply: "Ask it, Lady, and it shall be granted thee, no matter what it may be." "Sir," said the Lady of the Lake, "this is what I would ask of you. I would ask you to look upon this youth who sits beside me. He is so dear to me that I cannot very well make you know how dear he is. I have brought him hither from our dwelling-place for one certain reason; to wit, that you should make him knight. That is the great favor I would ask of you. To this intent I have brought armor and all the appurtenances of knighthood; for he is of such noble lineage that no armor in the world could be too good for him." "Lady," quoth King Arthur, "I will do what you ask with much pleasure and gladness. But, touching that armor of which you speak, it is my custom to provide anyone whom I make a knight with armor of mine own choosing." To this the Lady of the Lake smiled very kindly, saying, "Lord, I pray you, let be in this case, for I daresay that the armor which hath been provided for this youth shall be so altogether worthy of your nobility and of his future credit that you will be entirely contented with it." And with that, King Arthur was altogether satisfied. [Sidenote: Of the armor, etc., of Sir Launcelot] And, touching that armor, the ancient history that speaketh of these matters saith that it was of such a sort as this that followeth, and that it was brought from that enchanted court of the lake in this wise; to wit, in the front came two youths, leading two white mules, and the mules bore two chests studded with silver bosses. In one chest was the hauberk of that armor and in the other were the iron boots. These were bright like to silver and were inlaid with cunningly devised figures, all of pure gold. Next to them came two esquires, clad in white robes and mounted upon white horses, bearing the one a silver shield and the other a shining helmet, as of silver--it likewise being very wonderfully inlaid with figures of pure gold. After these came two other esquires, the one bearing a sword in a white sheath embossed with studs of silver (the belt whereof was of silver with facets of gold) and the other leading a white charger, whose coat was as soft and as shining as silk. And all the gear and furniture of this horse was of silver and of white samite embellished with silver. So from this you can see how nobly that young acolyte was provided with all that beseemed his future greatness. For, as you may have guessed, this youth was Launcelot, King Ban's son of Benwick, who shortly became the greatest knight in the world. [Sidenote: Launcelot guards his armor at night] Now there was in that part of the forest border a small abbey of monks, and in the chapel of that abbey Launcelot watched his armor for that night and Sir Ewain was with him for all that time. Meantime King Arthur and Sir Ector de Maris slept each in a silken pavilion provided for them by the Lady of the Lake. In the morning Sir Ewain took Launcelot to the bath and bathed him, for such was the custom of those who were being prepared for knighthood. Now, whilst Sir Ewain was bathing the youth, he beheld that on his shoulder was a mark in the likeness of a golden star and he marvelled very much thereat; but he made no mention of it at that time, but held his peace concerning what he saw; only he marvelled very greatly thereat. [Sidenote: King Arthur creates Sir Launcelot a Knight-Royal] Then, after Sir Ewain had bathed Launcelot, he clothed him in raiment fitted for that ceremony unto which he was ordained, and when the youth was so clothed, Sir Ewain brought him to King Arthur, and King Arthur knighted Launcelot with great ceremony, and buckled the belt around him with his own hands. After he had done this Sir Ewain and Sir Ector de Maris set the golden spurs to his heels, and Sir Ector wist not that he was performing such office for his own brother. So Sir Launcelot was made knight with great estate and ceremony, whereof I have told you all, unto every particular. For it is fitting that all things should be so told concerning that most great and famous knight. After King Arthur had so dubbed Sir Launcelot knight, it was time that those two parties should part company--to wit, the party of the Lady of the Lake and the party of King Arthur. But when they were about to leave one another the Lady of the Lake took Sir Launcelot aside, and she spake to him after this manner: [Sidenote: The Lady of the Lake gives Sir Launcelot good advice] "Launcelot, forget not that you are a king's son, and that your lineage is as noble as that of anyone upon earth--for so I have often told you aforetime. Wherefore, see to it that your worthiness shall be as great as your beauty, and that your courtesy and gentleness shall be as great as your prowess. To-day you shall go unto Camelot with King Arthur to make yourself known unto that famous Court of Chivalry. But do not tarry there, but, ere the night cometh, depart and go forth into the world to prove your knighthood as worthily as God shall give you grace to do. For I would not have you declare yourself to the world until you have proved your worthiness by your deeds. Wherefore, do not yourself proclaim your name, but wait until the world proclaimeth it; for it is better for the world to proclaim the worthiness of a man than that the man should proclaim his own worthiness. So hold yourself ready to undertake any adventure whatsoever that God sendeth to you to do, but never let any other man complete a task unto which you yourself have set your hand." Then, after the Lady of the Lake had so advised Sir Launcelot, she kissed him upon the face, and therewith gave him a ring curiously wrought and set with a wonderful purple stone, which ring had such power that it would dissolve every enchantment. Then she said: "Launcelot, wear this ring and never let it be from off your finger." And Launcelot said: "I will do so." So Sir Launcelot set the ring upon his finger and it was so that it never left his finger whilst he drew the breath of life. Then King Arthur and Sir Ewain and Sir Ector de Maris and the young Sir Launcelot laid their ways toward Camelot. And, as they journeyed so together, Sir Ewain communicated privily to Sir Ector de Maris how that the youth had a mark as of a golden star upon the skin of his shoulder, and upon this news Sir Ector fell very silent. For Sir Ector knew that that sign was upon his own brother's shoulder, and he did not know how it could be upon the shoulder of any other man. Wherefore, he wist not what to think that it should be upon the shoulder of this youth. But he said naught of these thoughts to Sir Ewain, but held his peace. [Sidenote: Sir Launcelot cometh to Camelot] So they reached Camelot whilst it was still quite early in the morning and all they who were there made great joy at the coming of so wonderfully fair and noble a young knight as Sir Launcelot appeared to be. Wherefore, there was great sound of rejoicing at his coming. Then, after a while, King Arthur said: "Let us go and see if, haply, this youth's name is marked upon any of the seats of the Round Table, for I think it should be there." So all they of the court went to that pavilion afore described, where the Round Table was established, and they looked; and lo! upon the seat that King Pellinore had one time occupied was this name: THE KNIGHT OF THE LAKE So the name stood at first, nor did it change until the name of Sir Launcelot of the Lake became so famous in all the world. Then it became changed to this: SIR LAUNCELOT OF THE LAKE. * * * * * [Sidenote: Sir Launcelot becometh knight of the Round Table] So Sir Launcelot remained at Camelot for that entire day and was made acquainted with a great many of the lords and ladies and knights and dames of King Arthur's court. And all that while he was like one that walked in a dream, for he had never before beheld anything of the world of mankind since he had been carried away into the lake, wherefore he wist not very well whether what he saw was real or whether he beheld it in a vision of enchantment. For it was all very new and wonderful to him and he took great delight in it because that he was a man and because this world was the world of mankind. Wherefore, though that Castle of the Lake was so beautiful, yet he felt his heart go forth to this other and less beautiful land as it did not go forth to that, because he was human and this was human. Nevertheless, though that was so joyful a day for him, yet Sir Launcelot did not forget what the Lady of the Lake had said concerning the time he was to abide there! Wherefore, when it drew toward evening he besought leave of King Arthur to depart from that place in search of adventures, and King Arthur gave him leave to do as he desired. So Sir Launcelot prepared to depart, and whilst he was in his chamber making ready there came in unto him Sir Ector de Maris. And Sir Ector said unto him: "Sir, I prithee tell me--is it true that you bear upon your right shoulder a mark like unto a golden star?" And Sir Launcelot made reply: "Yea, that is true." Then Sir Ector said: "I beseech you to tell me if your name is Launcelot." And Sir Launcelot said: "Yea, that is my name." [Sidenote: Of the brotherhood of Sir Ector and Sir Launcelot] Upon this Sir Ector broke out into great weeping and he catched Sir Launcelot in his arms and he cried out: "Launcelot, thou art mine own brother! For thy father was my father, and my mother was thy mother! For we are both sons unto King Ban of Benwick, and Queen Helen was our mother." Therewith he kissed Sir Launcelot with great passion upon the face. And Sir Launcelot upon his part kissed Sir Ector with a great passion of joy that he had found a brother in this strange world into which he had so newly come. But Sir Launcelot charged Sir Ector that he should say nothing of this to any man; and Sir Ector pledged his knightly word to that effect. (Nor did he ever tell anyone who Sir Launcelot was until Sir Launcelot had performed such deeds that all the world spake his name.) For when Sir Launcelot went out into the world in that wise he undertook several very weighty achievements and brought them all to a successful issue, so that his name very quickly became known in every court of chivalry. [Sidenote: Of sundry adventures of Sir Launcelot] First he removed an enchantment that overhung a castle, hight Dolorous Gard; and he freed that castle and liberated all the sad, sorry captives that lay therein. (And this castle he held for his own and changed the name from Dolorous Gard to Joyous Gard and the castle became very famous afterward as his best-loved possession. For this was the first of all his possessions that he won by the prowess of his arms and he loved it best of all and considered it always his home.) After that Sir Launcelot, at the bidding of Queen Guinevere, took the part of the Lady of Nohan against the King of Northumberland, and he overcame the King of Northumberland and made him subject unto King Arthur. Then he overcame Sir Gallehaut, King of the Marches, and sent him captive to the court of King Arthur (and afterward Sir Gallehaut and Sir Launcelot became great friends for aye). So in a little while all the world spoke of Sir Launcelot, for it was said of him, and truly, that he had never been overcome by any other knight, whether upon horseback or upon foot, and that he always succeeded in every adventure which he undertook, whether that adventure were great or whether it were small. So it was as the Lady of the Lake desired it to be, for Sir Launcelot's name became famous, not because he was his father's son, but because of the deeds which he performed upon his own account. So Sir Launcelot performed all these famous adventures, and after that he returned again to the court of King Arthur crowned with the glory of his successful knighthood, and there he was received with joy and acclaim and was duly installed in that seat of the Round Table that was his. And in that court he was held in the greatest honor and esteem of all the knights who were there. For King Arthur spake many times concerning him to this effect: that he knew not any honor or glory that could belong to a king greater than having such a knight for to serve him as was Sir Launcelot of the Lake. For a knight like Sir Launcelot came hardly ever into the world, and when he did come his glory must needs illuminate with its effulgence the entire reign of that king whose servant he was. So it was that Sir Launcelot was greatly honored by everybody at the court of King Arthur, and he thereafter abided at that court for the most part of his life. * * * * * [Sidenote: Of Sir Launcelot and Queen Guinevere] And now I must needs make mention of that friendship that existed betwixt Sir Launcelot and Queen Guinevere, for after he thus returned to the court of the king, they two became such friends that no two people could be greater friends than they were. Now I am aware that there have been many scandalous things said concerning that friendship, but I do not choose to believe any such evil sayings. For there are always those who love to think and say evil things of others. Yet though it is not to be denied that Sir Launcelot never had for his lady any other dame than the Lady Guinevere, still no one hath ever said with truth that she regarded Sir Launcelot otherwise than as her very dear friend. For Sir Launcelot always avouched with his knightly word, unto the last day of his life, that the Lady Guinevere was noble and worthy in all ways, wherefore I choose to believe his knightly word and to hold that what he said was true. For did not he become an hermit, and did not she become a nun in their latter days, and were they not both broken of heart when King Arthur departed from this life in so singular a manner as he did? Wherefore I choose to believe good of such noble souls as they, and not evil of them. [Sidenote: How Sir Launcelot dwelt at Camelot] Yet, though Sir Launcelot thus abided at the court of the King, he ever loved the open world and a life of adventure above all things else. For he had lived so long in the Lake that these things of the sturdy life of out-of-doors never lost their charm for him. So, though he found, for a while, great joy in being at the court of the King (for there were many jousts held in his honor, and, whithersoever he rode forth, men would say to one another: "Yonder goeth that great knight, Sir Launcelot, who is the greatest knight in the world"), yet he longed ever to be abroad in the wide world again. So one day he besought King Arthur for leave to depart thence and to go forth for a while in search of adventures; and King Arthur gave him leave to do as he desired. So now shall be told of several excellent adventures that Sir Launcelot undertook, and which he carried through with entire success, and to the great glory and renown of the Round Table, of which he was the foremost knight. [Illustration: Sir Lionel of Britain] Chapter Second _How Sir Launcelot and Sir Lionel Rode Forth Errant Together and How Sir Lionel Met Sir Turquine to His Great Dole. Also How Sir Ector Grieved for the Departure of His Brother Launcelot and So, Following Him, Fell into a Very Sorry Adventure_. Now after King Arthur had thus given Sir Launcelot leave to go errant and whilst Sir Launcelot was making himself ready to depart there came to him Sir Lionel, who was his cousin germain, and Sir Lionel besought leave to go with him as his knight-companion, and Sir Launcelot gave him that leave. [Sidenote: Sir Launcelot and Sir Lionel depart in search of adventure] So when King Arthur confirmed Sir Launcelot's permission Sir Lionel also made himself ready very joyfully, and early of the morning of the next day they two took their leave of the court and rode away together; the day being very fair and gracious and all the air full of the joy of that season--which was in the flower of the spring-time. So, about noon-tide, they came to a certain place where a great apple-tree stood by a hedge, and by that time they had grown an-hungered. So they tied their horses near-by in a cool and shady place and straightway sat them down under the apple-tree in the soft tall grass, which was yet fresh with the coolness of the morning. [Sidenote: Sir Launcelot sleepeth beneath an apple-tree] Then when they had ended their meal Sir Launcelot said: "Brother, I have a great lust to sleep for a little space, for I find myself so drowsy that mine eyelids are like scales of lead." Unto which Sir Lionel made reply: "Very well; sleep thou for a while, and I will keep watch, and after that thou shalt watch, and I will sleep for a little space." So Sir Launcelot put his helmet beneath his head and turned upon his side, and in a little had fallen into a sleep which had neither dream nor thought of any kind, but which was deep and pure like to a clear well of water in the forest. And, whilst he slept thus, Sir Lionel kept watch, walking up and down in the shade of a hedge near-by. [Sidenote: Sir Lionel perceives how one knight pursues three knights] Where they were was upon the side of a hill, and beneath them was a little valley; and a road ran through the valley, very white and shining in the sunlight, like a silken ribbon, and the road lay between growing fields of corn and pasture-land. Now as Sir Lionel walked beside the hedge he beheld three knights come riding into that valley and along that road with very great speed and in several clouds of dust; and behind them came a fourth knight, who was very huge of frame and who was clad altogether in black armor. Moreover, this knight rode upon a black horse and his shield was black and his spear was black and the furniture of his horse was black, so that everything appertaining to that knight was as black as any raven. And Sir Lionel beheld that this one knight pursued those other three knights and that his horse went with greater speed than theirs, so that by and by he overtook the hindermost knight. And Sir Lionel beheld that the sable knight smote the fleeing knight a great buffet with his sword, so that that knight fell headlong from his horse and rolled over two or three times upon the ground and then lay as though he were dead. Then the black knight catched the second of the three, and served him as he had served his fellow. Then the third of the three, finding that there was no escape for him, turned as if to defend himself; but the black knight drave at him, and smote him so terrible a blow that I believe had a thunderbolt smitten him he would not have fallen from his horse more suddenly than he did. For, though that combat was full three furlongs away, yet Sir Lionel heard the sound of that blow as clearly as though it had been close by. Then after the black knight had thus struck down those three knights he went to each in turn and tied his hands behind his back. Then, lifting each man with extraordinary ease, he laid him across the saddle of that horse from which he had fallen, as though he were a sack of grain. And all this Sir Lionel beheld with very great wonder, marvelling much at the strength and prowess of that black knight. "Ha," quoth he to himself, "I will go and inquire into this business, for it may haply be that yonder black knight shall not find it to be so easy to deal with a knight of the Round Table as with those other three knights." So, with this, Sir Lionel loosed his horse very quietly and went his way so softly that Sir Launcelot was not awakened. And after he had gone some way, he mounted his steed and rode off at a fast gallop down into that valley. [Sidenote: Sir Lionel addresses the sable knight] When Sir Lionel had come to that place where the knight was, he found that he had just bound the last of the three knights upon the saddle of his horse as aforetold. So Sir Lionel spoke to the sable knight in this wise: "Sir, I pray you tell me your name and degree and why you treat those knights in so shameful a fashion as I behold you to do." "Messire," said the black knight very fiercely, "this matter concerns you not at all; yet I may tell you that those knights whom I have overthrown are knights of King Arthur's court, and so I serve all such as come into this place. So will I serve you, too, if you be a knight of King Arthur's." "Well," said Sir Lionel, "that is a very ungracious thing for you to say. And as for that, I too am a knight of King Arthur's court, but I do not believe that you will serve me as you have served those three. Instead of that, I have great hope that I shall serve you in such a fashion that I shall be able to set these knights free from your hands." [Sidenote: The sable knight overcomes Sir Lionel] Thereupon, without more ado, he made him ready with spear and shield, and the black knight, perceiving his design, also made him ready. Then they rode a little distance apart so as to have a fair course for a tilt upon the roadway. Then each set spur to his horse and the two drave together with such violence that the earth shook beneath them. So they met fair in the middle of the course, but lo! in that encounter the spear of Sir Lionel broke into as many as thirty or forty pieces, but the spear of the black knight held, so that Sir Lionel was lifted clean out from his saddle and over the crupper of his horse with such violence that when he smote the ground he rolled three times over ere he ceased to fall. And because of that fierce, terrible blow he swooned away entirely, and all was black before his eyes, and he knew nothing. Therewith the black knight dismounted and tied Sir Lionel's arms behind his back and he laid him across the saddle of his horse as he had laid those others across the saddles of their horses; and he tied him there very securely with strong cords so that Sir Lionel could not move. And all this while Sir Launcelot slept beneath the apple-tree upon the hillside, for he was greatly soothed by the melodious humming of the bees in the blossoms above where he lay. [Sidenote: Of Sir Turquine the sable knight] Now you are to know that he who had thus taken Sir Lionel and those three knights prisoner was one Sir Turquine, a very cruel, haughty knight, who had a great and strong castle out beyond the mouth of that valley in which these knights took combat as aforetold. Moreover, it was the custom of Sir Turquine to make prisoner all the knights and ladies who came that way; and all the knights and ladies who were not of King Arthur's court he set free when they had paid a sufficient ransom unto him; but the knights who were of King Arthur's court, and especially those who were of the Round Table, he held prisoner for aye within his castle. The dungeon of that castle was a very cold, dismal, and unlovely place, and it was to this prison that he proposed to take those four knights whom he had overcome, with intent to hold them prisoner as aforetold. And now turn we to King Arthur's court and consider what befell there after Sir Launcelot and Sir Lionel had left it in search of adventures. [Sidenote: Sir Ector follows Sir Launcelot and Sir Lionel] When Sir Ector found that Sir Launcelot and Sir Lionel had gone away in that fashion he was very much grieved in spirit; wherefore he said to himself, "Meseems my brother might have taken me with him as well as our cousin." So he went to King Arthur and besought his leave to quit the court and to ride after those other two and to join in their adventures, and King Arthur very cheerfully gave him that leave. So Sir Ector made him ready with all despatch, and rode away at a great gait after Sir Launcelot and Sir Lionel. And ever as Sir Ector rode he made diligent inquiry and he found that those two knights had ridden before him, so he said to himself: "By and by I shall overtake them--if not to-day, at least by night, or by to-morrow day." [Sidenote: Sir Ector seeks adventure] But after a while he came to a cross-roads, and there he took a way that Sir Launcelot and Sir Lionel had not taken; so that, after he had gone a distance, he found that he had missed them by taking that road. Nevertheless, he went on until about the prime of the day, what time he met a forester, to whom he said: "Sirrah, saw you two knights ride this way--one knight clad in white armor with a white shield upon which was depicted the figure of a lady, and the other knight clad in red armor with the figure of a red gryphon upon his shield?" "Nay," said the forester, "I saw not such folk." Then said Sir Ector, "Is there any adventure to be found hereabouts?" Upon this the forester fell to laughing in great measure. "Yea," he said, "there is an adventure to be found hard by and it is one that many have undertaken and not one yet hath ever fulfilled." Then Sir Ector said, "Tell me what that adventure is and I will undertake it." "Sir," said the forester, "if you will follow along yonder road for a distance you will find a very large, strong castle surrounded by a broad moat. In front of that castle is a stream of water with a fair, shallow ford, where the roadway crosses the water. Upon this side of that ford there groweth a thorn-tree, very large and sturdy, and upon it hangs a basin of brass. Strike upon that basin with the butt of your spear, and you shall presently meet with that adventure concerning which I have just now spoken." "Fellow," said Sir Ector, "grammercy for your news." And, therewith, straightway he rode off in search of that adventure. He rode a great distance at a very fast gait and by and by he came to the top of a hill and therewith he saw before him the mouth of a fair valley. Across from where he stood was another hill not very large or high, but exceedingly steep and rocky. Upon this farther hill was builded a tall, noble castle of gray stone with many towers and spires and tall chimneys and with several score of windows, all shining bright in the clear weather. A fair river ran down into the mouth of that valley and it was as bright and as smooth as silver, and on each side of it were smooth level meadow-lands--very green--and here and there shady groves of trees and plantations of fruit-trees. And Sir Ector perceived that the road upon which he travelled crossed the aforesaid river by a shallow ford, and he wist that this must be the ford whereof the forester had spoken. So he rode down unto that ford, and when he had come nigh he perceived the thorn-tree of which the forester had told him, and he saw that a great basin of brass hung to the thorn-tree, just as the forester had said. [Sidenote: Sir Ector smites upon the brazen basin] Then Sir Ector rode to that thorn-tree and he smote upon that basin of brass with the butt of his spear, so that the basin rang with a noise like thunder; and he smote it again and again, several times over. But though he was aware of a great commotion within that fair castle, yet no adventure befell him, although he smote the brazen basin several times. Now, his horse being athirst, Sir Ector drove him into the ford that he might drink, and whilst he was there he was suddenly aware where, on the other side of the stream, was a singular party coming along the roadway. For first of all there rode a knight entirely clad in black, riding upon a black horse, and all the harness and furniture of that horse entirely of black. Behind him, that knight led four horses as though they were pack-horses, and across each one of those four horses was a knight in full armor, bound fast to the saddle like to a sack of grain, whereat Sir Ector was very greatly astonished. As soon as that sable knight approached the castle, several came running forth and relieved him of those horses he led and took them into the castle, and as soon as he had been thus relieved the sable knight rode very violently up to where Sir Ector was. As soon as he had come to the water's edge he cried out: "Sir Knight, come forth from out of that water and do me battle." "Very well," said Sir Ector, "I will do so, though it will, I think, be to thy very great discomfort." [Sidenote: Sir Ector essays battle with the sable knight] With that he came quickly out from the ford, the water whereof was all broken and churned into foam at his passing, and straightway he cast aside his spear and drew his sword and, driving against that sable knight, he smote him such a buffet that his horse turned twice about. "Ha," said the black knight, "that is the best blow that ever I had struck me in all of my life." Therewith he rushed upon Sir Ector, and without using a weapon of any sort he catched him about the body, underneath the arms, and dragged him clean out of his saddle, and flung him across the horn of his own saddle. Thereupon, having accomplished this marvellous feat, and with Sir Ector still across his saddle-bow, he rode up unto his castle, nor stopped until he had reached the court-yard of the keep. There he set Sir Ector down upon the stone pavement. Then he said: "Messire, thou hast done to me this day what no other knight hath ever done to me before, wherefore, if thou wilt promise to be my man from henceforth, I will let thee go free and give thee great rewards for thy services as well." But Sir Ector was filled very full of shame, wherefore he cried out fiercely, "Rather would I lie within a prison all my life than serve so catiff a knight as thou, who darest to treat other knights as thou hast just now treated me." "Well," said the black knight very grimly, "thou shalt have thy choice." Therewith he gave certain orders, whereupon a great many fierce fellows set upon Sir Ector and stripped him of all his armor, and immediately haled him off, half-naked, to that dungeon aforementioned. [Sidenote: The sable knight makes prisoner of Sir Ector] There he found many knights of King Arthur's court, and several of the Round Table, all of whom he knew, and when they beheld Sir Ector flung in unto them in that fashion they lifted up their voices in great lamentation that he should have been added to their number, instead of freeing them from their dolorous and pitiable case. "Alas," said they, "there is no knight alive may free us from this dungeon, unless it be Sir Launcelot. For this Sir Turquine is, certes, the greatest knight in all the world, unless it be Sir Launcelot." [Illustration: Queen Morgana appears unto Sir Launcelot] Chapter Third _How Sir Launcelot was Found in a Sleep by Queen Morgana le Fay and Three Other Queens who were with Her, and How He was Taken to a Castle of Queen Morgana's and of What Befell Him There._ [Sidenote: Four Queens and their courts pass by where Sir Launcelot lies sleeping] So Sir Launcelot lay in deep slumber under that apple-tree, and knew neither that Sir Lionel had left him nor what ill-fortune had befallen that good knight. Whilst he lay there sleeping in that wise there came by, along the road, and at a little distance from him, a very fair procession of lordly people, making a noble parade upon the highway. The chiefest of this company were four ladies, who were four queens. With them rode four knights, and, because the day was warm, the four knights bore a canopy of green silk by the four corners upon the points of their lances in such wise as to shelter those queens from the strong heat of the sun. And those four knights rode all armed cap-a-pie on four noble war-horses, and the four queens, bedight in great estate, rode on four white mules richly caparisoned with furniture of divers colors embroidered with gold. After these lordly folk there followed a very excellent court of esquires and demoiselles to the number of a score or more; some riding upon horses and some upon mules that ambled very easily. Now all these folk of greater or lesser degree were entirely unaware that Sir Launcelot lay sleeping so nigh to them as they rode by chattering very gayly together in the spring-time weather, taking great pleasure in the warm air, and in growing things, and the green fields, and the bright sky; and they would have had no knowledge that the knight was there, had not Sir Launcelot's horse neighed very lustily. Thereupon, they were aware of the horse, and then they were aware of Sir Launcelot where he lay asleep under the apple-tree, with his head lying upon his helmet. Now foremost of all those queens was Queen Morgana le Fay (who was King Arthur's sister, and a potent, wicked enchantress, of whom much hath been told in the Book of King Arthur), and besides Queen Morgana there was the Queen of North Wales, and the Queen of Eastland, and the Queen of the Outer Isles. Now when this party of queens, knights, esquires, and ladies heard the war-horse neigh, and when they beheld Sir Launcelot where he lay, they drew rein and marvelled very greatly to see a knight sleeping so soundly at that place, maugre all the noise and tumult of their passing. So Queen Morgana called to her one of the esquires who followed after them, and she said to him: "Go softly and see if thou knowest who is yonder knight; but do not wake him." [Sidenote: An esquire knoweth Sir Launcelot] So the esquire did as she commanded; he went unto that apple-tree and he looked into Sir Launcelot's face, and by hap he knew who it was because he had been to Camelot erstwhiles and he had seen Sir Launcelot at that place. So he hastened back to Queen Morgana and he said to her: "Lady, I believe that yonder knight is none other than the great Sir Launcelot of the Lake, concerning whom there is now such report; for he is reputed to be the most powerful of all the knights of King Arthur's Round Table, and the greatest knight in the world, so that King Arthur loves him and favors him above all other knights." Now when Queen Morgana le Fay was aware that the knight who was asleep there was Sir Launcelot, it immediately entered her mind for to lay some powerful, malignant enchantment upon him to despite King Arthur. For she too knew how dear Sir Launcelot was to King Arthur, and so she had a mind to do him mischief for King Arthur's sake. So she went softly to where Sir Launcelot lay with intent to work some such spell upon him. But when she had come to Sir Launcelot she was aware that this purpose of mischief was not possible whilst he wore that ring upon his finger which the Lady of the Lake had given him; wherefore she had to put by her evil design for a while. [Sidenote: Queen Morgana le Fay sets a mild enchantment upon Sir Launcelot] But though she was unable to work any malign spell upon him, she was able to cause it by her magic that that sleep in which he lay should remain unbroken for three or four hours. So she made certain movements of her hands above his face and by that means she wove the threads of his slumber so closely together that he could not break through them to awake. After she had done this she called to her several of the esquires who were of her party, and these at her command fetched the shield of Sir Launcelot and laid him upon it. Then they lifted him and bore him away, carrying him in that manner to a certain castle in the forest that was no great distance away. And the name of that castle was Chateaubras and it was one of Queen Morgana's castles. [Sidenote: Sir Launcelot awakens in a fair chamber] And all that while Sir Launcelot wist nothing, but lay in a profound sleep, so that when he awoke and looked about him he was so greatly astonished that he knew not whether he was in a vision or whether he was awake. For whilst he had gone asleep beneath that apple-tree, here he now lay in a fair chamber upon a couch spread with a coverlet of flame-colored linen. Then he perceived that it was a very fair room in which he lay, for it was hung all about with tapestry hangings representing fair ladies at court and knights at battle. And there were woven carpets upon the floor, and the couch whereon he lay was of carved wood, richly gilt. There were two windows to that chamber, and when he looked forth he perceived that the chamber where he was was very high from the ground, being built so loftily upon the rugged rocks at its foot that the forest lay far away beneath him like a sea of green. And he perceived that there was but one door to this chamber and that the door was bound with iron and studded with great bosses of wrought iron, and when he tried that door he found that it was locked. So Sir Launcelot was aware from these things that he was a prisoner--though not a prisoner in a hard case--and he wist not how he had come thither nor what had happened to him. [Sidenote: A fair damsel beareth light and food unto Sir Launcelot] Now when the twilight of the evening had fallen, a porter, huge of frame and very forbidding of aspect, came and opened the door of the chamber where Sir Launcelot lay, and when he had done so there entered a fair damsel, bearing a very good supper upon a silver tray. Moreover, she bore upon the tray three tapers of perfumed wax set in three silver candlesticks, and these gave a fair light to the entire room. But, when Sir Launcelot saw the maiden coming thus with intent to serve him, he arose and took the tray from her and set it himself upon the table; and for this civility the damsel made acknowledgement to him. Then she said to him: "Sir Knight, what cheer do you have?" "Ha, damsel," said Sir Launcelot, "I do not know how to answer you that, for I wist not what cheer to have until I know whether I be with friends or with enemies. For though this chamber wherein I lie is very fair and well-bedight, yet meseems I must have been brought here by some enchantment, and that I am a prisoner in this place; wherefore I know not what cheer to take." [Sidenote: The damsel has pity for Sir Launcelot] Then the damsel looked upon Sir Launcelot, and she was very sorry for him. "Sir," quoth she, "I take great pity to see you in this pass, for I hear tell you are the best knight in the world and, of a surety, you are of a very noble appearance. I must tell you that this castle wherein you lie is a castle of enchantment, and they who dwell here mean you no good; wherefore I would advise you to be upon your guard against them." "Maiden," said Sir Launcelot, "I give you grammercy for your kind words, and I will be upon my guard as you advise me." Then the damsel would have said more, but she durst not for fear that she should be overheard and that evil should befall her, for the porter was still without the door. So in a little she went away and Sir Launcelot was left alone. But though the damsel bade Sir Launcelot have good cheer, yet he had no very good cheer for that night, as anyone may well suppose, for he wist not what was to befall him upon the morrow. Now when the morning had come Sir Launcelot was aware of someone at his chamber door, and when that one entered it was Queen Morgana le Fay. [Sidenote: How Queen Morgana cometh to Sir Launcelot] She was clad in all the glory at her command, and her appearance was so shining and radiant that when she came into that room Sir Launcelot knew not whether it was a vision his eyes beheld or whether she was a creature of flesh and blood. For she came with her golden crown upon her head, and her hair, which was as red as gold, was bound around with ribbons of gold; and she was clad all in cloth of gold; and she wore golden rings with jewels upon her fingers and golden bracelets upon her arms and a golden collar around her shoulders; wherefore, when she came into the room she shone with an extraordinary splendor, as if she were a marvellous statue made all of pure gold--only that her face was very soft and beautiful, and her eyes shone exceedingly bright, and her lips, which were as red as coral, smiled, and her countenance moved and changed with all the wiles of fascination that she could cause it to assume. When Sir Launcelot beheld her come thus gloriously into his room he rose and greeted her with a very profound salutation, for he was astonished beyond measure at beholding that shining vision. Then Queen Morgana gave him her hand, and he kneeled, and took her jewelled fingers in his and set her hand to his lips. "Welcome, Sir Launcelot!" quoth she; "welcome to this place! For it is indeed a great honor to have here so noble and famous a knight as you!" "Ha, Lady," said Sir Launcelot, "you are gracious to me beyond measure! But I pray you tell me how I came to this place and by what means? For when I fell asleep yesterday at noon I lay beneath an apple-tree upon a hillside; and when I awoke--lo! I found myself in this fair chamber." [Sidenote: Queen Morgana seeks to beguile Sir Launcelot] To this Queen Morgana le Fay made smiling reply as follows: "Sir, I am Queen Morgana le Fay, of whom you may have heard tell, for I am the sister of King Arthur, whose particular knight you are. Yesterday, at noon, riding with certain other queens and a small court of knights, esquires, and demoiselles, we went by where you lay sleeping. Finding you lying so, alone and without any companion, I was able, by certain arts which I possess, to lay a gentle enchantment upon you so that the sleep wherein you lay should remain unbroken for three or four hours. So we brought you to this place in hopes that you would stay with us for two or three days or more, and give us the pleasure of your company. For your fame, which is very great, hath reached even as far as this place, wherefore we have made a gentle prisoner of you for this time being." "Lady," said Sir Launcelot, "such constraint as that would be very pleasing to me at another time. But when I fell asleep I was with my cousin, Sir Lionel, and I know not what hath become of him, and haply he will not know what hath become of me should he seek me. Now I pray you let me go forth and find my cousin, and when I have done so I will return to you again at this place with an easy spirit." "Well, Messire," said Queen Morgana, "it shall be as you desire, only I require of you some pledge of your return." (Herewith she drew from her finger a golden ring set very richly with several jewels.) "Now take this ring," she said, "and give me that ring which I see upon your finger, and when you shall return hither each shall have his ring again from the other." "Lady," said Sir Launcelot, "that may not be. For this ring was placed upon my finger with such a pledge that it may never leave where it is whilst my soul abideth in my body. Ask of me any other pledge and you shall have it; but I cannot give this ring to you." [Sidenote: Queen Morgana hath anger for Sir Launcelot] Upon this Queen Morgana's cheeks grew very red, and her eyes shone like sparks of fire. "Ha, Sir Knight," she said, "I do not think you are very courteous to refuse a lady and a queen so small a pledge as that. I am much affronted with you that you should have done so. Wherefore, I now demand of you, as the sister of King Arthur whom you serve, that you give me that ring." "Lady," said Sir Launcelot, "I may not do that, though it grieveth me much to refuse you." Then Queen Morgana looked at Sir Launcelot awhile with a very angry countenance, but she perceived that she was not to have her will with him, wherefore she presently turned very quickly and went out of the room, leaving Sir Launcelot much perturbed in spirit. For he knew how great were the arts of Queen Morgana le Fay, and he could not tell what harm she might seek to work upon him by those arts. But he ever bore in mind how that the ring which he wore was sovereign against such malignant arts as she practised, wherefore he took what comfort he could from that circumstance. Nevertheless, he abode in that chamber in great uncertainty for all that day, and when night came he was afraid to let himself slumber, lest they of the castle should come whilst he slept and work him some secret ill; wherefore he remained awake whilst all the rest of the castle slept. Now at the middle of the night, and about the time of the first cock-crow, he was aware of a sound without and a light that fell through the crack of the door. Then, in a little, the door was opened and there entered that young damsel who had served him with his supper the night before, and she bare a lighted taper in her hand. [Sidenote: The damsel cometh again to Sir Launcelot] When Sir Launcelot perceived that damsel he said: "Maiden, do you come hither with good intent or with evil intent?" "Sir," she said, "I come with good intent, for I take great pity to see you in such a sorry case as this. I am a King's daughter in attendance upon Queen Morgana le Fay, but she is so powerful an enchantress that, in good sooth, I am in great fear lest she some time do me an ill-hap. So to-morrow I leave her service and return unto my father's castle. Meantime, I am of a mind to help you in your adversity. For Queen Morgana trusts me, and I have knowledge of this castle and I have all the keys thereof, wherefore I can set you free. And I will set you free if you will, upon your part, serve me in a way that you can very easily do." "Well," said Sir Launcelot, "provided I may serve you in a way fitting my knightly honor, I shall be glad to do so under any condition. Now I pray you tell me what it is you would have of me." [Sidenote: The damsel speaketh to Sir Launcelot of her father, King Bagdemagus] "Sir," said the damsel, "my father hath made a tournament betwixt him and the King of North Wales upon Tuesday next, and that is just a fortnight from this day. Now, already my father hath lost one such a tournament, for he hath no very great array of knights upon his side, and the King of North Wales hath three knights of King Arthur's Round Table to aid his party. Because of the great help of these knights of the Round Table, the King of North Wales won the last tournament and my father lost it, and now he feareth to lose the tournament that is to be. Now if you will enter upon my father's side upon the day of the tournament, I doubt not that he shall win that tournament; for all men say that you are the greatest knight in the world at this time. So if you will promise to help my father and will seal that promise with your knightly word, then will I set you free of this castle of enchantment." "Fair maiden," said Sir Launcelot, "tell me your name and your father's name, for I cannot give you my promise until I know who ye be." [Sidenote: Sir Launcelot promises to aid King Bagdemagus] "Sir," said the demoiselle, "I am called Elouise the Fair, and my father is King Bagdemagus." "Ha!" quoth Sir Launcelot, "I know your father, and I know that he is a good king and a very worthy knight besides. If you did me no service whatsoever, I would, at your simple asking, were I free of this place, lend him such aid as it is in my power to give." At this the damsel took great joy and gave Sir Launcelot thanks beyond measure. So they spoke together as to how that matter might be brought about so that Sir Launcelot should be brought to talk to King Bagdemagus. And the damsel Elouise said: "Let it be this way, Sir Launcelot. Imprimis--thou art to know that somewhat of a long distance to the westward of that place where thou didst fall asleep yesterday, there standeth a very large, fair abbey known as the Abbey of Saint James the Lesser. This abbey is surrounded by an exceedingly noble estate that lieth all around about it so that no man that haps in that part of the country can miss it if he make inquiry for it. Now I will go and take lodging at that abbey a little while after I leave this place. So when it suits thee to do so, come thou thither and thou wilt find me there and I will bring thee to my father." "Very well," said Sir Launcelot, "let it be that way. I will come to that place in good time for the tournament. Meantime, I prithee, rest in the assurance that I shall never forgot thy kindness to me this day, nor thy gracious behavior and speech unto me. Wherefore I shall deem it not a duty but a pleasure to serve thee." [Sidenote: The damsel bringeth Sir Launcelot to freedom] So, having arranged all these matters, the damsel Elouise opened the door of that room and led Sir Launcelot out thence; and she led him through various passages and down several long flights of steps, and so brought him at last unto a certain chamber, where was his armor. Then the damsel helped Sir Launcelot to encase him in his armor, so that in a little while he was altogether armed as he had been when he fell asleep under that apple-tree. Thereafter the damsel brought him out past the court-yard and unto the stable where was Sir Launcelot's horse, and the horse knew him when he came. So he saddled the horse by the light of a half-moon which sailed like a boat high up in the sky through the silver, floating clouds, and therewith he was ready to depart. Then the damsel opened the gate and he rode out into the night, which was now drawing near the dawning of the day. Thus Elouise the Fair aided Sir Launcelot to escape from that castle of enchantment, where else great ill might have befallen him. * * * * * And now it shall be told how Sir Launcelot did battle with Sir Turquine and of what happened thereat. [Illustration: Sir Launcelot doeth battle with Sir Turquine] Chapter Fourth _How Sir Launcelot Sought Sir Lionel and How a Young Damsel Brought Him to the Greatest Battle that Ever He Had in All His Life_. So Sir Launcelot rode through the forest, and whilst he rode the day began to break. About sunrise he came out into an open clearing where certain charcoal-burners were plying their trade. [Sidenote: Sir Launcelot breaks his fast in the forest] To these rude fellows he appeared out of the dark forest like some bright and shining vision; and they made him welcome and offered him to eat of their food, and he dismounted and sat down with them and brake his fast with them. And when he had satisfied his hunger, he gave them grammercy for their entertainment, and took horse and rode away. [Sidenote: Sir Launcelot cometh again to the place of the apple-tree] He made forward until about the middle of the morning, what time he came suddenly upon that place where, two days before, he had fallen asleep beneath the blooming apple-tree. Here he drew rein and looked about him for a considerable while; for he thought that haply he might find some trace of Sir Lionel thereabouts. But there was no trace of him, and Sir Launcelot wist not what had become of him. [Sidenote: Sir Launcelot perceives a damsel upon a palfrey] Now whilst Sir Launcelot was still there, not knowing what to do to find Sir Lionel, there passed that way a damsel riding upon a white palfrey. Unto her Sir Launcelot made salutation, and she made salutation to him and asked him what cheer. "Maiden," said Sir Launcelot, "the cheer that I have is not very good, seeing that I have lost my companion-at-arms and know not where he is." Then he said: "Did you haply meet anywhere with a knight with the figure of a red gryphon upon his shield?" whereunto the damsel answered: "Nay, I saw none such." Then Sir Launcelot said: "Tell me, fair damsel, dost thou know of any adventure hereabouts that I may undertake? For, as thou seest, I am errant and in search of such." Upon this the damsel fell a-laughing: "Yea, Sir Knight," said she, "I know of an adventure not far away, but it is an adventure that no knight yet that ever I heard tell of hath accomplished. I can take thee to that adventure if thou hast a desire to pursue it." "Why should I not pursue it," said Sir Launcelot, "seeing that I am here for that very cause--to pursue adventure?" "Well," said the damsel, "then come with me, Sir Knight, I will take thee to an adventure that shall satisfy thee." [Sidenote: The damsel leads Sir Launcelot to an adventure] So Sir Launcelot and that damsel rode away from that place together; he upon his great war-horse and she upon her ambling palfrey beside him. And the sun shone down upon them, very pleasant and warm, and all who passed them turned to look after them; for the maiden was very fair and slender, and Sir Launcelot was of so noble and stately a mien that few could behold him even from a distance without looking twice or three times upon him. And as they travelled in that way together they fell into converse, and the damsel said to Sir Launcelot: "Sir, thou appearest to be a very good knight, and of such a sort as may well undertake any adventure with great hope of success. Now I prithee to tell me thy name and what knight thou art." "Fair maiden," said Sir Launcelot, "as for telling you my name, that I will gladly do. I am called Sir Launcelot of the Lake, and I am a knight of King Arthur's court and of his Round Table." [Sidenote: Sir Launcelot and the maiden discourse together] At this the damsel was very greatly astonished and filled with admiration. "Hah!" quoth she, "it is a great pleasure to me to fall in with you, Sir Launcelot, for all the world now bespeaketh your fame. Little did I ever think to behold your person, much less speak with you, and ride in this way with you. Now I will tell you what this adventure is on which we are set; it is this--there is, some small distance from this, a castle of a knight hight Sir Turquine, who hath in his prison a great many knights of King Arthur's court, and several knights of his Round Table. These knights he keepeth there in great dole and misery, for it is said that their groans may be heard by the passers along the high-road below the castle. This Sir Turquine is held to be the greatest knight in the world (unless it be thou) for he hath never yet been overcome in battle, whether a-horseback or a-foot. But, indeed, I think it to be altogether likely that thou wilt overcome him." "Fair damsel," quoth Sir Launcelot, "I too have hope that I shall hold mine own with him, when I meet him, and to that I shall do my best endeavor. Yet this and all other matters are entirely in the hands of God." Then the damsel said, "If you should overcome this Sir Turquine, I know of still another adventure which, if you do not undertake it, I know of no one else who may undertake to bring it to a successful issue." Quoth Sir Launcelot, "I am glad to hear of that or of any other adventure, for I take great joy in such adventuring. Now, tell me, what is this other adventure?" [Sidenote: The maiden tells Sir Launcelot of the savage forest knight] "Sir," said the damsel, "a long distance to the west of this there is a knight who hath a castle in the woods and he is the evilest disposed knight that ever I heard tell of. For he lurks continually in the outskirts of the woods, whence he rushes forth at times upon those who pass by. Especially he is an enemy to all ladies of that country, for he hath taken many of them prisoners to his castle and hath held them in the dungeon thereof for ransom; and sometimes he hath held them for a long while. Now I am fain that thou undertake that adventure for my sake." "Well," said Sir Launcelot, "I believe it would be a good thing for any knight to do to rid the world of such an evil-disposed knight as that, so if I have the good fortune to overcome this Sir Turquine, I give my knightly word that I will undertake this adventure for thy sake, if so be thou wilt go with me for to show me the way to his castle." "That I will do with all gladness," said the damsel, "for it is great pride for any lady to ride with you upon such an adventure." Thus they talked, and all was arranged betwixt them. And thus they rode very pleasantly through that valley for the distance of two leagues or a little more, until they came to that place where the road crossed the smooth stream of water afore told of; and there was the castle of Sir Turquine as afore told of; and there was the thorn-bush and the basin hanging upon the thorn-bush as afore told of. Then the maiden said: "Sir Launcelot, beat upon that basin and so thou shalt summon Sir Turquine to battle with thee." [Sidenote: Sir Launcelot smites upon the basin] So Sir Launcelot rode to that basin where it hung and he smote upon it very violently with the butt of his spear. And he smote upon that basin again and again until he smote the bottom from out it; but at that time immediately no one came. Then, after a while, he was ware of one who came riding toward him, and he beheld that he who came riding was a knight very huge of frame, and long and strong of limb. And he beheld that the knight was clad entirely in black, and that the horse upon which he rode and all the furniture of the horse was black. And he beheld that this knight drave before him another horse, and that across the saddle of that other horse there lay an armed knight, bound hand and foot; and Sir Launcelot wist that the sable knight who came riding was that Sir Turquine whom he sought. [Sidenote: The sable knight bringeth Sir Gaheris captive] So Sir Turquine came very rapidly along the highway toward where Sir Launcelot sat, driving that other horse and the captive knight before him all the while. And as they came nearer and nearer Sir Launcelot thought that he should know who the wounded knight was and when they came right close, so that he could see the markings of the shield of that captive knight, he wist that it was Sir Gaheris, the brother of Sir Gawaine, and the nephew of King Arthur, whom Sir Turquine brought thither in that wise. At this Sir Launcelot was very wroth; for he could not abide seeing a fellow-knight of the Round Table treated with such disregard as that which Sir Gaheris suffered at the hands of Sir Turquine; wherefore Sir Launcelot rode to meet Sir Turquine, and he cried out: "Sir Knight! put that wounded man down from his horse, and let him rest for a while, and we two will prove our strength, the one against the other! For it is a shame for thee to treat a noble knight of the Round Table with such despite as thou art treating that knight." "Sir," said Sir Turquine, "as I treat that knight, so treat I all knights of the Round Table--and so will I treat thee if thou be of the Round Table." "Well," said Sir Launcelot, "as for that, I am indeed of the Round Table, and I have come hither for no other reason than for to do battle with thee." "Sir Knight," said Sir Turquine, "thou speakest very boldly; now I pray thee to tell me what knight thou art and what is thy name." "Messire," said Sir Launcelot, "I have no fear to do that. I am called Sir Launcelot of the Lake, and I am a knight of King Arthur's, who made me knight with his own hand." "Ha!" said Sir Turquine, "that is very good news to me, for of all knights in the world thou art the one I most desire to meet, for I have looked for thee for a long while with intent to do battle with thee. For it was thou who didst slay my brother Sir Caradus at Dolorous Gard, who was held to be the best knight in all the world. Wherefore, because of this, I have the greatest despite against thee of any man in the world, and it was because of that despite that I waged particular battle against all the knights of King Arthur's court. And in despite of thee I now hold five score and eight knights, who are thy fellows, in the dismallest dungeon of my castle. Also I have to tell thee that among those knights is thine own brother, Sir Ector, and thy kinsman, Sir Lionel. For I overthrew Sir Ector and Sir Lionel only a day or two ago, and now they lie almost naked in the lower parts of that castle yonder. I will put down this knight as thou biddst me, and when I have done battle with thee I hope to tie thee on his saddle-horn in his place." So Sir Turquine loosed the cords that bound Sir Gaheris and set him from off the horse's back, and Sir Gaheris, who was sorely wounded and very weak, sat him down upon a slab of stone near-by. [Sidenote: Sir Launcelot and Sir Turquine do battle together] Then Sir Launcelot and Sir Turquine made themselves ready at all points, and each took such stand as seemed to him to be best; and when each was ready for the assault, each set spurs to his horse and rushed the one against the other with such terrible violence that they smote together like a clap of thunder. So fierce was that onset that each horse fell back upon the ground and only by great skill and address did the knight who rode him void his saddle, so as to save himself from a fall. And in that meeting the horse of Sir Turquine was killed outright and the back of Sir Launcelot's horse was broken and he could not rise, but lay like dead upon the ground. Then each knight drew his sword and set his shield before him and they came together with such wrath that it appeared as though their fierce eyes shot sparks of fire through the oculariums of their helmets. So they met and struck; and they struck many scores of times, and their blows were so violent that neither shield nor armor could withstand the strokes they gave. For their shields were cleft and many pieces of armor were hewn from their limbs, so that the ground was littered with them. And each knight gave the other so many grim wounds that the ground presently was all sprinkled with red where they stood. Now that time the day had waxed very hot, for it was come high noontide, so presently Sir Turquine cried out: "Stay thee, Sir Launcelot, for I have a boon to ask!" At this Sir Launcelot stayed his hand and said: "What is it thou hast to ask, Sir Knight?" Sir Turquine said: "Messire, I am athirst--let me drink." And Sir Launcelot said: "Go and drink." So Sir Turquine went to that river and entered into that water, which was presently stained with red all about him. And he stooped where he stood and drank his fill, and presently came forth again altogether refreshed. Therewith he took up his sword once more and rushed at Sir Launcelot and smote with double strength, so that Sir Launcelot bent before him and had much ado to defend himself from these blows. Then by and by Sir Launcelot waxed faint upon his part and was athirst, and he cried out: "I crave of thee a boon, Sir Knight!" "What wouldst thou have?" said Sir Turquine. "Sir Knight," said Sir Launcelot, "bide while I drink, for I am athirst." "Nay," said Sir Turquine, "thou shalt not drink until thou quenchest thy thirst in Paradise." "Ha!" cried Sir Launcelot, "thou art a foul churl and no true knight. For when thou wert athirst, I let thee drink; and now that I am athirst, thou deniest me to quench my thirst." Therewith he was filled with such anger that he was like one gone wode; wherefore he flung aside his shield and took his sword in both hands and rushed upon Sir Turquine and smote him again and again; and the blows he gave were so fierce that Sir Turquine waxed somewhat bewildered and bore aback, and held his shield low for faintness. [Sidenote: Sir Launcelot overcometh Sir Turquine] Then when Sir Launcelot beheld that Sir Turquine was faint in that wise, he rushed upon him and catched him by the beaver of his helmet and pulled him down upon his knees. And Sir Launcelot rushed Sir Turquine's helmet from off his head. And he lifted his sword and smote Sir Turquine's head from off his shoulders, so that it rolled down upon the ground. Then for a while Sir Launcelot stood there panting for to catch his breath after that sore battle, for he was nearly stifled with the heat and fury thereof. Then he went down into the water, and he staggered like a drunken man as he went, and the water ran all red at his coming. And Sir Launcelot stooped and slaked his thirst, which was very furious and hot. Thereafter he came up out of the water again, all dripping, and he went to where the damsel was and he said to her; "Damsel, lo, I have overcome Sir Turquine; now I am ready to go with thee upon that other adventure, as I promised thee I would." At this the damsel was astonished beyond measure, wherefore she cried: "Sir, thou art sorely hurt, and in need of rest for two or three days, and maybe a long time more, until thy wounds are healed." "Nay," said Sir Launcelot, "no need to wait; I will go with thee now." Then Sir Launcelot went to Sir Gaheris--for Sir Gaheris had been sitting for all that while upon that slab of stone. Sir Launcelot said to Sir Gaheris: "Fair Lord, be not angry if I take your horse, for I must presently go with this damsel, and you see mine own horse hath broke his back." "Sir Knight," said Sir Gaheris, "this day you have saved both me and my horse, wherefore it is altogether fitting that my horse or anything that is mine should be yours to do with as you please. So I pray you take my horse, only tell me your name and what knight you are; for I swear by my sword that I never saw any knight in all the world do battle so wonderfully as you have done to-day." [Sidenote: Sir Launcelot makes himself known to Sir Gaheris] "Sir," said Sir Launcelot, "I am called Sir Launcelot of the Lake, and I am a knight of King Arthur's. So it is altogether fitting that I should do such service unto you as this, seeing that you are the brother of that dear knight, Sir Gawaine. For if I should not do this battle that I have done for your sake, I should yet do it for the sake of my lord, King Arthur, who is your uncle and Sir Gawaine's uncle." Now when Sir Gaheris heard who Sir Launcelot was, he made great exclamation of amazement. "Ha, Sir Launcelot!" he cried, "and is it thou! Often have I heard of thee and of thy prowess at arms! I have desired to meet thee more than any knight in the world; but never did I think to meet thee in such a case as this." Therewith Sir Gaheris arose, and went to Sir Launcelot, and Sir Launcelot came to him and they met and embraced and kissed one another upon the face; and from that time forth they were as brethren together. [Sidenote: Sir Launcelot bids Sir Gaheris to free the castle captives] Then Sir Launcelot said to Sir Gaheris: "I pray you, Lord, for to go up unto yonder castle, and bring succor to those unfortunates who lie therein. For I think you will find there many fellow-knights of the Round Table. And I believe that you will find therein my brother, Sir Ector, and my cousin, Sir Lionel. And if you find any other of my kindred I pray you to set them free and to do what you can for to comfort them and to put them at their ease. And if there is any treasure in that castle, I bid you give it unto those knights who are prisoners there, for to compensate them for the pains they have endured. Moreover, I pray you tell Sir Ector and Sir Lionel not to follow after me, but to return to court and wait for me there, for I have two adventures to undertake and I must essay them alone." Then Sir Gaheris was very much astonished, and he cried out upon Sir Launcelot: "Sir! Sir! Surely you will not go forth upon another adventure at this time, seeing that you are so sorely wounded." But Sir Launcelot said: "Yea, I shall go now; for I do not think that my wounds are so deep that I shall not be able to do my devoirs when my time cometh to do them." At this Sir Gaheris was amazed beyond measure, for Sir Launcelot was very sorely wounded, and his armor was much broken in that battle, wherefore Sir Gaheris had never beheld a person who was so steadfast of purpose as to do battle in such a case. [Sidenote: Sir Launcelot departs with the damsel] So Sir Launcelot mounted Sir Gaheris' horse and rode away with that young damsel, and Sir Gaheris went to the castle as Sir Launcelot had bidden him to do. [Sidenote: Sir Gaheris frees the castle captives] In that castle he found five score and eight prisoners in dreadful case, for some who were there had been there for a long time, so that the hair of them had grown down upon their shoulders, and their beards had grown down upon their breasts. And some had been there but a short time, as was the case of Sir Lionel and Sir Ector. But all were in a miserable sorry plight; and all of those sad prisoners but two were knights of King Arthur's court, and eight of them were knights of the Round Table. All these crowded around Sir Gaheris, for they saw that he was wounded and they deemed that it was he had set them free, wherefore they gave him thanks beyond measure. "Not so," said Sir Gaheris, "it was not I who set you free; it was Sir Launcelot of the Lake. He overcame Sir Turquine in such a battle as I never before beheld. For I saw that battle with mine own eyes, being at a little distance seated upon a stone slab and wounded as you see. And I make my oath that I never beheld so fierce and manful a combat in all of my life. But now your troubles are over and done, and Sir Launcelot greets you all with words of good cheer and bids me tell you to take all ease and comfort that you can in being free, and in especial he bids me greet you, Sir Ector, and you, Sir Lionel, and to tell you that you are to follow him no farther, but to return to court and bide there until he cometh; for he goeth upon an adventure which he must undertake by himself." [Sidenote: Sir Lionel and Sir Ector and Sir Kay follow after Sir Launcelot] "Not so," said Sir Lionel, "I will follow after him, and find him." And so said Sir Ector likewise, that he would go and find Sir Launcelot. Then Sir Kay the Seneschal said that he would ride with those two; so the three took horse and rode away together to find Sir Launcelot. As for those others, they ransacked throughout the castle of Sir Turquine, and they found twelve treasure-chests full of treasure, both of silver and of gold, together with many precious jewels; and they found many bales of cloth of silk and of cloth of gold. So, as Sir Launcelot had bid them do so, they divided the treasure among themselves, setting aside a part for Sir Ector and a part for Sir Lionel and a part for Sir Kay. Then, whereas before they had been mournful, now they were joyful at having been made so rich with those precious things. Thus happily ended that great battle with Sir Turquine which was very likely the fiercest and most dolorous fight that ever Sir Launcelot had in all of his life. For, unless it was Sir Tristram, he never found any other knight so big as Sir Turquine except Sir Galahad, who was his own son. And now it shall be told how Sir Launcelot fared upon that adventure which he had promised the young damsel to undertake. [Illustration: Sir Launcelot sits with Sir Hilaire and Croisette] Chapter Fifth _How Sir Launcelot Went Upon an Adventure with the Damsel Croisette as Companion, and How He Overcame Sir Peris of the Forest Sauvage._ Now after Sir Launcelot had finished that battle with Sir Turquine as aforetold, and when he had borrowed the horse of Sir Gaheris, he rode away from that place of combat with the young damsel, with intent to carry out the other adventure which he had promised her to undertake. [Sidenote: How Sir Launcelot's wounds pain him] But though he rode with her, yet, for a while, he said very little to her, for his wounds ached him sorely and he was in a great deal of pain. So, because of this, he had small mind to talk, but only to endure what he had to endure with as much patience as he might command. And the damsel upon her part was somewhat aware of what Sir Launcelot was suffering and she was right sorry for him, wherefore she did not trouble him with idle discourse at that moment, but waited for a while before she spake. Then by and by she said to him: "Messire, I would that thou wouldst rest for some days, and take thine ease, and have thy wounds searched and dressed, and have thy armor looked to and redded. Now there is a castle at some distance from this, and it is my brother's castle, and thither we may go in a little pass. There thou mayst rest for this night and take thine ease. For I know that my brother will be wonderfully glad to see thee because thou art so famous." Then Sir Launcelot turned his eyes upon the damsel: "Fair maiden," quoth he, "I make confession that I do in sooth ache a very great deal, and that I am somewhat aweary with the battle I have endured this day. Wherefore I am very well content to follow thy commands in this matter. But I prithee, damsel, tell me what is thy name, for I know not yet how thou art called." "Sir," she said, "I am called Croisette of the Dale, and my brother is called Sir Hilaire of the Dale, and it is to his castle that I am about to take thee to rest for this time." Then Sir Launcelot said: "I go with thee, damsel, wherever it is thy will to take me." [Sidenote: Of how Sir Launcelot and the damsel ride together] So they two rode through that valley at a slow pace and very easily. And toward the waning of the afternoon they left the valley by a narrow side way, and so in a little while came into a shallow dale, very fertile and smiling, but of no great size. For the more part that dale was all spread over with fields and meadow-lands, with here and there a plantation of trees in full blossom and here and there a farm croft. A winding river flowed down through the midst of this valley, very quiet and smooth, and brimming its grassy banks, where were alder and sedge and long rows of pollard willows overreaching the water. [Sidenote: Sir Launcelot and Croisette come to a fair valley] At the farther end of the valley was a castle of very comely of appearance, being built part of stone and part of bright red bricks; and the castle had many windows of glass and tall chimneys, some a-smoke. About the castle and nigh to it was a little village of thatched cottages, with many trees in blossom and some without blossom shading the gables of the small houses that took shelter beneath them. Now when Sir Launcelot and Croisette came into that little valley it was at the declining of the day and the sky was all alight with the slanting sun, and the swallows were flying above the smooth shining surface of the river in such multitudes that it was wonderful to behold them. And the lowing herds were winding slowly along by the river in their homeward way, and all was so peaceful and quiet that Sir Launcelot drew rein for pure pleasure, and sat for some while looking down upon that fair, happy dale. Then by and by he said: "Croisette, meseems I have never beheld so sweet and fair a country as this, nor one in which it would be so pleasant to live." Upon this Croisette was very much pleased, and she smiled upon Sir Launcelot. "Think you so, Sir Launcelot?" quoth she. "Well, in sooth, I am very glad that this valley pleasures you; for I love it beyond any other place in all the world. For here was I born and here was I raised in that castle yonder. For that is my brother's castle and it was my father's castle before his time; wherefore meseems that no place in all the world can ever be so dear to my heart as this dale." [Sidenote: Croisette bringeth Sir Launcelot to her brother's house] Thereupon they went forward up that little valley, and along by the smoothly flowing river, and the farther they went the more Sir Launcelot took pleasure in all that he beheld. Thus they came through the pretty village where the folk stood and watched with great admiration how that noble knight rode that way; and so they came to the castle and rode into the court-yard thereof. Then presently there came the lord of that castle, who was Sir Hilaire of the Dale. And Sir Hilaire greeted Sir Launcelot, saying: "Welcome, Sir Knight. This is great honor you do me to come into this quiet dale with my sister, for we do not often have with us travellers of such quality as you." "Brother," said Croisette, "you may well say that it is an honor to have this knight with us, for this is none other knight than the great Sir Launcelot of the Lake. This day I beheld him overcome Sir Turquine in fair and honorable battle. So he doth indeed do great honor for to visit us in this wise." Then Sir Hilaire looked at Sir Launcelot very steadily, and he said: "Sir Launcelot, your fame is so great that it hath reached even unto this peaceful outland place; wherefore it shall not soon be forgotten here how you came hither. Now, I pray you, come in and refresh yourself, for I see that you are wounded and I doubt not you are weary." [Sidenote: Sir Launcelot is made at ease] Upon this several attendants came, and they took Sir Launcelot and led him to a pleasant chamber. There they unarmed him and gave him a bath in tepid water, and there came a leech and searched his wounds and dressed them. Then those in attendance upon him gave him a soft robe of cloth of velvet, and when Sir Launcelot had put it on he felt much at ease, and in great comfort of body. By and by, when evening had fallen, a very good, excellent feast was spread in the hall of the castle, and there sat down thereto Sir Launcelot and Sir Hilaire and the damsel Croisette. As they ate they discoursed of various things, and Sir Launcelot told many things concerning his adventures, so that all who were there were very quiet, listening to what he said. For it was as though he were a visitor come to them from some other world, very strange and distant, of which they had no knowledge, wherefore they all listened so as not to lose a single word of what he told them. So that evening passed very pleasantly, and Sir Launcelot went to his bed with great content of spirit. [Sidenote: How Sir Launcelot abides at the castle of Sir Hilaire] So Sir Launcelot abided for several days in that place until his wounds were healed. Then one morning, after they had all broken their fast, he made request that he and the damsel might be allowed to depart upon that adventure which he had promised her to undertake, and unto this Sir Hilaire gave his consent. Now, during this while, Sir Launcelot's armor had been so pieced and mended by the armor-smiths of that castle that when he donned it it was, in a measure, as sound as it had ever been, and of that Sir Launcelot was very glad. So having made ready in all ways he and Croisette took leave of that place, and all they who were there bade them adieu and gave Sir Launcelot God-speed upon that adventure. Now some while after they left that dale they rode through a very ancient forest, where the sod was exceedingly soft underfoot and silent to the tread of the horses, and where it was very full of bursting foliage overhead. And as they rode at an easy pace through that woodland place they talked of many things in a very pleasant and merry discourse. Quoth the damsel unto Sir Launcelot: "Messire, I take very great wonder that thou hast not some special lady for to serve in all ways as a knight should serve a lady." [Sidenote: Sir Launcelot and Croisette discourse together] "Ha, damsel," said Sir Launcelot, "I do serve a lady in that manner and she is peerless above all other ladies; for that lady is the Lady Guinevere, who is King Arthur's queen. Yet though I am her servant I serve her from a very great distance. For in serving her I am like one who standeth upon the earth, yet looketh upward ever toward the bright and morning star. For though such an one may delight in that star from a distance, yet may he never hope to reach an altitude whereon that star standeth." "Heyday!" quoth Croisette, "for that matter, there are other ways of serving a lady than that wise. Were I a knight meseems I would rather serve a lady nearer at hand than at so great distance as that of which thou speakest. For in most cases a knight would rather serve a lady who may smile upon him nigh at hand, and not stand so far off from him as a star in the sky." But to this Sir Launcelot made no reply but only smiled. Then in a little Croisette said: "Dost thou never think of a lady in that wise, Sir Launcelot?" [Sidenote: Sir Launcelot speaketh of the Lady Guinevere] "Nay," said Sir Launcelot, "and neither do I desire so to serve any lady. For it is thus with me, Croisette--for all that while of my life until I was eighteen years of age I lived in a very wonderful land beneath a magical lake, of which I may not tell thee. Then I came out of that lake and into this world and King Arthur made me a knight. Now because I was so long absent from this world of mankind and never saw aught of it until I was grown into a man, meseems I love that world so greatly that I cannot tell thee how beautiful and wonderful it seems to me. For it is so wonderful and so beautiful that methinks my soul can never drink its fill of the pleasures thereof. Yea; methinks I love every blade of grass upon the fields, and every leaf upon every tree: and that I love everything that creepeth or that flyeth, so that when I am abroad under the sky and behold those things about me I am whiles like to weep for very joy of them. Wherefore it is, Croisette, that I would rather be a knight-errant in this world which I love so greatly than to be a king seated upon a throne with a golden crown upon my head and all men kneeling unto me. Yea; meseems that because of my joy in these things I have no room in my heart for such a love of lady as thou speakest of, but only for the love of knight-errantry, and a great wish for to make this world in which I now live the better and the happier for my dwelling in it. Thus it is, Croisette, that I have no lady for to serve in the manner thou speakest of. Nor will I ever have such, saving only the Lady Guinevere, the thought of whom standeth above me like that bright star afore spoken of." "Ha," quoth Croisette, "then am I sad for the sake of some lady, I know not who. For if thou wert of another mind thou mightest make some lady very glad to have so great a knight as thou art to serve her." Upon this Sir Launcelot laughed with a very cheerful spirit, for he and the damsel were grown to be exceedingly good friends, as you may suppose from such discourse as this. [Sidenote: Sir Launcelot perceives the Castle of Sir Peris] So they wended their way in this fashion until somewhat after the prime of day, and by that time they had come out of that forest and into a very rugged country. For this place into which they were now come was a sort of rocky valley, rough and bare and in no wise beautiful. When they had entered into it they perceived, a great way off, a castle built up upon the rocks. And that castle was built very high, so that the roofs and the chimneys thereof stood wonderfully sharp and clear against the sky; yet the castle was so distant that it looked like a toy which you might easily take into your hand and hold betwixt your fingers. Then Croisette said to Sir Launcelot: "Yonder is the castle of that evil-minded knight of whom I spake to thee yesterday, and his name is Sir Peris of the Forest Sauvage. Below that castle, where the road leads into that woodland, there doth he lurk to seize upon wayfarers who come thitherward. And indeed he is a very catiff knight, for, though he is strong and powerful, he doth not often attack other knights, but only ladies and demoiselles who come hither. For these he may take captive without danger to himself. For I believe that though he is so big of frame yet is he a coward in his heart." [Sidenote: Sir Launcelot advises Croisette what to do] Then Sir Launcelot sat for a while and regarded that castle, and fell into thought; and he said, "Damsel, if so be this knight is such a coward as thou sayest, meseems that if I travel with thee I shall have some ado to come upon him; because, if he sees me with thee, he may keep himself hidden in the thicket of the forest from my sight. Now I will have it this way; do thou ride along the highway in plain sight of the castle, and I will keep within the woodland skirts, where I may have thee in sight and still be hidden from the sight of others. Then if this knight assail thee, as I think it likely he may do, I will come out and do battle with him ere he escapes." So it was arranged as Sir Launcelot said and they rode in that wise: Croisette rode along the highway, and Sir Launcelot rode under the trees in the outskirts of the forest, where he was hidden from the eyes of anyone who might be looking that way. So they went on for a long pass until they came pretty nigh to where the castle was. [Sidenote: Sir Peris attacks Croisette] Then, as they came to a certain part of the road that dipped down toward a small valley, they were suddenly aware of a great noise, and immediately there issued out from the forest a knight, large and strong of frame, and followed close behind by a squire dressed altogether in scarlet from head to foot. This knight bore down with great speed upon where Croisette was, and the esquire followed close behind him. When these two had come near to Croisette, the esquire leaped from off his horse and caught her palfrey by the bridle, and the knight came close to her and catched her as though to drag her off from her horse. With that Croisette shrieked very loud, and immediately Sir Launcelot broke out from the woods and rode down upon where all this was toward with a noise like to thunder. As he came he cried aloud in a great and terrible voice: "Sir Knight, let go that lady, and turn thou to me and defend thyself!" [Sidenote: Sir Launcelot overthrows Sir Peris] Then Sir Peris of the Forest Sauvage looked this way and that with intent to escape, but he was aware that he could not escape from Sir Launcelot, wherefore he took his shield in hand and drew his sword and put himself into a position of defence; for, whereas he could not escape, he was, perforce, minded to do battle. Then Sir Launcelot threw aside his spear, and he set his shield before him and he took his sword in his hand, and he drave his horse against Sir Peris. And when he had come nigh to Sir Peris he raised himself in his stirrups and struck him such a buffet that I believe nothing in the world could withstand its force. For though Sir Peris raised his shield against that blow, yet the sword of Sir Launcelot smote through the shield and it smote down the arm that held the shield, and it smote with such a terrible force upon the helm of Sir Peris that Sir Peris fell down from his horse and lay in a swoon without any motion at all. Then Sir Launcelot leaped down from his horse and rushed off the helm of Sir Peris, and lifted his sword with intent to strike off his head. Upon that the senses of Sir Peris came somewhat back to him, and he set his palms together and he cried out, though in a very weak voice: "Spare me, Sir Knight! I yield myself to thee!" "Why should I spare thee?" said Sir Launcelot. "Sir," said Sir Peris, "I beseech thee, by thy knighthood, to spare me." "Well," said Sir Launcelot, "since thou hast besought me upon my knighthood I cannot do else than spare thee. But if I do spare thee, thou shalt have to endure such shame that any true knight in thy stead would rather die than be spared in such a manner." "Sir Knight," said Sir Peris, "I am content with anything thou mayst do, so be that thou wilt spare my life." Upon this Sir Launcelot bade Sir Peris rise. And he took the halter of Sir Peris's horse, and he bound Sir Peris's arms behind his back, and when he had done this he drove him up to his castle at the point of his lance. And when they came to the castle he bade Sir Peris have open the castle; and Sir Peris did so; and thereupon Sir Launcelot and Sir Peris entered the castle and the damsel and the squire followed after them. [Sidenote: Sir Launcelot liberates the captive ladies] In that castle were fourteen ladies of high degree held captive for ransom; and some of these had been there for a considerable time, to their great discomfort. All these were filled with joy when they were aware that Sir Launcelot had set them free. So they came to Sir Launcelot and paid their court to him and gave him great thanks beyond measure. [Sidenote: Sir Launcelot gives the castle treasure to the captive ladies] Sir Launcelot and Croisette abode in that castle all that night, and when the next morning had come Sir Launcelot made search all over that castle, and he found a considerable treasure of silver and gold, which had been gathered there by the ransom of the ladies and the damsels of degree whom Sir Peris had made prisoner aforetime. All this treasure Sir Launcelot divided among those ladies who were prisoners, and a share of the treasure he gave to the damsel Croisette, because that they two were such good friends and because Croisette had brought him thither to that adventure, and thereof Croisette was very glad. But Sir Launcelot kept none of that treasure for himself. Then Croisette said: "How is this, Sir Launcelot? You have not kept any of this treasure for yourself, yet you won it by your own force of arms, wherefore it is altogether yours to keep if you will to do so." "Croisette," said Sir Launcelot, "I do not care for such things as this treasure; for when I lived within that lake of which I have spoken to thee, such things as this treasure were there as cheap as pebbles which you may gather up at any river-bed, wherefore it has come to pass that such things have no value to me." [Sidenote: Sir Launcelot makes Sir Peris a dishonored captive] Now, after all this had been settled, Sir Launcelot had Sir Peris of the Forest Sauvage haled before him, and Sir Launcelot said: "Catiff Knight, now is it time for thy shame to come upon thee." Therewith he had Sir Peris stripped of all armor and raiment, even to his jerkin and his hose, and he had his arms tied behind his back, and he had a halter set about his neck; and Sir Launcelot tied the halter that was about the neck of Sir Peris to the horn of the saddle of his own horse, so that when he rode away with Croisette Sir Peris must needs follow behind him at whatever gait the horse of Sir Launcelot might take. [Sidenote: Sir Hilaire sendeth Sir Peris to King Arthur] So Sir Launcelot and Croisette rode back to the manor of Sir Hilaire of the Dale with Sir Peris running behind them, and when they had come there Sir Launcelot delivered Sir Peris unto Sir Hilaire, and Sir Hilaire had Sir Peris bound upon a horse's back with his feet underneath the belly of the horse; and sent him to Camelot for King Arthur to deal with him as might seem to the King to be fit. But Sir Launcelot remained with Sir Hilaire of the Dale all the next day and he was very well content to be in that pleasant place. And upon the day after that, which was Sunday, he set forth at about the prime of the day to go to that abbey of monks where he had appointed to meet the damsel Elouise the Fair, as aforetold. And now you shall hear how Sir Launcelot behaved at the tournament of King Bagdemagus, if it please you to read that which herewith immediately followeth. [Illustration: Sir Launcelot and Elouise the Fair] Chapter Sixth _How Sir Launcelot Took Part in the Tournament Between King Bagdemagus and the King of North Wales, and How He Won that Battle for King Bagdemagus._ [Sidenote: How Sir Launcelot rode to find Elouise the Fair] Sir Launcelot rode by many highways and many byways at a very slow pace, stopping now and then when it pleased him to do so, for he took great joy in being free in the open air again. For the day was warm and that time the clouds were very thick, drifting in great abundance across the sky. And anon there would fall a sudden shower of rain, and anon the sun would shine forth again, very warm and strong, so that all the world sparkled as with incredible myriads of jewels. Then the cock crowed lustily because the shower was past, and another cock answered him far away, and all the world suddenly smiled, and the water trickled everywhere, and the little hills clapped their hands for joy. So Sir Launcelot took great pleasure in the day and he went his way at so easy a pace that it was night-time ere he reached that abbey of monks where he was to meet Elouise the Fair. Now that evening Elouise was sitting in a certain apartment of the abbey overlooking the court-yard, and a maiden was reading to her by the light of several waxen tapers from a book of painted pictures. And the maiden read in a voice that was both high and clear; meanwhile, Elouise sat very still and listened to what she read. Now while Elouise the Fair sat so, there was of a sudden the sound of a great horse coming on the stone pavement of the court below. Therewith Elouise arose hastily and ran to the window and looked down into that court-yard. Then she saw who he was that came, and that it was Sir Launcelot of the Lake. For the light was not yet altogether gone from the sky, which was all shining with gray, so that she could see who it was who came there. Then Elouise gave great exclamation of joy, and clapped her hands. And she ran down to the court where Sir Launcelot was, and several of her maidens went with her. [Sidenote: Elouise the Fair gives welcome to Sir Launcelot] When she had come to the court she gave great welcome to Sir Launcelot, and she summoned many attendants and she bade them look to Sir Launcelot. So some of them aided Sir Launcelot to dismount and some took his horse, and some brought him up to a chamber that had been set apart for him, and there unarmed and served him, and set him at his ease. Then Elouise sent to him a soft robe of purple cloth of velvet, lined with fur, and Sir Launcelot put it upon him and took great comfort in it. After that Sir Launcelot descended to where Elouise was, and he found that a fair supper had been set for his refreshment. So he sat and ate, and Elouise the Fair herself served him. [Sidenote: Elouise sends for King Bagdemagus] Meanwhile she had sent for her father, King Bagdemagus, who was at that time no great distance away, and a little after Sir Launcelot had finished his supper King Bagdemagus came to that place, much wondering why Elouise had sent for him. When King Bagdemagus came, Elouise took him by the hand and led him to Sir Launcelot, and she said: "Sire, here is a knight who, for my sake, is come to help you in this tournament upon Tuesday." Now King Bagdemagus had never before seen Sir Launcelot, so he knew not who that knight was. Wherefore he said to him: "Messire, I am much beholden to you for coming to my aid in this battle. Now I pray you that you tell me your name and what knight you are." "Lord," said Sir Launcelot, "I am hight Launcelot, and am surnamed 'He of the Lake.'" Now when King Bagdemagus heard this he was astonished beyond measure, wherefore he cried out, "This is wonderful, that you who are the very flower of knighthood should be here, and that you should come to aid me in my battle!" [Sidenote: Sir Launcelot talks with King Bagdemagus] "Sire," said Sir Launcelot, "I know not how much aid I may be to thee until that matter is proven. But of a surety I owe it to this damsel to do what I am able at her request, in return for all that she hath done for me to aid me in my time of great peril. So it is a very small repayment for me to aid thee, her father, in thy time of difficulties. Wherefore if, by good hap, I may be of use to thee in this battle which is nigh at hand, then I shall be glad beyond measure that I have paid some part of that debt which I owe to this lady." "Messire," said King Bagdemagus, "I give thee grammercy for thy good will in this matter. I am sure that, with thy aid, I shall be successful in this battle, and that it will always be most renowned in the history of chivalry because thou hast taken part in it." So spake they with great courtesy to one another. Then, by and by, Sir Launcelot said: "Sir, I pray you tell me who are those knights of King Arthur's court who are upon the part of the King of North Wales? For I would fain know against whom I am to do battle." To which King Bagdemagus said: "Messire, those three knights of the Round Table are as follows--there is Sir Mordred, nephew unto King Arthur, and there is Sir Galahantine, and there is Sir Mador de la Porte." "Ha," quoth Sir Launcelot, "these are three very good knights indeed, and I am not at all astonished that the King of North Wales should have had such good fortune aforetime in that other tournament with you, seeing that he had three such knights as they to do battle upon his side." [Sidenote: Sir Launcelot arranges the order of battle with King Bagdemagus] After this they fell into discourse as to the manner in which they should do battle upon the morrow, and Sir Launcelot advised in this wise: "Lord, let me take three knights of yours, such as you trust, and such as you hold to be the strongest knights of your party. Let these three knights paint their shields altogether white and I will paint mine white, and then no man will know who we are. For I would have it so that I should not be known to be in this battle until I shall have approved myself in it. Now, when you have chosen those three knights, we four will take hiding in some wood or glade nigh to the place of combat, and when you are most busily engaged, and when you begin to be hard-pressed, then we will come forth and fall upon the flank of the party of the King of North Wales with intent to throw them into confusion. Then you will push your assault very hard, and I doubt not by the grace of God that we shall betwixt us be able to bear back their array in confusion." This advice seemed very good to King Bagdemagus, and so he did as Sir Launcelot said. He chose him three very strong, worthy, honorable knights, and these made their shields white as Sir Launcelot directed. Thus, all things being arranged as Sir Launcelot willed, it came to be the eve before the battle. So a little after sunset Sir Launcelot and those three knights whom King Bagdemagus had chosen rode over toward the place of tourney (which was some twelve miles from the abbey where the damsel Elouise was lodged). There they found a little woodland of tall, leafy trees fit for Sir Launcelot's purpose, and that wood stood to one side of the meadow of battle and at about the distance of three furlongs from it. In this little wood Sir Launcelot and the three knights-companion whom King Bagdemagus had chosen laid themselves down upon the ground and wrapped, each man, his cloak about him. So they slept there until the morrow, when the battle was ordained to be. Now there had been very great preparation made for this tournament for on three sides of the meadow of battle scaffolds had been built and rows of seats had been placed. These were covered over with tapestries and hangings of divers colors--some of figured and some of plain weaving--so that the green and level meadow-land was hung all about with these gay and gaudy colors. Now when the morning had come, the folk who came to witness that tournament began to assemble from all directions--lords and ladies of high degree, esquires and damsels of lesser rank, burghers and craftsmen with their wives, townspeople from the town, yeomen from the woodlands, and freeholders from the farm crofts. With these came many knights of the two parties in contest, and with the knights came their esquires in attendance. Now these knights were all in full armor, shining very bright, and the esquires were clad in raiment of many textures and various colors, so that they were very gay and debonair. So, with all this throng moving along the highway toward the meadow of battle, it seemed as though the entire world was alive with gay and moving figures. [Sidenote: Sir Launcelot and his companions lie near the place of tournament] Now the place where Sir Launcelot and those three knights who were with him lay hidden was not far from the highway, so, whence they lay, they could see all that goodly procession of folk taking their way toward the lists, and they could look down upon the meadow of battle, which, as hath been said, was not more than three furlongs distant, and they could see the crowds of people of high and low degree taking their places upon those seats according to their rank and station. And they could see how the knights-contestant arrayed themselves upon this side of the field and upon that, and how the esquires and attendants hurried hither and thither, busying themselves in making their lords ready for the encounter that was soon to befall. Yea, all this could they see as plainly as though it lay upon the palm of a hand. So they saw that about noontide all those who had come thither had taken their places, and that the field was clean, and that the two parties of combat were arrayed in order for battle. Then Sir Launcelot perceived that the party of the King of North Wales was very much greater than the party of King Bagdemagus; for while the party of the King of North Wales had nigh eight score of helms, the party of King Bagdemagus had hardly four score of helms. So Sir Launcelot perceived that that party of King Bagdemagus would have much labor to do if it was to win in the battle. [Sidenote: How the battle began] Now, all being prepared, the marshal stood forth and blew upon his trumpet, and therewith those two parties of knights rushed the one against the other, each in so great a cloud of dust that one could hardly see the knights in their passage. Therewith they met in the midst of the meadow of battle, with such a crash and uproar of splintered lances as was terrible to hear. And for a while no man could see what was toward, so great was the dust and the tumult. But by and by the dust raised itself a little and then Sir Launcelot perceived that the party of King Bagdemagus had been pushed back by that other party, as might have been supposed in such a case. So Sir Launcelot looked upon the battle for some while and he saw that the party of King Bagdemagus was pushed farther and farther back. Then by and by Sir Launcelot said to his knights-companion: "Messires, methinks now is our time to enter this engagement." Therewith he and they rode forth out of that woods, and they rode down the hill and across the fields and so came into that meadow-of-battle. [Sidenote: Sir Launcelot and his companions enter the battle] At that time the party of the King of North Wales was so busily engaged in its assault upon the party of King Bagdemagus that very few of those knights engaged were aware of those four knights coming, and those who were aware of them thought but very little of the coming of so small a number. So no one interfered with their coming, wherefore they were able to bear down with great speed upon the flank of the party of the King of North Wales. Therewith they struck that flank with such force that both horses and horsemen were overturned by their assault. In that encounter Sir Launcelot carried a spear that was wonderfully strong and tough. With it he ran with great fierceness into the very thickest of the press, and before he was checked he struck down five knights with that one spear. And likewise those three knights that were with him did such good service that all that flank of the party of the King of North Wales was thrown into great confusion and wist not what to do for to guard themselves against that fierce, furious onset. Then Sir Launcelot and his three companions bore back a little, and when they got their distance they ran again into the press, and this time Sir Launcelot overthrew the King of North Wales himself, and that with such violence that the bone of his thigh was broken, and he had to be carried away out of that field by his attendants. And in this second assault Sir Launcelot and the three knights who were with him overthrew eleven knights besides the King of North Wales, wherefore all that part of the press began to break away from them and to seek some place where they could defend themselves from such another assault. Now when the party of King Bagdemagus saw into what confusion the other party were thrown by these four knights-champion, they began a very fierce and furious attack, and with such vehemence that in a little the party of the King of North Wales began to bear back before them. So, what with those who withdrew before Sir Launcelot's assault, and what with those who withdrew from the assault of King Bagdemagus, there was a great deal of confusion in the ranks of the party of the King of North Wales. [Sidenote: Sir Launcelot overthrows Sir Mordred] Now those three knights who were of King Arthur's court perceived how Sir Launcelot and his knights-companion were throwing the ranks of the party of the King of North Wales into confusion, and they knew that unless the onset of Sir Launcelot was checked, the day would of a surety be lost unto them. Wherefore said Sir Mador de la Porte: "Yonder is a very strong and fierce-fighting knight; if we do not check his onset we will very likely be brought to shame in this battle." "Yea," said Sir Mordred, "that is so. Now I will take it upon me to joust with that knight and to overthrow him." Upon that those other two knights bade him go and do as he said. So Sir Mordred made way to where Sir Launcelot was, coming forward very fiercely and with great violence, and Sir Launcelot was aware of Sir Mordred's coming and made him ready for that assault. So the two came together with terrible violence and Sir Launcelot struck Sir Mordred such a buffet that the breast-band of Sir Mordred's saddle brake, and both the saddle and Sir Mordred flew over his horse's tail. Therewith Sir Mordred fell upon his head and struck with such violence upon the ground that his neck was nigh broken, and he lay altogether in a dead swoon and had to be carried out of the lists by his attendants. [Sidenote: Sir Launcelot overthrows Sir Mador] This saw Sir Mador de la Porte, and he cried out: "Ha! see what hath befallen Sir Mordred!" And therewith he also bare down upon Sir Launcelot with all his might and main with intent to overthrow him. And Sir Launcelot ran against him, and they struck together so fiercely that it was terrible to behold. But the spear of Sir Mador de la Porte burst into pieces, whilst the spear of Sir Launcelot held, so that both Sir Mador and his horse were overthown, the horse rolling upon the man. And in that encounter Sir Mador's shoulder went out of place, and he also had to be borne away by his attendants. [Sidenote: Sir Launcelot strikes Sir Galahantine a sad blow] Then Sir Galahantine took a great spear from his esquire, who was nigh him, and he also ran against Sir Launcelot with all his might; and Sir Launcelot met him in full course and that onset was more terrible than either of the other two. For the spear of each knight was burst into splinters, even to the butt thereof. Then each threw away the butt of his spear and drew out his sword, and Sir Galahantine struck Sir Launcelot such a blow that the legs of Sir Launcelot's horse trembled under him because of the weight of that stroke. At this Sir Launcelot waxed wroth beyond measure and he rose in his stirrups and he smote Sir Galahantine such a buffet that the blood burst out from his nose and his ears, and all his senses so went away from him that he might hardly behold the light of day because of the swimming of his sight. Therewith Sir Galahantine's head hung down upon his breast and he had no power to guide his horse, wherefore his horse made way out of the press and galloped off, bearing Sir Galahantine away, whether he would or no. And after the horse had galloped a little distance Sir Galahantine could not any longer sit upon his saddle, but he fell off of his horse and rolled over upon the ground and had not strength to rise therefrom. Then Sir Launcelot catched another spear, great and strong, from the esquire who followed him, and before ever that spear broke he overthrew sixteen knights therewith. Wherefore all who beheld him were amazed and terrified at what he did. [Sidenote: Sir Launcelot wins the battle for King Bagdemagus] By now the party of the King of North Wales began to bear more and more aback and in a little they broke, and then the party of King Bagdemagus pursued them hither and thither, and those who did not surrender were overthrown so that it was not possible for them to make any new order of battle. Then that party surrendered itself as conquered, one and all, and so King Bagdemagus won that tournament with the greatest glory that it was possible for him to have. For it had never been heard of before that a party of four-score knights should overcome in that way a party of eight-score knights, with three knights of the Round Table to champion them. Nor would such a victory have been possible only for what Sir Launcelot did in that battle. So Sir Launcelot won that tournament for King Bagdemagus, and after the battle was over and done King Bagdemagus came to Sir Launcelot and said to him: "Messire, thou hast brought to me the greatest glory this day that ever fell to my lot in all of my life. Now I prithee come with me and refresh thyself with me, so that I may give thee fitting thanks for all thou hast done, and so that I may reward thee in such a way as is fit for a king to reward a knight-champion such as thou art." [Sidenote: Sir Launcelot departs without reward] Unto this Sir Launcelot made reply: "Lord, I give you thanks for your courtesy, but I need no reward; for it is meet that I should have done what I could for the sake of the demoiselle Elouise the Fair, seeing that she rescued me from the mischiefs that Queen Morgana had intent to do me." Then King Bagdemagus besought Sir Launcelot that he would tarry awhile and rest, but Sir Launcelot would not do so, but would be going upon his way without any tarrying. But he said to King Bagdemagus: "I prithee greet your daughter for me, and say to her that if ever she hath need of my services again let her send to me, and I will come to her even if it be to the end of the earth. For I have not yet repaid her for what she hath done for me." Therewith Sir Launcelot went his way from that meadow of battle, and, coming to the skirts of the forest he entered therein, and those who were there at the meadow of battle did not see him any more. So endeth the history of that famous tournament betwixt King Bagdemagus and the King of North Wales. [Illustration: Sir Launcelot climbs to catch the lady's falcon] Chapter Seventh _How Sir Launcelot Fell Into the Greatest Peril that Ever He Encountered in all His Life. Also How He Freed a Misfortunate Castle and Town From the Giants Who Held Them, and How He Released the Lord Thereof From a Dungeon._ Now Sir Launcelot wandered errant for many days, meeting no adventure of any moment, but taking great joy in all that he beheld of the wide world about him, and in that time he found lodging wheresoever he chanced to be (if not in house, then beneath the skies), and he endured all sorts of weather, both wet and dry. [Sidenote: Sir Launcelot cometh to a fair valley with a castle] Upon a certain day, in the prime of the morning, he came across a hilltop, and beheld beneath him a valley, very fertile and well-tilled, with fields and meadow-lands spread all over it like to a fair green carpet woven in divers patterns. And in the midst of the valley was a very large and noble castle, with many towers, and tall, steep roofs, and clustering chimneys. So Sir Launcelot descended into that valley, and the road which he took ended in front of the castle and under the shade of the tall gray walls thereof. But he did not stop at that castle but went on by it. Now after Sir Launcelot had passed by that castle it seemed to him that he heard very delicate silver bells ringing sweetly in the air above him, and when he looked up he beheld that a falcon was flying over his head toward a high elm tree that stood at a little distance, and he wist that it was the bells upon the cap of the falcon that rang so sweetly. And Sir Launcelot beheld that long lunes hung from the feet of the falcon as she flew, wherefore he was aware that the falcon had slipped her lunes and had flown from her owner. [Sidenote: Sir Launcelot beholdeth a falcon entangled] So Sir Launcelot watched the falcon, and he beheld that she lit in a tall elm tree, where she took her perch and rested, balancing with her wings part spread. Then by and by she would have taken her flight again, but the lunes about her feet had become entangled around the bough on which she sat, so that when she would have flown she could not do so. Now Sir Launcelot was very sorry to see the falcon beating herself in that wise, straining to escape from where she was prisoner, but he knew not what to do to aid her, for the tree was very high, and he was no good climber of trees. While he stood there watching that falcon he heard the portcullis of the castle lifted, with a great noise, and the drawbridge let fall, and therewith there came a lady riding out of the castle very rapidly upon a white mule, and she rode toward where Sir Launcelot watched the falcon upon the tree. When that lady had come nigh to Sir Launcelot, she cried out to him: "Sir Knight, didst thou see a falcon fly this way?" Sir Launcelot said: "Yea, Lady, and there she hangs, caught by her lunes in yonder elm-tree." Then when that lady beheld how that her falcon hung there she smote her hands together, crying out: "Alas, alas! what shall I do? That falcon is my lord's favorite hawk! While I was playing with her a while since, she slipped from me and took flight, and has sped as thou dost see. Now when my lord findeth that I have lost his hawk in that wise he will be very angry with me, and will haply do me some grievous hurt." [Sidenote: The Lady beseeches Sir Launcelot to get her the falcon again] Quoth Sir Launcelot: "Lady, I am very sorry for you." "Sir," she said, "it boots nothing for you to be sorry for me unless you can aid me." "How may I aid you in this?" said Sir Launcelot. "Messire," quoth she, "how otherwise could you aid me than by climbing up into this tree for my hawk? For if you aid me not in such a fashion, I know not what I shall do, for my lord hath a very hot and violent temper, and he is not likely to brook having his favorite hawk lost to him, as it is like to be." Upon this Sir Launcelot was put to a great pass and knew not what to do, for he had no good mind to climb that tree. "Lady," quoth he, "I prithee tell me what is thy lord's name." "Messire," she replied, "he is hight Sir Phelot, and is a knight of the court of the King of North Wales." "Well, Lady," said Sir Launcelot, "thou dost put upon me a very sore task in this, for God knoweth I am no climber of trees. Yea, I would rather do battle with twenty knights than to climb one such tree as this. Nevertheless, I cannot find it in me to refuse the asking of any lady, if so be it lieth at all in my power to perform her will. Now if you will aid me to unarm myself, I will endeavor to climb this tree and get your hawk." [Sidenote: Sir Launcelot climbs the tree] So the lady dismounted from her mule, and Sir Launcelot dismounted from his horse, and the lady aided Sir Launcelot to unarm himself. And when he had unarmed himself he took off all his clothes saving only his hosen and his doublet. Then he climbed that tree, though with great labor and pain to himself, and with much dread lest he should fall. So he, at last, reached the falcon where it was, and he loosened the lunes from where they were entangled about the branch, and he freed the bird. Then he brake off a great piece of rotten bough of the tree and he tied the lunes of the falcon to it and he tossed the falcon down to where the lady was; and the lady ran with great joy and caught the falcon and loosed it from the piece of branch and tied the lunes to her wrist, so that it could not escape again. Then Sir Launcelot began to descend the tree with as great labor and pain as he had climbed into it. [Sidenote: Sir Phelot threatens Sir Launcelot's life] But he had not come very far down when he perceived a knight who came riding very rapidly toward that tree, and he saw that the knight was in full armor. When this knight came to the tree he drew rein and bespoke the lady who was there, though Sir Launcelot could not hear what he said. So, after he had spoken for a little, the knight dismounted from his horse and went to Sir Launcelot's shield and looked upon the face of it very carefully. Then presently he looked upward toward Sir Launcelot, and he said: "Art thou Sir Launcelot of the Lake?" And Sir Launcelot said: "Yea." "Very well," said the knight, "I am pleased beyond measure at that. For I am Sir Phelot, the lord of this castle, and the brother of that Sir Peris of the Forest Sauvage, whom thou didst treat so shamefully after thou hadst overcome him in battle." "Sir," said Sir Launcelot, "I treated him nowise differently from what he deserved." "No matter for that," said Sir Phelot, "he was my brother, and thou didst put great despite and shame upon him. So now I will be revenged upon thee, for now I have thee where I would have thee, and I will slay thee as shamefully as thou didst put shame upon him. So say thy prayers where thou art, for thou shalt never go away from this place alive." "Sir Knight," said Sir Launcelot, "I do not believe that thou wouldst really assault a naked and harmless man, for it would certainly be a great shame to thee to do me a harm in that wise. For lo! thou art armed in full, and I am a naked man, and to slay me as I am would be both murder and treason." "No matter for that," said Sir Phelot; "as for the shame of it, I take no thought of it. I tell thee thou shalt have no grace nor mercy from me. Wherefore make thy peace with Heaven, for thine hour is come." "Sir Knight," said Sir Launcelot, "I ask only one boon of thee; if thou art of a mind to take so much shame upon thee, as appears to be the case, let me not, at least, die like a felon without any weapon. Let me have my sword in my hand, even if I have no other defence. For if a knight must die, it is a shame for him to die without weapons. So hang my sword upon yonder bough, where I may reach it, and then thou mayst slay me." "Nay," said Sir Phelot, "I will not do that, for I know very well how wonderful is thy prowess. Wherefore I believe that even if thou wert otherwise unarmed thou mightst overcome me if thou hadst thy sword. So I will give thee no such chance, but will have my will of thee as thou art." [Sidenote: Sir Launcelot is put to a sad pass to escape] Then Sir Launcelot was put to a great pass of anxiety, for he wist not what to do to escape from that danger in which he lay. Wherefore he looked all about him and above him and below him, and at last he beheld a great branch of the elm tree just above his head, very straight and tough. So he catched this branch and broke it off from the tree and shaped it to a club of some sort. Then he came lower, and the knight waited to strike him with his sword, when he was low enough; but Sir Launcelot did not come low enough for that. Then Sir Launcelot perceived that his horse stood below him and a little to one side, so of a sudden he ran out along the branch whereon he stood and he leaped quickly down to the earth upon the farther side of his horse from where the knight stood. [Sidenote: Sir Launcelot overcomes Sir Phelot with a strange weapon] At this Sir Phelot ran at him and lashed at him with his sword, thinking to slay him before he had recovered from his leap. But Sir Launcelot was quicker than he, for he recovered his feet and put away the blow of Sir Phelot with his club which he held. Then he ran in upon Sir Phelot under his sword arm, and before he could use his sword he struck Sir Phelot with all his might upon the side of his head. And he struck him very quickly again, and he struck him the third time, all in the space whilst one might count two. And those blows he struck were so direful that Sir Phelot fell down upon his knees, all stunned and bedazed, and the strength went out of his thews because of faintness. Then Sir Launcelot took the sword out of the hand of Sir Phelot and Sir Phelot did not have strength to deny him. And Sir Launcelot plucked off Sir Phelot's helm and catched him by the hair and dragged his neck forward so as to have ease to strike his head from off his body. Now all this while the lady had been weeping and watching what befell. But when she saw the great danger Sir Phelot was in, she ran and clasped her arms about him, and cried out in a very loud and piercing voice upon Sir Launcelot to spare Sir Phelot and to slay him not. But Sir Launcelot, still holding him by the hair of the head, said: "Lady, I cannot spare him, for he has treated me more treacherously than any other knight with whom I ever had dealings." But the lady cried out all the more vehemently, "Sir Launcelot, thou good knight, I beseech thee, of thy knighthood, to spare him." [Sidenote: Sir Launcelot spares Sir Phelot's life] "Well," said Sir Launcelot, "it hath yet to be said of me that I have denied anything that I was able to grant unto any lady that hath asked it of me upon my knighthood. And yet I know not how to trust either of ye. For thou didst not say one word in my behalf when I was in danger of being slain so treacherously just now. As for this knight, I perceive that he is every whit as great a traitor and a coward as was his brother Sir Peris of the Sauvage Forest. So I will spare him, but I will not trust him, lest he turn against me ere I arm myself again. Wherefore give me hither the halter rein of your mule." So the lady gave Sir Launcelot the halter rein, weeping amain as she did so. And Sir Launcelot took the halter rein and he tied the arms of Sir Phelot behind him. Then he bade the lady of Sir Phelot to help him arm himself from head to foot, and she did so, trembling a very great deal. Then, when she had done so, quoth Sir Launcelot: "Now I fear the treachery of no man." Therewith he mounted his horse and rode away from that place And he looked not behind him at all, but rode away as though he held too much scorn of that knight and of that lady to give any more thought to them. So after that Sir Launcelot travelled for a while through the green fields of that valley, till by and by he passed out of that valley, and came into a forest through which he travelled for a very long time. [Sidenote: Sir Launcelot cometh to a marish country] For it was about the slanting of the afternoon ere he came forth out of that forest and under the open sky again. And when he came out of the forest he beheld before him a country of perfectly level marish, very lush and green, with many ponds of water and sluggish streams bordered by rushes and sedge, and with pollard willows standing in rows beside the waters. In the midst of this level plain of green (which was like to the surface of a table for flatness) there stood a noble castle, part built of brick and part of stone, and a town of no great size and a wall about the town. And this castle and town stood upon an island surrounded by a lake of water, and a long bridge, built upon stone buttresses, reached from the mainland to the island. And this castle and town were a very long distance away, though they appeared very clear and distinct to the sight across the level marish, like, as it were, to a fine bit of very small and cunning carving. Now the way that Sir Launcelot travelled, led somewhat toward that town, wherefore he went along that way with intent to view the place more near by. So he conveyed by that road for some time without meeting any soul upon the way. But at last he came of a sudden upon an archer hiding behind an osier tree with intent to shoot the water-fowl that came to a pond that was there--for he had several such fowl hanging at his girdle. To him Sir Launcelot said: "Good fellow, what town is that yonderway?" "Sir," said the yeoman, "that is called the Town of the Marish because it stands in these Fenlands. And that castle is called the Castle of the Fenlands for the same reason." [Sidenote: Sir Launcelot talks with a yeoman] Quoth Sir Launcelot: "What manner of place is that? Is it a good place, or is it otherwise?" "Sir," said the archer, "that place was one while a very good, happy place; for in times gone by there was a lord who dwelt there who was both just and noble, and kind to all folk, wherefore he was loved by all the people. But one night there came two very grim and horrible giants thither from the Welsh Mountains and these entered into the castle by treachery and made prisoner of the lord of the castle. Him they cast into the dungeon of the castle, where they held him prisoner as an hostage. For they threaten that if friends of that lord's should send force against them to dispossess them, they will slay him. As for any other rescue, there is no knight who dareth to go against them because of their terrible size, and their strength, and their dreadful, horrible countenances." "Well," said Sir Launcelot, "that is a pity and I am sorry for that noble lordling. Now, since there is no other single knight who dareth to undertake this adventure, I myself will go and encounter these giants." "Nay, Sir Knight," said the yeoman, "do not do so, for they are not like mortal men, but rather like monsters that are neither beast nor man. Wherefore anyone who beholdeth them, feareth them." "Grammercy for thy thought of me, good fellow," quoth Sir Launcelot, "but if I shall refuse an adventure because I find it perilous, then I am not like to undertake any adventure at all." Therewith he bade good den to that yeoman and rode upon his way, directing his course toward that town at an easy pass. So he came at last to the long bridge that reached from the land to the island, and he saw that at the farther end of the bridge was the gateway of the town and through the arch thereof he could perceive a street of the town, and the houses upon either side of the street, and the people thereof coming and going. [Sidenote: Sir Launcelot crosses the bridge to the town] So he rode forth upon the bridge and at the noise of his coming (for the hoofs of his horse sounded like thunder upon the floor of the bridge) the people of the town came running to see who it was that dared to come so boldly into their town. These, when Sir Launcelot came nigh, began to call to him on high, crying: "Turn back, Sir Knight! Turn back! Else you will meet your death at this place." But Sir Launcelot would not turn back, but advanced very steadfastly upon his way. Now somewhat nigh the farther end of that bridge there stood a little lodge of stone, built to shelter the warden of the bridge from stress of weather. When Sir Launcelot came nigh to this lodge there started suddenly out from it a great churl, above seven feet high, who bore in his hand a huge club, shod with iron and with great spikes of iron at the top. This churl ran to Sir Launcelot and catched his horse by the bridle-rein and thrust it back upon its haunches, crying out in a great hoarse voice: "Whither goest thou, Sir Knight, for to cross this bridge?" Sir Launcelot said: "Let go my horse's rein, Sir Churl." Whereunto the churl made answer: "I will not let go thy horse's rein, and thou shalt not cross this bridge." [Sidenote: Sir Launcelot slays the huge churl] At this Sir Launcelot waxed very angry, and he drew his sword and struck the churl a blow with the flat thereof upon the shoulder, so that he dropped the rein very quickly. Therewith that churl drew back and took his great iron-shod club in both hands and struck at Sir Launcelot a blow that would have split a millstone. But Sir Launcelot put by the blow with his sword so that it did him no harm. But therewith he waxed so wroth that he ground his teeth together with anger, and, rising in his stirrups, he lashed that churl so woeful a blow that he cleft through his iron cap and his head and his breast even to the paps. [Sidenote: The folk warn Sir Launcelot] Now when the people of the town beheld that terrible blow they lifted up their voices in a great outcry, crying out: "Turn back, Sir Knight! Turn back! For this is a very woful thing for thee that thou hast done!" and some cried out: "Thou hast killed the giants' warder of the bridge!" And others cried: "Thou art a dead man unless thou make haste away from this." But to all this Sir Launcelot paid no heed, but wiped his sword and thrust it back into its sheath. Then he went forward upon his way across the bridge as though nothing had befallen, and so came to the farther side. Then, without paying any heed to all the people who were there, he rode straight to the castle and into the gate of the castle and into the court-yard thereof. Now by this time all the castle was astir, and in great tumult, and many people came running to the windows and looked down upon Sir Launcelot. And Sir Launcelot sat his horse and looked all about him. So he perceived that beyond the court-yard was a fair space of grass, very smooth and green, well fitted for battle, wherefore he dismounted from his horse and tied it to a ring in the wall, and then he went to that green field and made him ready for whatever might befall. Meantime all those people who were at the windows of the castle cried out to him, as the people of the town had done: "Go away, Sir Knight! Go away whilst there is still time for you to escape, or else you are a dead man!" But Sir Launcelot replied not, but stood there and waited very steadfastly. Then the great door of the castle hall opened, and there came forth therefrom those two giants of whom he had heard tell. [Sidenote: Two giants attack Sir Launcelot] And in truth Sir Launcelot had never beheld such horrible beings as they; for they were above ten feet high, and very huge of body and long of limb. And they were clad in armor of bull-hide with iron rings upon it, and each was armed with a great club, huge and thick, and shod with iron, and studded with spikes. These came toward Sir Launcelot swinging their clubs and laughing very hideously and gnashing their long white teeth, for they thought to make easy work of him. [Sidenote: How Sir Launcelot slays the first giant] Then Sir Launcelot, seeing them coming thus, set his shield before him, and made ready for that assault with great calmness of demeanor. Then the giants rushed suddenly upon him and struck at him, the both of them together; for they deemed that by so doing the enemy could not escape both blows, but if one failed the other would slay him. But Sir Launcelot put aside the blow of one giant with his sword and of the other with his shield, with marvellous dexterity. Thereupon, ere they could recover themselves, he turned upon that giant who was upon his left hand and he struck him so terrible a blow upon the shoulder that he cut through the armor and through the shoulder and half-way through the body, so that the head and one arm of the giant leaned toward one way, and the other arm and the shoulder leaned toward the other way. Therewith the giant fell down upon the ground bellowing, so that it was most terrible to hear; and in a little he had died where he had fallen. [Sidenote: How Sir Launcelot slays the second giant] Now when the fellow of that giant beheld that dreadful, horrible stroke, he was so possessed with terror that he stood for a while trembling and like one in a maze. But when he saw Sir Launcelot turn upon him with intent to make at him also, he let fall his club and ran away with great and fearful outcry. Therewith he ran toward the castle and would have entered therein, but those within the castle had closed the doors and the gates against him, so that he could not escape in that way. So the giant ran around and around the court with great outcry, seeking for some escape from his pursuer, and Sir Launcelot ran after him. And Sir Launcelot struck him several times with his sword, so that at last, what with terror and pain and weariness, that giant stumbled and fell upon the ground. Therewith Sir Launcelot ran at him, and, ere he could rise, he took his sword in both hands and smote off his head so that it rolled down upon the ground like a ball. Then Sir Launcelot stood there panting for breath, for he had raced very hard after the giant, and could hardly catch his breath again. As he stood so, many of those of the castle and many of those who were of the town came to him from all sides; and they crowded around him and gave him great acclaim for ridding that place of those giants. Then Sir Launcelot said to them: "Where is your lord?" Whereunto they made reply: "Sir, he lieth in the dungeon of the castle under the ground chained to the walls thereof, and there he hath been for three years or more, and no one hath dared to bring him succor until you came hither." "Go find him," said Sir Launcelot, "and set him free, and lose no time in doing so. And put him at all ease that you can." [Sidenote: Sir Launcelot departs without refreshment] They say: "Will you not stay and see him, Messire, and receive his acknowledgements for what you have done?" But Sir Launcelot replied: "Nay, not so." Then they say: "Will you not have some refreshment after this battle?" Whereunto Sir Launcelot said: "I do not need such refreshment." Then they say: "But will you not rest a little?" "Nay," said Sir Launcelot: "I may not tarry, for I have far to go and several things to do, so that I do not care to stay." So he loosed his horse from the ring in the wall, and mounted upon it and rode away from that castle and from that town and across the bridge whence he had come. And all the people followed after him, giving him great acclaim. So Sir Launcelot left the castle, not because he needed no rest, but because he could not endure to receive the thanks of those whom he benefited. For though he loved to bring aid to the needy, yet he did not love to receive their thanks and their praise. Wherefore, having freed the lord of that castle from that brood of giants, he was content therewith and went his way without resting or waiting for thanks. For so it was with those noble gallant knights of those days; that whilst they would perform signal service for mankind, yet they were not pleased to receive thanks or reward for the same, but took the utmost satisfaction, not in what they gained by their acts, but in the doing of knightly deeds, for they found all their reward in their deeds, because that thereby they made the world in which they lived better; and because they made the glory of the King, whose servants they were, the more glorious. And I hold that such behavior upon the part of anyone makes him the peer of Sir Launcelot or Sir Tristram or Sir Lamorack or Sir Percival; yea, of Sir Galahad himself. For it does not need either the accolade or the bath to cause a man to be a true knight of God's making; nor does it need that a mortal King should lay sword upon shoulder to constitute a man the fellow of such knightly company as that whose history I am herewith writing; it needs only that he should prove himself at all times worthy in the performance of his duty, and that he shall not consider the hope of reward, or of praise of others in the performance of that duty. So look to it that in all your services you take example of the noble Sir Launcelot of the Lake, and that you do your uttermost with might and main, and that you therewith rest content with having done your best, maugre any praise. So you shall become a worthy fellow of Sir Launcelot and of his fellows. [Illustration: Sir Launcelot takes the armor of Sir Kay] Chapter Eighth _How Sir Launcelot Rescued Sir Kay From a Perilous Pass. Also How He Changed Armor with Sir Kay and what Befell._ One day Sir Launcelot came at early nightfall to a goodly manor-house and there he besought lodging for the night, and lodging was granted to him very willingly. [Sidenote: The old gentlewoman makes Sir Launcelot welcome] Now there was no lord of that manor, but only an old gentlewoman of very good breeding and address. She made Sir Launcelot right welcome and gave such cheer as she could, setting before him a very good supper, hot and savory, and a great beaker of humming mead wherewith to wash it down. Whilst Sir Launcelot ate, the gentlewoman inquired of him his name and he told her it was Sir Launcelot of the Lake. "Ha!" quoth she, "I never heard that name before, but it is a very good name." At this Sir Launcelot laughed: "I am glad," said he, "that my name belikes thee. As for thy not having heard of it--well, I am a young knight as yet, having had but three years of service. Yet I have hopes that by and by it may be better known than it is at this present." "Thou sayest well," quoth she, "for thou art very young yet, wherefore thou mayst not know what thou canst do till thou hast tried." And therewith Sir Launcelot laughed again, and said: "Yea, that is very true." Now after Sir Launcelot had supped, his hostess showed him to the lodging she had provided for him wherein to sleep, and the lodging was in a fair garret over the gateway of the court. So Sir Launcelot went to his bed and, being weary with journeying, he presently fell into a deep and gentle sleep. [Sidenote: Sir Launcelot is aroused from sleep] Now about the middle of the night there fell of a sudden the noise of someone beating upon the gate and calling in a loud voice and demanding immediate admittance thereat. This noise awoke Sir Launcelot, and he arose from his couch and went to the window and looked out to see who it was that shouted so loudly and made such uproar. The moon was shining at that time, very bright and still, and by the light thereof Sir Launcelot beheld that there was a knight in full armor seated upon horseback without the gate, and that the knight beat upon the gate with the pommel of his sword, and shouted that they should let him in. But ere anyone could run to answer his call there came a great noise of horses upon the highroad, and immediately after there appeared three knights riding very fiercely that way, and these three knights were plainly pursuing that one knight. For, when they perceived him, they rode very violently to where he was, and fell upon him fiercely, all three at one time; wherefore, though that one knight defended himself as well as he could, yet was he in a very sorry way, and altogether likely to be overborne. For those three surrounded him so close to the gate that he could do little to shift himself away from their assaults. Now when Sir Launcelot beheld how those three knights attacked that one knight, he said to himself: "Of a surety, yonder knight is in a very sorry way. I will do what I can to help him; for it is a shame to behold three knights attack one knight in that way. And if he be slain in this assault, meseems I shall be a party to his death." [Sidenote: Sir Launcelot goeth to the rescue of the knight assaulted] Therewith he ran and put his armor upon him, and made ready for battle. Then he drew the sheet from his bed, and he tied the sheet to the bar of the window and by it he let himself quickly down to the ground not far from where those knights were doing battle. So being safely arrived in that way he cried out in a very loud voice: "Messires, leave that knight whom ye assail, and turn to me, for I have a mind to do battle with you myself." Then one of those knights, speaking very fiercely, said: "Who are you, and what business have you here?" "It matters not who I am," said Sir Launcelot, "but I will not have it that you three shall attack that one without first having had to do with me." "Very well," said that knight who had spoken, "you shall presently have your will of that." Therewith he and his fellows immediately descended from their horses, and drew their swords and came at Sir Launcelot upon three sides at once. Then Sir Launcelot set his back against the gate and prepared to defend himself. Therewith that knight whom he would defend immediately got down from his horse with intent to come to the aid of Sir Launcelot, but Sir Launcelot forbade him very fiercely, saying: "Let be, Sir Knight, this is my quarrel, and you shall not meddle in it." [Sidenote: Sir Launcelot does battle with three knights] Upon this, those three knights rushed upon him very furiously, and they struck at him all at once, smiting at him wherever they could and with all their might and main. So Sir Launcelot had much ado to defend himself from their assault. But he made shift that they should not all rush in upon him at once, and by and by he found his chance with one of them. Whereupon he turned suddenly upon that one, and suddenly he lashed so terrible a buffet at him that the knight fell down and lay as though he had been struck dead with the force thereof. Then, ere those other two had recovered themselves, he ran at a second and struck him so fierce a blow that his wits left him, and he staggered like a drunken man and ran around and around in a circle, not knowing whither he went. Then he rushed upon the third and thrust him back with great violence, and as he went back Sir Launcelot struck him, too, as he had struck his companions and therewith that knight dropped his sword and fell down upon his knees and had not power to raise himself up. Then Sir Launcelot ran to him and snatched off his helmet, and catched him by the hair with intent to cut off his head. But at that the fallen knight embraced Sir Launcelot about the knees, crying out: "Spare my life!" "Why should I spare you?" said Sir Launcelot. "Sir," cried the knight, "I beseech you of your knighthood to spare me." "What claim have you upon knighthood," said Sir Launcelot, "who would attack a single knight, three men against one man?" Then the other of those knights who had been staggered by Sir Launcelot's blow, but who had by now somewhat recovered himself, came and kneeled to Sir Launcelot, and said: "Sir, spare his life, for we all yield ourselves unto you, for certes, you are the greatest champion in all the world." Then Sir Launcelot was appeased, but he said: "Nay, I will not take your yielding unto me. For as you three assaulted this single knight, so shall you all three yield to him." "Messire," said the knight who kneeled: "I am very loth to yield us to that knight, for we chased him hither, and he fled from us, and we would have overcome him had you not come to his aid." "Well," said Sir Launcelot, "I care nothing for all that, but only that you do as I will. And if ye do not do it, then I must perforce slay your companions and you two. Wherefore you may take your choice." [Sidenote: The three knights must yield to the one knight] Then said that knight who kneeled: "Messire, I see no other thing to do than to yield us as you would have, wherefore we submit ourselves unto this knight whom you have rescued from us." Then Sir Launcelot turned to that knight to whom he had brought aid in that matter, and he said: "Sir Knight, these knights yield themselves unto you to do as you command them. Now I pray you of your courtesy to tell me your name and who you are." "Sir," said that knight, "I am Sir Kay the Seneschal, and am King Arthur's foster-brother, and a knight of the Round Table. I have been errant now for some time in search of Sir Launcelot of the Lake. Now, I deem either that you are Sir Launcelot, or else that you are the peer of Sir Launcelot." "Thou art right, Sir Kay," said Sir Launcelot, "and I am Sir Launcelot of the Lake." So thereat they two made great joy over one another, and embraced one another as brothers-in-arms should do. Then Sir Kay told Sir Launcelot how it was with those three knights who had assailed him; that they were three brethren, and that he had overthrown the fourth brother in an adventure at arms and had hurt him very sorely thereby. So those three had been pursuing him for three days with intent to do him a harm. [Sidenote: Sir Kay taketh submission of the three knights] Now Sir Kay was very loath to take submission of those three knights, but Sir Launcelot would have it so and no other way. So Sir Kay consented to let it be as Sir Launcelot willed. Thereupon those three knights came and submitted themselves to Sir Kay, and Sir Kay ordained that they should go to Camelot and lay their case before King Arthur, and that King Arthur should adjudge their case according to what he considered to be right and fitting. Then those three knights mounted upon their horses and rode away, and when they had done so the gates of the manor were opened, and Sir Launcelot and Sir Kay entered in. But when the old lady who was his hostess beheld Sir Launcelot come in, she was very greatly astonished, for she wist he was still asleep in his bed-chamber. Wherefore she said: "Sir, methought you were in bed and asleep." "So indeed I was," said Sir Launcelot, "but when I saw this knight in peril of his life against three knights, I leaped out of my window and went to his aid." "Well," said his hostess, "meseems that you will sometime be a very good knight, if you have so much courage whilst you are so young." And at that both Sir Launcelot and Sir Kay laughed a great deal. Then the chatelaine set bread and wine before Sir Kay, and he ate and refreshed himself, and thereafter he and Sir Launcelot went to that garret above the gate, and there fell asleep with great ease of body. [Sidenote: Sir Launcelot takes Sir Kay's armor] Now before the sun arose Sir Launcelot awoke but Sir Kay still slept very soundly. Then Sir Launcelot beheld how Sir Kay slept, and he had a mind for a jest. So he clad himself in Sir Kay's armor altogether from head to foot, and he took Sir Kay's shield and spear, and he left his armor and shield and spear for Sir Kay to use. Then he went very softly from that room, and left Sir Kay still sleeping. And he took Sir Kay's horse and mounted upon it and rode away; and all that while Sir Kay knew not what had befallen, but slept very deeply. Now after a while Sir Kay awoke, and he found that Sir Launcelot was gone, and when he looked he found that his own armor was gone and that Sir Launcelot's armor was left. Then he wist what Sir Launcelot had done, and he said: "Ha! what a noble, courteous knight is the gentleman. For he hath left me his armor for my protection, and whilst I wear it and carry his shield and ride his horse, it is not likely that anyone will assail me upon my way. As for those who assail him, I do not believe that they will be likely to find great pleasure in their battle." Therewith he arose and clad himself in Sir Launcelot's armor, and after he had broken his fast he thanked his hostess for what she had given him, and rode upon his way with great content of spirit. (And it was as Sir Kay had said, for when he met other knights upon the road, and when they beheld the figure upon his shield, they all said: "It is not well to meddle with that knight, for that is Sir Launcelot." And so he came to Camelot without having to do battle with any man.) [Sidenote: How Sir Launcelot travels toward Camelot] As for Sir Launcelot, he rode upon his way with great cheerfulness of spirit, taking no heed at all of any trouble in the world, but chanting to himself as he rode in the pleasant weather. But ever he made his way toward Camelot, for he said: "I will return to Camelot for a little, and see how it fares with my friends at the court of the King." [Sidenote: Sir Launcelot perceives three knights at feast] So by and by he entered into the country around about Camelot, which is a very smooth and fertile country, full of fair rivers and meadows with many cots and hamlets, and with fair hedge-bordered highways, wonderfully pleasant to journey in. So travelling he came to a very large meadow where were several groves of trees standing here and there along by a river. And as he went through this meadow he saw before him a long bridge, and at the farther side of the bridge were three pavilions of silk of divers colors, which pavilions had been cast in the shade of a grove of beech-trees. In front of each pavilion stood a great spear thrust in the earth, and from the spear hung the shield of the knight to whom the pavilion belonged. These shields Sir Launcelot read very easily, and so knew the knights who were there. To wit: that they were Sir Gunther, Sir Gylmere, and Sir Raynold, who were three brothers of the Court of King Arthur. As Sir Launcelot passed their pavilions, he saw that the three knights sat at feast in the midmost pavilion of the three, and that a number of esquires and pages waited upon them and served them, for those knights were of very high estate, and so they were established as high lords should be. [Sidenote: The three knights bid Sir Launcelot come to feast with them] [Sidenote: Sir Launcelot overthrows Sir Gunther] Now when those knights perceived Sir Launcelot they thought it was Sir Kay because of the armor he wore, and Sir Gunther, who was the eldest of the three brothers, cried out: "Come hither, Sir Kay, and eat with us!" But to this Sir Launcelot made no reply, but rode on his way. Then said Sir Gunther: "Meseems Sir Kay hath grown very proud this morning. Now I will go and bring him back with me, or else I will bring down his pride to earth." So he made haste and donned his helmet and ran and took his shield and his spear, and mounted his horse and rode after Sir Launcelot at a hard gallop. As he drew nigh to Sir Launcelot he cried out: "Stay, Sir Knight! Turn again, and go with me!" "Why should I go with you?" said Sir Launcelot. Quoth Sir Gunther: "Because you must either return with me or do battle with me." "Well," said Sir Launcelot, "I would rather do battle than return against my will." And at that Sir Gunther was astonished, for Sir Kay was not wont to be so ready for a battle. So Sir Launcelot set his shield and spear and took his stand, and Sir Gunther took his stand. Then, when they were in all ways prepared, each set spur to his horse and rushed together with terrible speed. So each knight struck the other in the midst of his shield, but the onset of Sir Launcelot was so terrible that it was not to be withstood, wherefore both Sir Gunther and his horse were overthrown in such a cloud of dust that nothing at all was to be seen of them until that cloud lifted. At this both Sir Raynold and Sir Gylmere were astonished beyond measure, for Sir Gunther was reckoned to be a much better knight than Sir Kay, wherefore they wist not how it was that Sir Kay should have overthrown him in that fashion. So straightway Sir Gylmere, who was the second of those brothers, called out to Sir Launcelot to tarry and do battle. "Very well," said Sir Launcelot, "if I cannot escape thee I must needs do battle. Only make haste, for I would fain be going upon my way." So Sir Gylmere donned his helm in haste and ran and took his shield and spear and mounted upon his horse. So when he had made himself ready in all ways he rushed upon Sir Launcelot with all his might and Sir Launcelot rushed against him. [Sidenote: Sir Launcelot overthrows Sir Gylmere] In that encounter each knight struck the other in the midst of his shield, and the spear of Sir Gylmere burst into pieces, but Sir Launcelot's spear held, so the breast-strap of Sir Gylmere's saddle bursting, both saddle and knight were swept entirely off the horse and to the earth, where Sir Gylmere lay altogether stunned. [Sidenote: Sir Launcelot wins from Sir Raynold] Then Sir Raynold came against Sir Launcelot in like manner as the others had done, and in that encounter Sir Launcelot overthrew both horse and man so that, had not Sir Raynold voided his horse, he would likely have been very sadly hurt. Then Sir Raynold drew his sword and cried out in a loud voice: "Come, Sir Knight, and do me battle afoot!" But Sir Launcelot said: "Why will you have it so, Sir Knight? I have no such quarrel with you as to do battle with swords." "Ha!" said Sir Raynold, "you shall fight with me. For though you wear Sir Kay's armor, I wot very well that you are not Sir Kay, but a great deal bigger man than ever Sir Kay is like to be." "Nay," said Sir Launcelot, "I will not do any more battle with you." And therewith he drew rein and rode away, leaving Sir Raynold standing very angry in the middle of the highway. [Sidenote: Sir Launcelot meets four noble knights] After that Sir Launcelot rode very easily at a quiet gait, with no great thought whither he rode, until after a while he came to a place where a road went across a level field with two rows of tall poplar trees, one upon either side of the highway. Then Sir Launcelot perceived where, beneath the shade of these poplar trees, were four knights standing each by his horse. And these four knights were conversing very pleasantly together. Now as Sir Launcelot drew nigh he perceived that those were four very famous noble knights of the Round Table; to wit: one of those knights was his own brother, Sir Ector de Maris, another was Sir Gawain, another was Sir Ewain, and the fourth was Sir Sagramore le Desirous. Now as Sir Launcelot drew nigh Sir Gawain said: "Look, yonder cometh Sir Kay the Seneschal." Unto this Sir Sagramore le Desirous said: "Yea, this is he; now bide you here for a little while, and I will go and take a fall of him." So straightway he mounted upon his horse, and he rode toward Sir Launcelot, and he cried out: "Stay, Sir Knight, you cannot go farther until you have had to do with me." "What would you have of me?" quoth Sir Launcelot. "Sir," said Sir Sagramore, "I will have a fall of you." "Well," said Sir Launcelot, "I suppose I must pleasure you, since it cannot be otherwise." [Sidenote: Sir Launcelot overthrows Sir Sagramore] Therewith he dressed his shield and his spear and Sir Sagramore dressed his shield and his spear, and when they were in all ways prepared they ran together at full tilt. In that encounter Sir Sagramore's spear broke, but Sir Launcelot struck so powerful a blow that he overthrew both horse and man into a ditch of water that was near-by. Then Sir Ector de Maris said: "Ha, surely some very ill chance has befallen Sir Sagramore for to be overthrown by Sir Kay. Now I will go and have ado with him, for if the matter rests here there will be no living at court with the jests which will be made upon us." So he took horse and rode to where Sir Launcelot was, and he went at a very fast gallop. When he had come near to Sir Launcelot he cried out: "Have at thee, Sir Kay, for it is my turn next!" "Why should I have at thee?" said Sir Launcelot, "I have done thee no harm." "No matter," said Sir Ector, "you can go no farther until you have had to do with me." "Well," said Sir Launcelot, "if that is so, the sooner I have to do with thee, the sooner shall I be able to go upon my way." [Sidenote: Sir Launcelot overthrows Sir Ector] Therewith each knight made himself ready and when they were in all ways prepared they came together with such force that Sir Launcelot's spear went through Sir Ector's shield and smote him upon the shoulder, and Sir Ector was thrown down upon the ground with such violence that he lay where he had fallen, without power to move. Then said Sir Ewain to Sir Gawain where they stood together: "That is the most wonderful thing that ever I beheld, for never did I think to behold Sir Kay bear himself in battle in such a fashion as that. Now bide thee here and let me have a try at him." Therewith Sir Ewain mounted his horse and rode at Sir Launcelot, and there were no words spoken this time, but each knight immediately took his stand to do battle. Then they ran their horses together, and Sir Launcelot gave Sir Ewain such a buffet that he was astonished, and for a little he knew not where he was, for his spear fell down out of his hand, and he bore his shield so low that Sir Launcelot might have slain him where he stood if he had been minded to do so. [Sidenote: Sir Ewain yields to Sir Launcelot] Then Sir Launcelot said: "Sir Knight, I bid thee yield to me." And Sir Ewain said: "I yield me. For I do not believe that thou art Sir Kay but a bigger man than he shall ever be. Wherefore I yield me." "Then that is well," said Sir Launcelot. "Now stand thou a little aside where thou mayst bring succor unto these other two knights, for I see that Sir Gawain has a mind to tilt with me." [Sidenote: Sir Gawain fails with Sir Launcelot] And it was as Sir Launcelot said, for Sir Gawain also had mounted his horse and had made himself ready for that encounter. So Sir Gawain and Sir Launcelot took stand at such place as suited them. Then each knight set spurs to his horse and rushed together like thunder, and each knight smote the other knight in the midst of his shield; and in that encounter the spear of Sir Gawain brake in twain but the spear of Sir Launcelot held, and therewith he gave Sir Gawain such a buffet that Sir Gawain's horse reared up into the air, and it was with much ado that he was able to void his saddle ere his horse fell over backward. For if he had not leaped to earth the horse would have fallen upon him. Then Sir Gawain drew his sword and cried very fiercely: "Come down and fight me, Sir Knight! For thou art not Sir Kay!" "Nay, I will not fight thee that way," said Sir Launcelot, and therewith he passed on his way without tarrying further. But he laughed to himself behind his helmet as he rode, and he said: "God give Sir Kay joy of such a spear as this, for I believe there came never so good a spear as this into my hand. For with it I have overthrown seven famous knights in this hour." As for those four knights of the Round Table, they comforted one another as best they could, for they knew not what to think of that which had befallen them. Only Sir Ector said: "That was never Sir Kay who served us in this wise, but such a man as is better than ten Sir Kays, or twice ten Sir Kays, for the matter of that." [Sidenote: How Sir Launcelot returned to Camelot] Now Sir Launcelot came to Camelot about eventide, what time King Arthur and his court were assembled at their supper. Then there was great joy when news was brought of his coming and they brought him in to the court and set him beside the King and the Lady Guinevere all armed as he was. Then King Arthur said: "Sir Launcelot, how is it with thee?" and Sir Launcelot said: "It is well." Then King Arthur said: "Tell us what hath befallen thee." And Sir Launcelot told all that had happened in that month since he had left court. And all they who were there listened, and were much astonished. But when Sir Launcelot told how he had encountered those seven knights, in the armor of Sir Kay, all laughed beyond measure excepting those of the seven who were there, for they took no very good grace to be laughed at in that wise. * * * * * So now I hope I have made you acquainted with Sir Launcelot of the Lake, who was the greatest knight in the world. For not only have I told you how he was created a knight at the hands of King Arthur, but I have also led you errant along with him, so that you might see for yourself how he adventured his life for other folk and what a noble and generous gentleman he was; and how pitiful to the weak and suffering, and how terrible to the evil-doer. But now I shall have to leave him for a while (but after a while in another book that shall follow this, I shall return to him to tell you a great many things concerning other adventures of his), for meantime it is necessary that I should recount the history of another knight, who was held by many to be nearly as excellent a knight as Sir Launcelot was himself. CONCLUSION _Here endeth the story of Sir Launcelot. That which followeth is the story of Sir Tristram of Lyonesse, who was knit with Sir Launcelot into such close ties of friendship that if they had been brothers of the same blood, with the same father and mother, they could not have loved one another more than they did. For indeed it would not be possible to tell any history of Sir Launcelot of the Lake without telling that of Sir Tristram of Lyonesse as well, for as the web of a fair fabric is woven in with the woof thereof, so were the lives of Sir Launcelot and Sir Tristram woven closely together. Wherefore you shall now hear tell of the goodly adventures of Sir Tristram of Lyonesse; and God grant that you may have the same joy in reading thereof that I shall have in telling of them to you._ The Book of Sir Tristram [Illustration: Sir Tristram of Lyonesse] Prologue. There was a certain kingdom called Lyonesse, and the King of that country was hight Meliadus, and the Queen thereof who was hight the Lady Elizabeth, was sister to King Mark of Cornwall. In the country of Lyonesse, there was a very beautiful lady, who was a cunning and wicked sorceress. This lady took great love for King Meliadus, who was of an exceedingly noble appearance, and she meditated continually how she might bring him to her castle so as to have him near her. [Sidenote: King Meliadus rides a-hunting] Now King Meliadus was a very famous huntsman, and he loved the chase above all things in the world, excepting the joy he took in the love of his Queen, the Lady Elizabeth. So, upon a certain day, in the late autumn season he was minded to go forth a-hunting, although the day was very cold and bleak. About the prime of the day the hounds started, of a sudden, a very wonderful stag. For it was white and its horns were gilded very bright, shining like pure gold, so that the creature itself appeared like a living miracle in the forest. When this stag broke cover, the hounds immediately set chase to it with a great outcry of yelling, as though they were suddenly gone frantic, and when the King beheld the creature, he also was immediately seized as with a great fury for chasing it. For, beholding it, he shouted aloud and drove spurs into his horse, and rushed away at such a pass that his court was, in a little while, left altogether behind him, and he and the chase were entirely alone in the forest. [Sidenote: King Meliadus chases the stag] The stag, with the hounds close behind it, ran at a great rate through the passes of the woodlands, and King Meliadus pursued it with might and main until the chase burst out of the forest into an open plain beyond the woodland. Then King Meliadus beheld that in the midst of the plain was a considerable lake of water; and that in the midst of the water was an island; and that upon the island was a very tall and stately castle. Toward this castle the stag ran with great speed, and so, coming to the lake, it leaped into the water and swam across to the island--and there was a thin sheet of clear ice upon the water close to either bank. But when the hounds that pursued the stag came to that frozen water, they stinted their pursuit and stood whimpering upon the brink, for the ice and the water repelled them. But King Meliadus made no such pause, but immediately leaped off from his horse, and plunged into the water and swam across in pursuit of the stag. And when he reached the other side, he chased the stag afoot with great speed, and therewith the stag ran to the castle and into the court-yard thereof, and King Meliadus ran after it. Then, immediately he had entered in, the gates of the castle were shut and King Meliadus was a prisoner. [Sidenote: King Meliadus is made prisoner at an enchanted castle] (Now you are to know that that castle was the abode of the beautiful enchantress afore spoken of, and you are to know that she had sent that enchanted stag to beguile King Meliadus to her court, and so she made King Meliadus her captive. Further, it is to be told that when she had him there within her castle, she wove a web of enchantment all about him so that he forgot the Lady Elizabeth and his court and his kingdom and thought of nothing but that beautiful sorceress who had thus beguiled him into her power.) [Sidenote: The Lady Elizabeth grieves to distraction] Now, when those who were with the King returned to the castle of Lyonesse without him, and when the King did not return that day nor the next day nor at any time, the Lady Elizabeth grew more and more distracted in her anxiety because of him. And when a fortnight had gone by and still there was no news of the King, her grief and apprehension became so great that she turned distracted and they had to set watch and ward upon her lest she do herself a harm in her madness. So for a long time they kept her within the castle; but upon a certain day she broke away from her keepers and ran out from the castle and into the forest ere those in attendance upon her knew she had gone. Only one gentlewoman saw her, and she called upon a young page to follow her, and thereupon ran after the Queen whither she went, with intent to bring her back again. [Sidenote: The Lady Elizabeth escapes into the forest] But the Lady Elizabeth ran very deep into the forest, and the gentlewoman and the page ran after her; and the Queen thought that she was going to find her lord in the forest. So she ran very rapidly for a great distance, until by and by she waxed faint with weariness from running and sank down upon the ground; and there they that followed her found her lying. And they found that the Queen was in a great passion of pain and sick to death. For the day was very wintry, with a fine powder of snow all over the ground, so that the cold of the weather pierced through the garments of the Lady Elizabeth and entered into her body and chilled her to the heart. Now the gentlewoman, seeing how it was with the Queen, called the page to her and said: "Make haste! Go back to the castle of Lyonesse, and bring some of the knights of the castle with all speed, else the Queen will die at this place." And upon that the page ran off with great speed to do her bidding and the Queen was left alone with her gentlewoman. Then the gentlewoman said, "Lady, what cheer?" And the Queen said, "Alas, I am sick to death." The gentlewoman said, "Lady, cannot you bear up a little until help cometh?" Thereupon the Lady Elizabeth fell to weeping very piteously, and said, "Nay, I cannot bear up any longer, for the cold hath entered into my heart." (Yea, even at that time death was upon her because of the cold at her heart.) Then by and by in the midst of her tears and in very sore travail a man-child was born to the Queen, and when that came to pass a great peace fell suddenly upon her. [Sidenote: How Tristram is born in the forest] Then she said, speaking to the nurse like one in great weariness, "What child is it that I have given unto the world?" The nurse said, "It is a man-child." The Queen said to her, "Hold him up until I see him." Thereupon the nurse held the child up and the Queen looked at him, though she could hardly see him because it was as though a mist lay upon her eyes which she could not clear away from her sight; for at that time she was drawing deep draughts of death. Then, when she had seen the child and had beheld that he was very strong and lusty and exceedingly comely, she said: "Behold, this is my child, born in the midst of sore travail and great sorrow; wherefore his name shall be called Tristram because he hath caused so many tears to be shed." Then in a little while the Lady died, and the gentlewoman stood weeping beside her, making great outcry in that cold and lonely forest. Anon there came those knights who were sent from the castle to find the Queen; and when they came to that place, they beheld that she lay upon the ground all cold and white like to a statue of marble stone. So they lifted her up and bare her away upon a litter, and the gentlewoman followed weeping and wailing in great measure, and bearing the child wrapped in a mantle. So Tristram was born in that wise, and so his name was given to him because of the tears that were shed at his birth. And now it is to be told how King Meliadus returned from that castle of enchantment where he was held prisoner. [Sidenote: King Meliadus is released from durance] At this time Merlin was still living in the world, for Vivien had not yet bewitched him, as hath been told in the Book of King Arthur. So by and by it came to pass that he discovered where King Meliadus was imprisoned and how it fared with him in the castle of that enchantress. So he made greater spells than those that enmeshed King Meliadus, and he brought King Meliadus back into his memory of the Queen and his kingdom. Then straightway the King broke out from the castle of the enchantress and returned to his kingdom. But when he came there it was to find everything in great sorrow and dole; for the Lady Elizabeth was no longer upon this earth to bring joy to the heart of the King. So for a long while after his return King Meliadus lay altogether stricken down with the grief of that bereavement. Here followeth the story of Tristram, how he passed his youth, and how he became a knight of Cornwall of King Mark's making. PART I The Story of Sir Tristram and the Lady Belle Isoult _Here followeth the story of Sir Tristram of Lyonesse, who, with Sir Launcelot of the Lake, was deemed to be one of the two most worthy and perfect knights champion of his day. Likewise herein shall be told the story of the Lady Belle Isoult, who next to Queen Guinevere, was reckoned to be the most fair, gentle lady in all of the world._ [Illustration: Tristram succors the Lady Moeya] Chapter First _How the new Queen of Lyonesse sought Tristram's life; how he went to France, and how he returned again to Lyonesse and was received with love at that place._ So King Meliadus grieved very bitterly for the Lady Elizabeth for the space of seven years, and in that time he took but little pleasure in life, and still less pleasure in that son who had been born to him in that wise. Then one day a certain counsellor who was in great favor with the King came to him and said: "Lord, it is not fitting that you should live in this wise and without a mate; for you should have a queen, and you should have other children besides Tristram, else all the fate of this kingdom shall depend upon the life of that one small child." [Sidenote: King Meliadus taketh the Lady Moeya to second wife] And King Meliadus took this counsel to heart, and after a while he said: "What you tell me is true, and so I shall take another Queen, even though it is not in me to love any other woman in all of the world but that dear one who is dead and gone." So a while after that he took to wife the Lady Moeya, who was the daughter of King Howell of Britain. Now Queen Moeya had been married to an Earl of Britain, and by him she had a son who was about the age of Tristram. So she brought this son to Lyonesse with her, and he and Tristram were very good companions. But the Lady Moeya took great hatred of Tristram, for she said in her heart: "Except for this Tristram, mayhap my son might be King and overlord of this land." And these thoughts brooded with her, so that after a while she began to meditate how she might make away with Tristram so that her own son might come into his inheritance. Now at that time Tristram was about thirteen years of age and very large and robust of form and of extraordinary strength of body and beauty of countenance. But the son of Queen Moeya was not of such a sort, so the more beautiful and noble Tristram was the more the Queen hated him. So one day she called to her a very cunning chemist and she said to him: "Give me a drink of such and such a sort, so that he who drinks thereof shall certainly die, maugre help of any kind." And the chemist gave her what she desired, and it was in a phial and was of a golden color. [Sidenote: The Lady Moeya devises mischief against Tristram] Now Tristram and the son of the Lady Moeya were wont to play ball in a certain court of the castle, and when they would play there they would wax all of a heat with their sport. This the Lady Moeya was well aware of; so one day she took that phial of poison and she poured a part of it into a chalice and she filled the chalice with clear water and she set the chalice upon a bench where those two would play at ball. For she said to herself: "When they grow warm with their play, Tristram will certainly drink of this water to quench his thirst, and then my son will maybe enter into his inheritance." [Sidenote: The son of the Queen drinks of the poison] So the two youths played very fiercely at their game, and they waxed exceedingly hot and presently were both very violently athirst. Then Tristram said, "I would I had somewhat to drink," and his stepbrother said, "Look, yonder is a chalice of water; drink! and when thou hast quenched thy thirst, then I will drink also." But Tristram said: "Nay, brother, drink thou first, for thou art more athirst than I." Then at first the son of the Lady Moeya would not have it so, but would have Tristram drink; but afterward he did as Tristram bade him, and, taking the chalice in both hands, he drank freely of that poison which his own mother had prepared. Then when he had drunk his fill, Tristram took the chalice and would have drunk too; but the other said, "Stay, Tristram, there is great bitterness in that chalice"; and then he said, "Methinks I feel a very bitter pang within my vitals," and then he cried out, "Woe is me! I am in great pain!" Therewith he fell down upon the ground and lay there in a great passion of agony. Then Tristram cried aloud for help in a piercing voice; but when help came thither it was too late, for the son of the Lady Moeya was dead. Then the Lady Moeva was in great torment of soul, and beat her breast and tore her hair and King Meliadus had much ado for to comfort her. And after this she hated Tristram worse than ever before, for she would say to herself: "Except for this Tristram, my own son would yet be alive!" So she brooded upon these things until she could not rest, whether by day or night. Then one day she took the rest of the poison that was in the phial and poured it into a goblet of yellow wine. This goblet she gave to one of her pages, saying: "Take this to Tristram, and offer it to him when I shall tell you to do so!" [Sidenote: The Lady Moeya seeks Tristram's life a second time] Therewith she went down to the hall where Tristram was, and she said, "Tristram, let there be peace betwixt us." And Tristram said: "Lady, that meets my wishes, for I have never had in my heart aught but loving-kindness toward you, and so I would have it in your heart toward me." With this the page came in the hall with that goblet of yellow wine. Then the Lady Moeya took the goblet and said: "Take this cup, and drink of the wine that is in it, and so there shall be peace betwixt us forever." And as she said that she looked very strangely upon Tristram, but Tristram was altogether innocent of any evil against him. So he reached out his hand to take the cup which the page brought to him. Now at that moment King Meliadus came into the hall fresh from the chase, and he was much heated and greatly athirst, wherefore, when he saw that cup of wine he said: "Stay, Tristram, let me drink, for I am greatly athirst. After I have quenched my thirst, then thou shalt drink." Therewith he took the goblet of wine and made to lift it to his lips. But at that the Lady Moeya cried out, in a very loud and piercing voice, "Do not drink of that wine!" The King said, "Why should I not drink of it?" "No matter," said the Lady Moeya, "thou shalt not drink of it, for there is death in it." Therewith she ran to the King and catched him by the hand, and she plucked away the goblet so that the wine was spilled out of it upon the ground. [Sidenote: King Meliadus threatens to slay the Queen] Then King Meliadus gazed at the Lady Moeya, and he thought of many things in very little time. Thereupon he seized her by the hair and dragged her forward, so that she fell down upon her hands and knees to the pavement of the hall. And King Meliadus drew his great sword so that it flashed like lightning, and he cried: "Tell me what thou hast done, and tell me quickly, or thou shalt not be able to tell me at all!" Then the Lady Moeya clutched King Meliadus about the thighs, and she cried out: "Do not slay me with thine own hand, or else my blood will stain thee with dishonor! I will tell thee all, and then thou mayst deal with me according to the law, for indeed I am not fit to live." So therewithal the Lady Moeya confessed everything to the King. Then King Meliadus shouted aloud and called the attendants and said: "Take this woman and cast her into prison, and see that no harm befall her there; for the lords of this country shall adjudge her, and not I." And therewith he turned away and left her. And thereafter, in due season, the Lady Moeya was brought to trial and was condemned to be burned at the stake. [Sidenote: Tristram begs mercy for the Queen] Now when the day came that she was to be burnt, Tristram was very sorry for her. So when he beheld her tied fast to the stake he came to where King Meliadus was and he kneeled before him, and he said, "Father, I crave a boon of thee." Thereupon King Meliadus looked upon Tristram, and he loved him very tenderly and he said: "My son, ask what thou wilt, and it shall be thine." Then Tristram said: "Father, I pray thee, spare the life of this lady, for methinks she hath repented her of her evil, and surely God hath punished her very sorely for the wickedness she hath tried to do." Then King Meliadus was very wroth that Tristram should interfere with the law; but yet he had granted that boon to his son and could not withdraw. So after a while of thought he said: "Well, I have promised, and so I will perform my promise. Her life is thine; go to the stake and take her. But when thou hast done so I bid thee go forth from this place and show thy face here no more. For thou hast interfered with the law, and hast done ill that thou, the son of the King, should save this murderess. So thou shalt leave this place, for I mistrust that between you two some murder will befall in this country." So Tristram went weeping to where the Queen was bound to the stake; and he cut her bonds with his dagger and set her free. And he said: "Lady, thou art free; now go thy way, and may God forgive thee as I do." Then the Queen wept also, and said, "Tristram, thou art very good to me." And because she was barefoot and in her shift, Tristram took his cloak and wrapped it about her. [Sidenote: Tristram departs from Lyonesse] After that, Tristram straightway left Lyonesse, and King Meliadus appointed that a noble and honorable lord of the court, hight Gouvernail, should go with him. They two went to France, and there they were made very welcome at the court of the King. So Tristram dwelt in France till he was eighteen years old, and everyone at the court of the King of France loved him and honored him so that he dwelt there as though he were of the blood of France. During the time that he was in France he became the greatest hunter in the world, and he wrote many books on venery that were read and studied long after he had ceased to live. Also he became so skilful with the harp that no minstrel in the world was his equal. And ever he waxed more sturdy of frame and more beautiful of countenance, and more well-taught in all the worship of knighthood. For during that time he became so wonderfully excellent in arms that there was no one in France who was his equal. Thus Tristram dwelt at peace in that land for five years, but even he longed for his own home with all the might and main of his heart. So one day he said to Gouvernail: "Gouvernail, I cannot deny myself any longer from seeing my father and my own country, for I feel that I must see them or else my heart will certainly break because of its great longing." Nor would he listen to anything that Gouvernail might say contrary to this. So they two took their departure from France, and Tristram travelled as a harper and Gouvernail as his attendant. Thus they came to Lyonesse in that wise. [Sidenote: How Tristram returns to Lyonesse] One day whilst King Meliadus sat at meat, they two came into the hall, and Gouvernail wore a long white beard which altogether disguised him so that no one knew him. But Tristram shone with such a great radiance of beauty and of youth that all who looked upon him marvelled at him. And the heart of King Meliadus went out to Tristram very strongly, and he said before all of his court, "Who art thou, fair youth? And whence comest thou?" To which Tristram made reply: "Lord, I am a harper, and this is my man, and we have come from France." Then King Meliadus said to Tristram: "Sir, have you seen a youth in France whom men call Tristram?" And Tristram replied, "Yea, I have seen him several times." King Meliadus said, "Doth he do well?" "Yea," said Tristram, "he doeth very well, though at times he is sore oppressed with a great desire for his own country." At this King Meliadus turned away his face, for his heart went very strongly out at the thought of his son. Then by and by he said to Tristram, "Wilt thou play upon thy harp?" And Tristram said, "Yea, if it will please thee to hear me." Therewith he took his harp and he set it before him, and he struck the strings and played upon it, and he sang in such a wise that no one who was there had ever heard the like thereof. Then King Meliadus' heart was melted at Tristram's minstrelsy, and he said: "That is wonderful harping. Now ask what thou wilt of me, and it shall be thine, whatever it may be." To this Tristram said, "Lord, that is a great thing that thou sayest." "Nevertheless," said King Meliadus, "it shall be as I say." Then Tristram left his harp and he came to where King Meliadus sat, and he kneeled down before him and he said: "Lord, if so be that is the case, then that which I ask of thee is this: that thou wilt forgive me and bring me back into thy favor again." [Sidenote: King Meliadus is reconciled to Tristram] At that King Meliadus was filled with a great wonder, and he said: "Fair youth, who art thou, and what have I to forgive thee?" "Lord," said Tristram, "I am thy son, and ask thee to forgive me that I should have saved the life of that lady who is thy Queen." At this King Meliadus cried out with joy, and he came down from where he sat and he took Tristram into his arms and kissed him upon the face, and Tristram wept and kissed his father upon the face. So they were reconciled. After that, Tristram abode in peace in Lyonesse for some while, and during that time he made peace betwixt King Meliadus and Queen Moeya, and the Queen loved him because he was so good to her. [Sidenote: Tristram refuses knighthood] Now after the return of Tristram as aforesaid, King Meliadus would have made him a knight, but Tristram would not suffer the honor of knighthood to be bestowed upon him at that time, but always said: "Lord, think not ill of me if I do not accept knighthood at this time. For I would fain wait until the chance for some large adventure cometh; then I would be made a knight for to meet that adventure, so that I might immediately win renown. For what credit could there be to our house if I should be made knight, only that I might sit in hall and feast and drink and make merry?" So spoke Sir Tristram, and his words sounded well to King Meliadus, wherefore from thenceforth King Meliadus refrained from urging knighthood upon him. Now the way that Sir Tristram achieved knighthood shall be told in that which followeth, and also it shall then be told how he fought his first battle, which was one of the most famous that ever he fought in all of his life. [Illustration: King Mark of Cornwall] Chapter Second _How Sir Tristram was made knight by the King of Cornwall, and how he fought a battle with a famous champion._ Now first of all it is to be here said that at that time there was great trouble come to King Mark of Cornwall (who, as aforesaid, was uncle to Sir Tristram) and the trouble was this: [Sidenote: The King of Ireland claims truage of Cornwall] The King of Cornwall and the King of Ireland had great debate concerning an island that lay in the sea betwixt Cornwall and Ireland. For though that island was held by Cornwall, yet the King of Ireland laid claim to it and demanded that the King of Cornwall should pay him truage for the same. This King Mark refused to do, and there was great contention betwixt Cornwall and Ireland, so that each country made ready for war. But the King of Ireland said: "Let there not be war betwixt Ireland and Cornwall concerning this disagreement, but let us settle this affair in some other way. Let us each choose a champion and let those two champions decide the rights of this case by a combat at arms. For so the truth shall be made manifest." Now you are to know that at that time the knights of Cornwall were held in great disregard by all courts of chivalry; for there was not in those days any knight of repute in all the court of Cornwall. Wherefore King Mark knew not where he should find him a champion to meet that challenge from the King of Ireland. Yet he must needs meet it, for he was ashamed to refuse such a challenge as that, and so to acknowledge that Cornwall had no knight-champion to defend it. So he said it should be as the King of Ireland would have it, and that if the King of Ireland would choose a champion, he also would do the same. [Sidenote: The King of Ireland chooses Sir Marhaus for his champion] Thereupon the King of Ireland chose for his champion Sir Marhaus of Ireland, who was one of the greatest knights in the world. For in the Book of King Arthur (which I wrote aforetime) you may there read in the story of Sir Pellias how great and puissant a champion Sir Marhaus was, and how he overthrew Sir Gawaine and others with the greatest ease. Wherefore at that time he was believed by many to be the greatest knight in the world (it being before the days of Sir Launcelot of the Lake), and even in the days of Sir Launcelot it was doubted whether he or Sir Launcelot were the greater champion. So King Mark could not find any knight in Cornwall to stand against Sir Marhaus. Nor could he easily find any knight outside of Cornwall to do battle with him. For Sir Marhaus, being a knight of the Round Table, no other knight of the Round Table would fight against him--and there were no other knights so great as that famous brotherhood of the Table Round. Accordingly, King Mark knew not where to turn to find him a champion to do battle in his behalf. In this strait, King Mark sent a letter by a messenger to Lyonesse, asking if there was any knight at Lyonesse who would stand his champion against Sir Marhaus, and he offered great reward if such a champion would undertake his cause against Ireland. [Sidenote: Tristram asks leave to go to Cornwall] Now when young Tristram heard this letter of his uncle King Mark, he straightway went to his father and said: "Sire, some whiles ago you desired that I should become a knight. Now I would that you would let me go to Cornwall upon this occasion. For when I come there I will beseech my uncle King Mark to make me a knight, and then I will go out against Sir Marhaus. For I have a great mind to undertake this adventure in behalf of King Mark, and to stand his champion against Sir Marhaus. For though Sir Marhaus is so great a knight and so famous a hero, yet if I should have the good fortune to overcome him in battle, there would, certes, be great glory to our house through my knighthood." Then King Meliadus looked upon Tristram and loved him very dearly, and he said: "Tristram, thou hast assuredly a very great heart to undertake this adventure, which no one else will essay. So I bid thee go, in God's name, if so be thy heart bids thee to go. For maybe God will lend the strength necessary to carry this adventure through to a successful issue." So that very day Tristram departed from Lyonesse for Cornwall, taking with him only Gouvernail as his companion. So, by ship, he reached Cornwall, and the castle of Tintagel, where King Mark was then holding court. And it was at the sloping of the afternoon when he so came, and at that time King Mark was sitting in hall with many of his knights and lords about him. And the King was brooding in great trouble of spirit. Unto him came an attendant, saying: "Lord, there are two strangers who stand without, and crave to be admitted to your presence. One of them hath great dignity and sobriety of demeanor, and the other, who is a youth, is of so noble and stately an appearance that I do not believe his like is to be found in the entire world." To this the King said, "Show them in." [Sidenote: Tristram and Gouvernail come to Cornwall] So those two were immediately admitted into the hall and came and stood before King Mark; and the one of them was Gouvernail and the other was young Tristram. So Tristram stood forth before Gouvernail and Gouvernail bore the harp of Tristram, and the harp was of gold and shone most brightly and beautifully. Then King Mark looked upon Tristram, and marvelled at his size and beauty; for Tristram stood above any man in that place, so that he looked like a hero amongst them. His brow was as white as milk and his lips were red like to coral and his hair was as red as gold and as plentiful as the mane of a young lion, and his neck was thick and sturdy and straight like to a round pillar of white-stone, and he was clad in garments of blue silk embroidered very cunningly with threads of gold and set with a countless multitude of gems of divers colors. So because of all this he glistened with a singular radiance of richness and beauty. So King Mark marvelled at the haughtiness of Tristram's appearance, and he felt his heart drawn toward Tristram with love and admiration. Then, after a little, he spoke, saying: "Fair youth, who are you, and whence come you, and what is it you would have of me?" [Sidenote: Tristram offers himself as champion for Cornwall] "Lord," said Tristram, "my name is Tristram, and I come from the country of Lyonesse, where your own sister was one time Queen. Touching the purpose of my coming hither, it is this: having heard that you are in need of a champion to contend for your rights against the champion of Ireland, I come hither to say that if you will make me a knight with your own hand, I will take it upon me to stand your champion and to meet Sir Marhaus of Ireland upon your behalf." Then King Mark was filled with wonder at the courage of Tristram, and he said: "Fair youth, are you not aware that Sir Marhaus of Ireland is a knight well set in years and of such great and accredited deeds of arms that it is supposed that, excepting Sir Launcelot of the Lake, there is not his peer in any court of chivalry in all of the world? How then can you, who are altogether new to the use of arms, hope to stand against so renowned a champion as he?" "Lord," quoth Tristram, "I am well aware of what sort of knight Sir Marhaus is, and I am very well aware of the great danger of this undertaking. Yet if one who covets knighthood shall fear to face a danger, what virtue would there then be in the chivalry of knighthood? So, Messire, I put my trust in God, His mercies, and I have great hope that He will lend me both courage and strength in my time of need." Then King Mark began to take great joy, for he said to himself: "Maybe this youth shall indeed bring me forth in safety out of these dangers that menace my honor." So he said: "Tristram, I do believe that you will stand a very excellent chance of success in this undertaking, wherefore it shall be as you desire; I will make you a knight, and besides that I will fit you with armor and accoutrements in all ways becoming to the estate of a knight-royal. Likewise I will provide you a Flemish horse of the best strain, so that you shall be both furnished and horsed as well as any knight in the world hath ever been." [Sidenote: Tristram is made knight-royal] So that night Tristram watched his armor in the chapel of the castle, and the next day he was made knight with all the circumstances appertaining to a ceremony of such solemnity as that. And upon the afternoon of the day upon which he was thus made knight, King Mark purveyed a ship in all ways befitting the occasion, and in the ship Tristram and Gouvernail set sail for that island where Sir Marhaus was known to be abiding at that time. Now upon the second day of their voyaging and about the middle of the day they came to a land which they knew must be the place which they were seeking, and there the sailors made a safe harbor. As soon as they were at anchor a gangway was set from the ship to the shore and Sir Tristram and Gouvernail drave their horses across the gangway and so to the dry land. Thereafter they rode forward for a considerable distance, until about the first slanting of the afternoon they perceived in the distance three very fair ships drawn up close to the shore. And then they were aware of a knight, clad in full armor and seated upon a noble horse under the shadow of those ships, and they wist that that must be he whom Sir Tristram sought. Then Gouvernail spake to Sir Tristram, saying: "Sir, that knight resting yonder beneath the shelter of the ships must be Sir Marhaus." [Sidenote: Sir Tristram goes forth to meet Sir Marhaus] "Yea," said Sir Tristram, "that is assuredly he." So he gazed very steadily at the knight for a long while, and by and by he said: "Gouvernail, yonder seems to me to be a very great and haughty knight for a knight so young as I am to have to do with in his first battle; yet if God will lend me His strong aid in this affair, I shall assuredly win me great credit at his hands." Then after another short while he said: "Now go, Gouvernail, and leave me alone in this affair, for I do not choose for anyone to be by when I have to do with yonder knight. For either I shall overcome him in this combat or else I will lay down my life at this place. For the case is thus, Gouvernail; if Sir Marhaus should overcome me and if I should yield me to him as vanquished, then mine uncle must pay truage to the King of Ireland for the land of Cornwall; but if I died without yielding me to mine enemy, then he must yet do battle with another champion at another time, if my uncle the King can find such an one to do battle in his behalf. So I am determined either to win this battle or to die therein." Now when Gouvernail heard this, he fell a-weeping in great measure; and he cried out: "Sir, let not this battle be of that sort!" To him Sir Tristram said very steadfastly: "Say no more, Gouvernail, but go as I bid thee." Whereupon Gouvernail turned and went away, as he was bidden to do, weeping very bitterly as he went. [Sidenote: Sir Tristram proclaims his degree] Now by this Sir Marhaus had caught sight of Sir Tristram where he stood in that field, and so presently he came riding thitherward to meet Sir Tristram. When he had come nigh, Sir Marhaus said: "Who art thou, Sir Knight?" Unto these Sir Tristram made reply: "Sir, I am Sir Tristram of Lyonesse, son of King Meliadus of that land, and nephew of King Mark of Cornwall. I am come to do battle upon behalf of the King of Cornwall, to release him from the demands of truage made by the King of Ireland." Quoth Sir Marhaus: "Messire, are you a knight of approval and of battles?" "Nay," said Sir Tristram, "I have only been created knight these three days." "Alas!" said Sir Marhaus, "I am very sorry for thee and for thy noble courage that hath brought thee hither to this place. Thou art not fit to have to do with me, for I am one who hath fought in more than twice twenty battles, each one of which was, I believe, greater than this is like to be. Also I have matched me with the very best knights in the world, and have never yet been overcome. So I advise thee, because of thy extreme youth, to return to King Mark and bid him send me another champion in thy stead, who shall be better seasoned than thou art." "Sir," said Sir Tristram, "I give thee gramercy for thy advice. But I may tell thee that I was made knight for no other purpose than to do battle with thee; so I may not return without having fulfilled mine adventure. Moreover, because of thy great renown and thy courage and prowess, I feel all the more desirous to have to do with thee; for if I should die at thy hand, then there will be no shame to me, but if I should win this battle from thee, then I shall have very great renown in the courts of chivalry." "Well," said Sir Marhaus, "it is not likely that thou shalt die at my hand. For because of thy youth I will not have it that this battle shall be so desperate as that." "Say not so," said Sir Tristram, "for either I shall die at thy hand, or else I shall overcome thee in this battle, for I make my vow to God that I will not yield myself to thee so long as there is life within my body." "Alas!" said Sir Marhaus, "that is certes a great pity. But as thou hast foreordained it, so it must needs be." Therewith he saluted Sir Tristram and drew rein and rode aside to a little distance where he straightway made ready for that battle. Nor was Sir Tristram behind him in making preparation, albeit he was filled with doubts as to the outcome of that undertaking. [Sidenote: Sir Tristram is wounded] Then when they were in all ways prepared, each gave shout and drave spurs into his horse and rushed toward the other with such fury that it was terrible to behold. And each smote the other with his spear in the centre of his shield, and in that encounter Sir Marhaus smote through Sir Tristram's shield and gave Sir Tristram a great wound in his side. Then Sir Tristram felt the blood gush out of that wound in such abundance that it filled his iron boots, so that they were sodden therewith, and he thought he had got his death-wound. But in spite of that grievous bitter stroke, he held his seat and was not overthrown. Then so soon as he had recovered himself he voided his horse and drew his sword and set his shield before him; and when Sir Marhaus saw his preparations, he likewise voided his horse and made ready for battle upon foot. So straightway they came together with terrible fury, lashing at each other with such fearful strength and evil will that it was dreadful to behold. And each gave the other many grievous strokes, so that whole pieces of armor were hewn off from their bodies; and each gave the other many deep wounds, so that that part of the armor that still hung to them became red as though it were painted with red. Likewise the ground was all besprinkled red where they stood, yet neither gave any thought to quitting that battle in which they were engaged. [Sidenote: Sir Tristram gives Sir Marhaus a death-wound] Now for a while Sir Tristram feared because of the wound which he had at first received that he would die in that battle, but by and by he perceived that he was stouter than Sir Marhaus and better winded; wherefore great hope came to him and uplifted him with redoubled strength. Then presently Sir Marhaus fell back a little and when Sir Tristram perceived that he ran in upon him and smote him several times, such direful strokes that Sir Marhaus could not hold up his shield against that assault. Then Sir Tristram perceived that Sir Marhaus was no longer able to hold up his shield, and therewith he smote him a great blow with his sword upon the helmet. So direful was that blow that the sword of Sir Tristram pierced very deep through the helm of Sir Marhaus and into the brainpan. And Sir Tristram's sword stuck fast in the helm and the brain-pan of Sir Marhaus so that Sir Tristram could not pull it out again. Then Sir Marhaus, half a-swoon, fell down upon his knees, and therewith a part of the edge of the blade brake off from Sir Tristram's sword, and remained in the wound that he had given to Sir Marhaus. [Sidenote: Sir Marhaus leaves the field] Then Sir Marhaus was aware that he had got his death-wound, wherefore a certain strength came to him so that he rose to his feet staggering like a drunken man. And at first he began going about in a circle and crying most dolorously. Then as he wist all that had happed he threw away his sword and his shield, and made away from that place, staggering and stumbling like one who had gone blind; for he was all bewildered with that mortal wound, and wist not very well what he was doing or whither he was going. Then Sir Tristram would have made after him to stop him, but he could not do so because he himself was so sorely wounded and so weak from the loss of blood. Yet he called after Sir Marhaus: "Stay, stay, Sir Knight! Let us finish this battle now we are about it!" But to this Sir Marhaus made no answer, but went on down to his ships, staggering and stumbling like a blind man as aforesaid, for the sore wound which he had received still lent him a false strength of body so that he was able to go his way. Then those who were aboard the ships, beholding him thus coming staggering toward them, came down and met him and lifted him up and bore him away to his own ship. Thereafter, as soon as might be they hoisted sail and lifted anchor and took their way from that place. Then by and by came Gouvernail and several others of Sir Tristram's party to where Sir Tristram was; and there they found him leaning upon his sword and groaning very sorely because of the great wound in his side. So presently they perceived that he could not walk, wherefore they lifted him up upon his own shield and bore him thence to that ship that had brought him thither. And when they had come to the ship they laid him down upon a couch and stripped him of his armor to search his wounds. Then they beheld what a great wound it was that Sir Marhaus had given him in the side, and they lifted up their voices in sorrow, for they all believed that he would die. [Sidenote: Sir Tristam returns to Cornwall] So they set sail, and in two days brought him back to King Mark, where he sat at Tintagel in Cornwall. And when King Mark saw how pale and wan and weak Sir Tristram was, he wept and grieved very sorely for sorrow of that sight, for he too thought that Sir Tristram was certainly about to die. But Sir Tristram smiled upon King Mark, and he said: "Lord, have I done well for thy sake?" And King Mark said, "Yea," and fell to weeping again. [Sidenote: Sir Tristram proclaims himself to King Mark] "Then," quoth Tristram, "it is time for me to tell thee who I am who have saved thy kingdom from the shame of having to pay truage to Ireland, and that I am thine own sister's son. For my father is King Meliadus of Lyonesse, and my mother was the Lady Elizabeth, who was thine own sister till God took her soul to Paradise to dwell there with His angels." But when King Mark heard this he went forth from that place and into his own chamber. And when he had come there he fell down upon his knees and cried out aloud: "Alas, alas, that this should be! Rather, God, would I lose my entire kingdom than that my sister's son should come to his death in this wise!" Now it remaineth to say of Sir Marhaus that those who were with him brought him back to Ireland and that there in a little while he died of the wound that Sir Tristram had given him upon the head. But ere he died, and whilst they were dressing that hurt, the Queen of Ireland, who was sister to Sir Marhaus, discovered the broken piece of the blade still in that grim wound. This she drew forth and set aside, and hid very carefully, saying to herself: "If ever I meet that knight to whose sword this piece of blade fitteth, then it will be an evil day for him." Thus I have told you all the circumstances of that great battle betwixt Sir Tristram of Lyonesse and Sir Marhaus of Ireland. And now you shall hear how it befell Sir Tristram thereafter; so harken to what followeth. [Illustration: The Lady Belle Isoult] Chapter Third _How Sir Tristram went to Ireland to be healed of his wound by the King's daughter of Ireland, and of how he came to love the Lady Belle Isoult. Also concerning Sir Palamydes and the Lady Belle Isoult._ Now that grievous hurt which Sir Tristram had received at the hands of Sir Marhaus did not heal, but instead grew even more rankled and sore, so that there were many who thought that there had been treachery practised and that the spearhead had been poisoned to cause such a malignant disease as that with which the wounded man suffered. So by and by Sir Tristram grew so grievously sick of his hurt that all those who were near him thought that he must certainly die. Then King Mark sent everywhere and into all parts for the most wise and learned leeches and chirurgeons to come to Cornwall and search the wounds of Sir Tristram, but of all these no one could bring him any ease. [Sidenote: How Sir Tristram lieth sick in Cornwall] Now one day there came to the court of King Mark a very wise lady, who had travelled much in the world and had great knowledge of wounds of all sorts. At the bidding of the King, she went to where Sir Tristram lay, and searched the wound as so many had already done. And when she had done that she came out of Sir Tristram's chamber and unto King Mark, where he was waiting for her. Then King Mark said to her: "Well, how will it be with yonder knight?" "Lord," quoth she, "it is thus; I can do nothing to save his life, nor do I know of any one who may save it unless it be the King's daughter of Ireland, who is known as the Belle Isoult because of her wonderful beauty. She is the most skilful leech in all of the world, and she alone may hope to bring Sir Tristram back to life and health again, for I believe that if she fail no one else can save him." Then after the aforesaid lady had gone, King Mark went to where Sir Tristram lay, and he told him all that she had said concerning his condition; and King Mark said: "Tristram, wilt thou go to the King's daughter of Ireland and let her search thy wound?" Then Sir Tristram groaned at the thought of the weariness and pain of moving, and he said: "Lord, this is a great undertaking for one who is so sick. Moreover, it is a great risk for me, for, if I go to Ireland, and if it be found that I am he who slew Sir Marhaus, then it is hardly likely that I shall ever escape from that country again with my life. Ne'theless, I am so sorely sick of this wound that I would rather die than live as I am living; wherefore I will go to Ireland for the sake of being healed, if such a thing is possible." Accordingly, a little while after that, King Mark provided a ship to carry Sir Tristram to Ireland. This ship he furnished with sails of silk of divers colors, and he had it hung within with fine embroidered cloth, and fabrics woven with threads of silver and gold, so that in its appearance it was a worthy vessel even for a great king to sail in. Then, when all was ready, King Mark had a number of attendants carry Sir Tristram down to the ship in a litter, and he had them lay Sir Tristram upon a soft couch of crimson satin, which was set upon the deck beneath a canopy of crimson silk, embroidered with threads of silver and garnished with fringe of silver, and Sir Tristram lay there at ease where the breezes of the ocean came pleasantly to him, and breathed upon his face and his temples and his hair and his hands with coolness; and Gouvernail was with Sir Tristram all the while in attendance upon him. [Sidenote: Sir Tristram sails to Ireland to have his wound searched] So they set sail for Ireland, the weather being very fair and pleasant, and on the third day, at about the time of sunset, they came to a part of the coast of Ireland where there was a castle built upon the rocks that rose out of the sea. Now there were several fishermen fishing in boats near that castle, and of these the pilot of Sir Tristram's boat made inquiry what castle that was. To him the fisherman replied: "That castle is the castle of King Angus of Ireland." And the fisherman said: "It so happens that the King and Queen and their daughter, hight the Lady Belle Isoult, and all of their court are there at this very while." This Sir Tristram heard and said: "This is good news, for indeed I am very sick and am right glad that my voyaging is ended." So he gave orders that the pilot should bring the ship close under the walls of that castle, and that he should there let go anchor; and the pilot did as Sir Tristram had commanded him. [Sidenote: How Sir Tristram came to Ireland] Now, as aforesaid, that ship was of a very wonderful appearance, like to the ship of a king or a high prince, wherefore many people came down to the walls of the castle and stood there and gazed at the vessel as it sailed into the harbor. And by that time the sun had set and all the air was illuminated with a marvellous golden light; and in this sky of gold the moon hung like a shield of silver, very bright and steady above the roofs and towers of the castle. And there came from the land a pleasing perfume of blossoms; for it was then in the fulness of the spring-time, and all the fruit-bearing trees were luxuriant with bloom so that the soft air of evening was full of fragrance thereby. Then there came a great content into the heart of Sir Tristram, wherefore he said to Gouvernail: "Gouvernail, either I shall soon be healed of this wound, or else I shall presently die and enter into Paradise free of pain, for I am become very full of content and of peace toward all men." And then he said: "Bring me hither my harp, that I may play upon it a little, for I have a desire to chant in this pleasant evening-time." [Sidenote: Sir Tristram sings] So Gouvernail brought to Sir Tristram his shining harp, and when Sir Tristram had taken it into his hands he tuned it, and when he had tuned it he struck it and sang; and, because of the stillness of the evening, his voice sounded marvellously clear and sweet across the level water, so that those who stood upon the castle walls and heard it thought that maybe an angel was singing on board of that ship. That time the Lady Belle Isoult sat at the window of her bower enjoying the pleasantness of the evening. She also heard Sir Tristram singing, and she said to those damsels who were with her, "Ha, what is that I hear?" Therewith she listened for a little while, and then she said: "Meseems that must be the voice of some angel that is singing." They say: "Nay, Lady, it is a wounded knight singing, and he came to this harbor in a wonderful ship some while ago." Then the Lady Belle Isoult said to a page who was in attendance: "Bid the King and Queen come hither, that they may hear this singing also, for never did I think to hear such singing beyond the walls of Paradise." So the page ran with all speed, and in a little the King and Queen came to the bower of the Lady Belle Isoult; and she and they leaned upon the window-ledge and listened to Sir Tristram whilst he sang in the soft twilight. Then by and by King Angus said: "Now I will have yonder minstrel brought thither to this castle to do us pleasure, for I believe that he must be the greatest minstrel in all the world to sing in that wise." And the Lady Belle Isoult said: "I pray you, sir, do so, for it would be great joy to everybody to have such singing as that in this place." So King Angus sent a barge to that ship, and besought that he who sang should be brought to the castle. At that Sir Tristram was very glad, for he said: "Now I shall be brought to the Lady the Belle Isoult and maybe she will heal me." So he had them bare him to the barge of the King of Ireland, and so they brought him to the castle of King Angus, where they laid him upon a bed in a fair room of the castle. [Sidenote: King Angus cometh to Tristram] Then King Angus came to Sir Tristram where he lay, and he said: "Messire what can I do for you to put you more at your ease than you are?" "Lord," said Sir Tristram, "I pray you to permit the Lady Belle Isoult to search a great wound in my side that I received in battle. For I hear that she is the most skilful leech in all the world, and so I have come hither from a great distance, being in such pain and dole from my grievous hurt that I shall die in a little while unless it be healed." "Messire," said King Angus, "I perceive that you are no ordinary knight, but somebody of high nobility and estate, so it shall be as you desire." And then King Angus said: "I pray you, tell me your name and whence you come." Upon this, Sir Tristram communed within his own mind, saying: "An I say my name is Tristram, haply there may be someone here will know me and that I was the cause why the brother of the Queen of this place hath died." So he said: "Lord, my name is Sir Tramtris, and I am come from a country called Lyonesse, which is a great distance from this." Quoth King Angus, "Well, Sir Tramtris, I am glad that you have come to this place. Now it shall be done to you as you desire, for to-morrow the Lady Belle Isoult shall search your wound to heal it if possible." [Sidenote: My Lady Belle Isoult searches the wound] And so it was as King Angus said, for the next day the Lady Belle Isoult came with her attendants to where Sir Tristram lay, and one of the attendants bare a silver basin and another bare a silver ewer, and others bare napkins of fine linen. So the Lady Belle Isoult came close to Sir Tristram and kneeled beside the couch whereon he lay and said, "Let me see the wound." Therewith Sir Tristram laid bare his bosom and his side and she beheld it. Then she felt great pity for Sir Tristram because of that dolorous wound, and she said: "Alas, that so young and so fair and so noble a knight should suffer so sore a wound as this!" Therewith still kneeling beside Sir Tristram she searched the wound with very gentle, tender touch (for her fingers were like to rose leaves for softness) and lo! she found a part of the blade of a spear-head embedded very deep in the wound of Sir Tristram. This she drew forth very deftly (albeit Sir Tristram groaned with a great passion of pain) and therewithafter came forth an issue of blood like a crimson fountain, whereupon Sir Tristram swooned away like one who had gone dead. But he did not die, for they quickly staunched the flow, set aromatic spices to his nostrils, so that in a little he revived in spirit to find himself at great ease and peace in his body (albeit it was for a while like to the peace of death). [Sidenote: Sir Tristram is healed] Thus it was that the Lady Belle Isoult saved the life of Sir Tristram, for in a little while he was able to be about again, and presently waxed almost entirely hale and strong in limb and body. And now it is to be told how Sir Tristram loved the Lady Belle Isoult and how she loved Sir Tristram. Also how a famous knight, hight Sir Palamydes the Saracen, loved Belle Isoult and of how she loved not him. [Sidenote: Sir Tristram loves the Lady Belle Isoult] For, as was said, it came about that in a little while Sir Tristram was healed of that grievous wound aforetold of so that he was able to come and go whithersoever he chose. But always he would be with the Lady Belle Isoult, for Sir Tristram loved her with a wonderfully passionate regard. And so likewise the lady loved Sir Tristram. For if he loved her because she had saved his life, then she also loved him for the same reason. For she did not ever forget how she had drawn out the head of that spear from the wound at his side, and of how he had groaned when she brought it forth, and of how the blood had gushed out of that wound. Wherefore she loved him very aboundingly for the agony of pain she had one time caused him to suffer. So they two fair and noble creatures were always together in bower or in hall, and no one in all that while wist that Sir Tramtris was Sir Tristram, and that it was his hand that had slain Sir Marhaus of Ireland. So Sir Tristram was there in Ireland for a year, and in that time he grew to be altogether well and sturdy again. [Sidenote: Sir Palamydes cometh to Ireland] Now it was in those days that there came Sir Palamydes the Saracen knight to that place, who was held to be one of the very foremost knights in the world. So great rejoicing was made over him because he had come thither, and great honor was shown to him by everyone. But when Sir Palamydes beheld the Lady Belle Isoult and when he saw how fair she was, he came in a short while to love her with almost as passionate a regard as that with which Sir Tristram loved her, so that he also sought ever to be with her whenever the chance offered. But Belle Isoult felt no regard for Sir Palamydes, but only fear of him, for all of her love was given to Sir Tristram. Nevertheless, because Sir Palamydes was so fierce and powerful a knight, she did not dare to offend him; wherefore she smiled upon him and treated him with all courtesy and kindness although she loved him not, dissembling her regard for him. [Sidenote: Sir Tristram is displeased] All this Sir Tristram beheld from aside and it displeased him a very great deal to see how Sir Palamydes was always beside the lady. But Belle Isoult beheld how Sir Tristram was displeased, wherefore she took occasion to say to him: "Tramtris, be not displeased, for what am I to do? You know very well that I do not love this knight, but I am afraid of him because he is so fierce and so strong." To this Sir Tristram said: "Lady, it would be a great shame to me if I, being by, should suffer any knight to come betwixt you and me and win your regard through fear of him." She said: "Tramtris, what would you do? Would you give challenge to this knight? Lo, you are not yet entirely healed of your hurt, and Sir Palamydes is in perfect strength of body. For indeed it is for you I am most of all afraid lest you and Sir Palamydes should come to battle and lest he should do you a harm before you are entirely healed." [Sidenote: Sir Tristram desires to do battle] "Lady," quoth Sir Tristram, "I thank God that I am not at all afraid of this knight, or of any other knight, and I have to thank you that I am now entirely recovered and am as strong as ever I was. Wherefore I have now a mind to deal with this knight in your behalf. So if you will provide me with armor I will deal with him so that maybe he will not trouble you again. Now I will devise it in this way:--tell your father, King Angus, to proclaim a great jousting. In that jousting I will seek out Sir Palamydes and will encounter him, and I hope with God's aid that I shall overcome him, so that you shall be free from him." Belle Isoult said, "Tramtris, are you able for this?" He said, "Yea, I am as ready as ever I shall be in all of my life." Whereat Belle Isoult said, "It shall be as you will have it." Then Sir Tristram charged Belle Isoult that she should keep secret all this that had been said betwixt them. And more especially she was to keep it secret that he was to take part in such a tournament as that which they had devised. And he said to her: "Lady, I lie here under a great peril to my life, though I cannot tell you what that peril is. But I may tell you that if my enemies should discover me at this place, it would go hard with me to preserve my life from them. Wherefore, if I take part in any such affair as this, it must be altogether a secret betwixt us." So therewith they parted and Lady Belle Isoult went to her father and besought him to proclaim a great day of jousting in honor of Sir Palamydes, and the King said that he would do so. So the King sent forth proclamation to all the courts of that nation that a great tournament was to be held and that great rewards and great honors were to be given to the best knight thereat. And that tournament was talked about in all the courts of chivalry where there were knights who desired to win glory in such affairs at arms. And now it shall be told concerning that tournament and how it befell with Sir Tristram thereat, and with Sir Palamydes thereat. [Illustration: The Queen of Ireland seeks to slay Sir Tristram] Chapter Fourth _How Sir Tristram encountered Sir Palamydes at the tournament and of what befell. Also how Sir Tristram was forced to leave the Kingdom of Ireland._ So came the time for the tournament that King Angus of Ireland had ordained; and that was a very famous affair at arms indeed. For it hath very rarely happened that so noble a gathering of knights hath ever come together as that company which there presented itself for that occasion at the court of the King of Ireland. [Sidenote: Of the court of chivalry at Ireland] For you may know how excellent was the court of chivalry that fore gathered thereat when you shall hear that there came to that tournament, the King of an Hundred Knights and the King of the Scots, and that there came several knights of the Round Table, to wit: Sir Gawaine, Sir Gaheris and Sir Agravaine; and Sir Bagdemagus and Sir Kay and Sir Dodinas, and Sir Sagramore le Desirous, and Sir Gumret the Less, and Sir Griflet; and that there came besides these many other knights of great renown. These and many others gathered at the court of King Angus of Ireland, so that all those meadows and fields coadjacent to the place of battle were gay as beds of flowers with the multitude of tents and pavilions of divers colors that were there emplanted. And on the day of the tournament there came great crowds of people into the lists, so that all that place was alive with movement. For it was as though a sea of people had arisen to overflow the seats and stalls thereof. Now that tournament was to last for three days, and upon the third day there was to be a grand melee in which all these knights contestant were to take stand upon this side or upon that. But upon the first two of those three days Sir Tristram sat in the stall of the King and looked down upon the jousting, for, because of the illness from which he had recovered, he was minded to save his body until the right time should come, what time he should be called upon to do his uttermost. [Sidenote: Sir Palamydes performeth wonders] And in those two days, Sir Tristram beheld that Sir Palamydes did more wonderfully in battle than he would have believed it possible for any knight to do. For Sir Palamydes was aware that the eyes of the Lady Belle Isoult were gazing upon him, wherefore he felt himself uplifted to battle as with the strength of ten. Wherefore he raged about that field like a lion of battle, seeking whom he might overthrow and destroy. And upon the first day he challenged Sir Gawaine to joust with him, and then he challenged Sir Gaheris, and the King of an Hundred Knights, and Sir Griflet, and Sir Sagramore le Desirous and fourteen other knights, and all of these he met and many he overcame, and that without any mishap to himself. And upon the second day he met with great success Sir Agravaine and Sir Griflet and Sir Kay and Sir Dodinas and twelve other knights. Wherefore those who beheld how he did gave great shouts and outcries of applause and acclaim, saying: "Certes, there was never knight in all of the world so great as this knight. Yea; even Sir Launcelot himself could not do more than that knight doeth." Then Belle Isoult was troubled in her mind, and she said: "Tramtris, yonder in very truth is a most fierce and terrible knight. Now somewhiles I have fear that you may not be able to overcome him." Thereat Sir Tristram smiled very grimly, and said: "Lady, already I have overcome in battle a bigger knight than ever Sir Palamydes has been or is like to be." But the Lady Belle Isoult wist not that that knight of whom Sir Tristram spake was Sir Marhaus of Ireland. [Sidenote: Sir Palamydes bespeaks the Lady Belle Isoult] Now upon the evening of the second day of that tournament, Sir Palamydes came to where the Lady Belle Isoult was, and he said: "Lady, all these things I have done for your sake. For had it not been for my love for you, I would not have been able to do a third part of that which I did. Now I think you should have pity and regard for one who loves you so strongly as that; wherefore I beseech you to bestow some part of your good-will upon me." "Sir," said the Lady Belle Isoult, "you are not to forget that there is still another day of this battle, and in it you may not happen to have the same fortune that favored you to-day; so I will wait until you have won that battle also before I answer you." "Well," said Sir Palamydes, "you shall see that I shall do even more worthily to-morrow for your sake than I have done to-day." But the Lady Belle Isoult was not very well pleased with that saying, for she began again to fear that maybe the will of Sir Palamydes was so strong that Sir Tristram would not have any success against him. So came the third day of that very famous contest at arms, and when this morning was come there began to gather together in the two parties those who were to contest the one against the other. Of one of these parties, Sir Palamydes was the chiefest knight, and upon that side was also Sir Gawaine and several of the knights who were with him. For these said, "There shall certes be greater credit to be had with Sir Palamydes than against him," and so they joined them with his party. Of the other party the chiefest knights were the King of an Hundred Knights and the King of Scots, and both of these were very famous and well-approved champions, of high courage and remarkable achievements. [Sidenote: Belle Isoult arms Sir Tristram] Now when the time was nigh ready for that tournament, Sir Tristram went to put on the armor that the Lady Belle Isoult had provided him, and when he was armed he mounted very lightly upon the horse which she had given him. And the armor of Sir Tristram was white, shining like to silver, and the horse was altogether white, and the furniture and trappings thereof were all white, so that Sir Tristram glistened with extraordinary splendor. Now when he was armed and prepared in all ways, the Lady Belle Isoult came to where he was and she said, "Tramtris, are you ready?" And he answered "Yea." Therewith she took the horse of Sir Tristram by the bridle and she led him to the postern gate of the castle, and put him out that way into a fair field that lay beyond; and Sir Tristram abided in the fields for some while until the tournament should have begun. But the Lady Belle Isoult went to the tournament with her father, the King, and her mother, the Queen, and took her station at that place assigned to her whence she might overlook the field. [Sidenote: How Sir Palamydes fought in the tournament] So in a little while that friendly battle began. And again Sir Palamydes was filled with the vehement fury of contest, wherefore he raged about the field, spreading terror whithersoever he came. For first he made at the King of an Hundred Knights, and he struck that knight so direful a blow that both horse and man fell to the ground with the force thereof. Then in the same manner he struck the King of Scots with his sword, and smote him straightway out of the saddle also. Then he struck down one after another, seven other knights, all of well-proved strength and prowess, so that all those who looked thereon cried out, "Is he a man or is he a demon?" So, because of the terror of Sir Palamydes, all those in that contest bore away from him as they might do from a lion in anger. At this time came Sir Tristram, riding at a free pace, shining like to a figure of silver. Then many saw him and observed him and said to one another: "Who is this knight, and what party will he join with to do battle?" These had not long to wait to know what side he would join, for immediately Sir Tristram took stand with that party which was the party of the King of an Hundred Knights and the King of Scots, and at that the one party was very glad, and the other party was sorry; for they deemed that Sir Tristram was certes some great champion. [Sidenote: Sir Tristram enters the tournament] Then straightway there came against Sir Tristram four knights of the other party, and one of these was Sir Gaheris, and another was Sir Griflet and another was Sir Bagdemagus and another was Sir Kay. But Sir Tristram was possessed with a great joy of battle, so that in a very short time he had struck down or overthrown all those knights, beginning with Sir Gaheris, and ending with Sir Kay the seneschal. This Sir Gawaine beheld, and said to Sir Sagramore: "Yonder is certes a knight of terrible strength; now let us go and see of what mettle he be." Therewith Sir Gawaine pushed against Sir Tristram from the one side, and Sir Sagramore came against him on the other side, and so they met him both at once. Then first Sir Gawaine struck Sir Tristram such a buffet that the horse of Sir Tristram turned twice about with the force of that stroke; and therewith Sir Sagramore smote him a buffet upon the other side so that Sir Tristram wist not upon which side to defend himself. Then, at those blows Sir Tristram waxed so exceedingly fierce that it was as though a fire of rage flamed up into his brains and set them into a blaze of rage. So with that he rose up in his stirrups and launched so dreadful a blow upon Sir Gawaine that I believe nothing could have withstood the force of that blow. For it clave through the shield of Sir Gawaine and it descended upon the crown of his helmet and it clave away a part of his helmet and a part of the epauliere of his shoulder; and with the force of that dreadful, terrible blow, Sir Gawaine fell down upon the ground and lay there as though he were dead. Then Sir Tristram wheeled upon Sir Sagramore (who sat wonder-struck at that blow he had beheld) and thereafter he smote him too, so that he fell down and lay upon the ground in a swoon from which he did not recover for more than two hours. Now Sir Palamydes also had beheld those two strokes that Sir Tristram had given, wherefore he said: "Hah! Yonder is a very wonderful knight. Now if I do not presently meet him, and that to my credit, he will have more honor in this battle than I." So therewith Sir Palamydes pushed straight against Sir Tristram, and [Sidenote: Sir Palamydes rides against Sir Tristram] when Sir Tristram beheld that he was very glad, for he said: "Now it will either be Sir Palamydes his day, or else it will be mine." So he upon his part pushed against Sir Palamydes with good intent to engage him in battle, and then they two met in the midst of the field. Then immediately Sir Palamydes smote Sir Tristram such a buffet that Sir Tristram thought a bolt of lightning had burst upon him, and for a little while he was altogether bemazed and wist not where he was. But when he came to himself he was so filled with fury that his heart was like to break therewith. [Sidenote: Sir Tristram smites Sir Palamydes] Thereupon he rushed upon Sir Palamydes and smote him again and again and again with such fury and strength that Sir Palamydes was altogether stunned at the blows he received and bare back before them. Then Sir Tristram perceived how that Sir Palamydes bare his shield low because of the fierceness of that assault, and thereupon he rose up in his stirrups and struck Sir Palamydes upon the crown of the helmet so dreadful a buffet that the brains of Sir Palamydes swam like water, and he must needs catch the pommel of his saddle to save himself from falling. Then Sir Tristram smote him another buffet, and therewith darkness came upon the sight of Sir Palamydes and he rolled off from his horse into the dust beneath its feet. Then all who beheld the encounter shouted very loud and with great vehemence, for it was the very best and most notable assault at arms that had been performed in all that battle. But most of those who beheld that assault cried out "The Silver Knight!" For at that time no one but the Lady Belle Isoult wist who that silver knight was. But she wist very well who he was, and was so filled with the glory of his prowess that she wept for joy thereof. [Sidenote: Belle Isoult declares Sir Tristram] Then the King of Ireland said: "Who is yonder knight who hath so wonderfully overthrown Sir Palamydes? I had not thought there was any knight in the world so great as he; but this must be some great champion whom none of us know." Upon that the Lady Belle Isoult, still weeping for joy, could contain herself no longer, but cried out: "Sir, that is Tramtris, who came to us so nigh to death and who hath now done us so great honor being of our household! For I knew very well that he was no common knight but some mighty champion when I first beheld him." At that the King of Ireland was very much astonished and overjoyed, and he said: "If that is indeed so, then it is a very great honor for us all." Now after that assault Sir Tristram took no more part in that battle but withdrew to one side. But he perceived where the esquires attendant upon Sir Palamydes came to him and lifted him up and took him away. Then by and by he perceived that Sir Palamydes had mounted his horse again with intent to leave that meadow of battle, and in a little he saw Sir Palamydes ride away with his head bowed down like to one whose heart was broken. All this Sir Tristram beheld and did not try to stay Sir Palamydes in his departure. But some while after Sir Palamydes had quitted that place, Sir Tristram also took his departure, going in that same direction that Sir Palamydes had gone. Then after he had come well away from the meadow of battle, Sir Tristram set spurs to his horse and rode at a hard gallop along that way that Sir Palamydes had taken. So he rode at such a gait for a considerable pass until, by and by, he perceived Sir Palamydes upon the road before him; and Sir Palamydes was at that time come to the edge of a woods where there were several stone windmills with great sails swinging very slowly around before a strong wind that was blowing. [Sidenote: Sir Tristram overthrows Palamydes again] Now this was a lonely place, and one very fit to do battle in, wherefore Sir Tristram cried out to Sir Palamydes in a loud voice: "Sir Palamydes! Sir Palamydes! Turn you about! For here is the chance for you to recover the honor that you have lost to me." Thereupon Sir Palamydes, hearing that loud voice, turned him about. But when he beheld that the knight who called was he who had just now wrought such shame upon him, he ground his teeth together with rage, and therewith drave his horse at Sir Tristram, drawing his sword so that it flashed like lightning in the bright sunlight. And when he came nigh to Sir Tristram, he stood up in his stirrups and lashed a blow at him with all his might and main; for he said to himself: "Maybe I shall now recover mine honor with one blow which I lost to this knight a while since." But Sir Tristram put aside that blow of Sir Palamydes with his shield with very great skill and dexterity, and thereupon, recovering himself, he lashed at Sir Palamydes upon his part. And at that first stroke Sir Tristram smote down the shield of Sir Palamydes, and gave him such a blow upon the head that Sir Palamydes fell down off his horse upon the earth. Then Sir Tristram voided his own horse very quickly, and running to Sir Palamydes where he lay he plucked off his helmet with great violence. Therewith he cried out very fiercely: "Sir Knight, yield thee to me, or I will slay thee." And therewithal he lifted up his sword as though to strike off the head of Sir Palamydes. Then when Sir Palamydes saw Sir Tristram standing above him in that wise, he dreaded his buffets so that he said: "Sir Knight, I yield me to thee to do thy commands, if so be thou wilt spare my life." Thereupon Sir Tristram said, "Arise," and at that Sir Palamydes got him up to his knees with some ado, and so remained kneeling before Sir Tristram. "Well," said Sir Tristram, "I believe you have saved your life by thus yielding yourself to me. Now this shall be my commandment upon you. First of all, my commandment is that you forsake the Lady Belle Isoult, and that you do not come near her for the space of an entire year. And this is my second commandment; that from this day you do not assume the arms of knighthood for an entire year and a day." "Alas!" said Sir Palamydes, "why do you not slay me instead of bringing me to such shame as this! Would that I had died instead of yielding myself to you as I did." And therewith he wept for shame and despite. "Well," said Sir Tristram, "let that pass which was not done. For now you have yielded yourself to me and these are my commands." So with that Sir Tristram set his sword back again into its sheath, and he mounted his horse and rode away, leaving Sir Palamydes where he was. [Sidenote: Sir Palamydes disarms himself] But after Sir Tristram had gone, Sir Palamydes arose, weeping aloud. And he said: "This is such shame to me that I think there can be no greater shame." Thereupon he drew his misericordia, and he cut the thongs of his harness and he tore the pieces of armor from off his body and flung them away very furiously, upon the right hand and upon the left. And when he had thus stripped himself of all of his armor, he mounted his horse and rode away into the forest, weeping like one altogether brokenhearted. So Sir Tristram drave Sir Palamydes away from the Lady Belle Isoult as he had promised to do. Now when Tristram came back to the castle of the King of Ireland once more, he thought to enter privily in by the postern-gate as he had gone out. But lo! instead of that he found a great party waiting for him before the castle and these gave him loud acclaim, crying, "Welcome, Sir Tramtris! Welcome, Sir Tramtris!" And King Angus came forward and took the hand of Sir Tristram, and he also said: "Welcome, Sir Tramtris, for you have brought us great honor this day!" [Sidenote: Sir Tristram chides Belle Isoult] But Sir Tristram looked at the Lady the Belle Isoult with great reproach and by and by when they were together he said: "Lady, why did you betray me who I was when you had promised me not to do so?" "Sir," she said, "I meant not to betray you, but in the joy of your victory I know not very well what I said." "Well," said Sir Tristram, "God grant that no harm come of it." She said, "What harm can come of it, Messire?" Sir Tristram said: "I may not tell you, Lady, but I fear that harm will come of it." Anon the Queen of Ireland came and said: "Tramtris, one so nigh to death as you have been should not so soon have done battle as you have done. Now I will have a bain prepared and you shall bathe therein, for you are not yet hale and strong." "Lady," said Tristram, "I do not need any bain, for I believe I am now strong and well in all wise." "Nay," said the Queen, "you must have that bain so that no ill may come to you hereafter from this battle which you have fought." So she had that bain prepared of tepid water, and it was very strong and potent with spices and powerful herbs of divers sorts. And when that bain was prepared, Sir Tristram undressed and entered the bath, and the Queen and the Lady Belle Isoult were in the adjoining chamber which was his bed-chamber. [Sidenote: The Queen of Ireland beholds Sir Tristram's sword] Now whilst Sir Tristram was in that bath, the Queen and Belle Isoult looked all about his chamber. And they beheld the sword of Sir Tristram where it lay, for he had laid it upon the bed when he had unlatched the belt to make himself ready for that bath. Then the Queen said to the Lady Belle Isoult, "See what a great huge sword this is," and thereupon she lifted it and drew the blade out of its sheath, and she beheld what a fair, bright, glistering sword it was. Then in a little she saw where, within about a foot and a half from the point, there was a great piece in the shape of a half-moon broken out of the edge of the sword; and she looked at that place for a long while. Then of a sudden she felt a great terror, for she remembered how even such a piece of sword as that which had been broken off from that blade, she had found in the wound of Sir Marhaus of which he had died. So she stood for a while holding that sword of Sir Tristram in her hand and looking as she had been turned into stone. At this the Lady Belle Isoult was filled with a sort of fear, wherefore she said, "Lady, what ails you?" The Queen said, "Nothing that matters," and therewith she laid aside the sword of Sir Tristram and went very quickly to her own chamber. There she opened her cabinet and took thence the piece of sword-blade which she had drawn from the wound of Sir Marhaus, and which she had kept ever since. With this she hurried back to the chamber of Sir Tristram, and fitted that piece of the blade to the blade; and lo! it fitted exactly, and without flaw. [Sidenote: The Queen assails Sir Tristram] Upon that the Queen was seized as with a sudden madness; for she shrieked out in a very loud voice, "Traitor! Traitor! Traitor!" saying that word three times. Therewith she snatched up the sword of Sir Tristram and she ran with great fury into the room where he lay in his bath. And she beheld him where he was there all naked in his bath, and therewith she rushed at him and lashed at him with his sword. But Sir Tristram threw himself to one side and so that blow failed of its purpose. Then the Queen would have lashed at him again or have thrust him through with the weapon; but at that Gouvernail and Sir Helles ran to her and catched her and held her back, struggling and screaming very violently. So they took the sword away from her out of her hands, and all the while she shrieked like one gone entirely distracted. Then as soon as Gouvernail and Sir Helles loosed her, she ran very violently out of that room with great outcry of screaming, and so to King Angus and flung herself upon her knees before him, crying out: "Justice! Justice! I have found that man who slew my brother! I beseech of you that you will deal justice upon him." Then King Angus rose from where he sat, and he said: "Where is that man? Bring me to him." And the Queen said: "It is Tramtris, who hath come hither unknown unto this place." King Angus said: "Lady, what is this you tell me? I cannot believe that what you say is true." Upon this the Queen cried out: "Go yourself, Lord, and inquire, and find out how true it is." Then King Angus rose, and went forth from that place, and he went to the chamber of Sir Tristram. And there he found that Sir Tristram had very hastily dressed himself and had armed himself in such wise as he was able. Then King Angus came to Tristram, and he said: "How is this, that I find thee armed? Art thou an enemy to my house?" And Tristram wept, and said: "Nay, Lord, I am not your enemy, but your friend, for I have great love for you and for all that is yours, so that I would be very willing to do battle for you even unto death if so be I were called upon to do so." Then King Angus said: "If that is so, how is it that I find thee here armed as if for battle, with thy sword in thy hand?" "Lord," said Sir Tristram, "although I be friends with you and yours, yet I know not whether you be friends or enemies unto me; wherefore I have prepared myself so that I may see what is your will with me, for I will not have you slay me without defence upon my part." Then King Angus said: "Thou speakest in a very foolish way, for how could a single knight hope to defend himself against my whole household? Now I bid thee tell me who thou art, and what is thy name, and why thou earnest hither knowing that thou hadst slain my brother?" [Sidenote: Sir Tristram confesses to King Angus] Then Sir Tristram said, "Lord, I will tell thee all the truth." And therewith he confessed everything to King Angus, to wit: who was his father and his mother, and how he was born and reared; how he fought Sir Marhaus, and for what reason; and of how he came hither to be healed of his wound, from which else he must die in very grievous pain. And he said: "All this is truth, Lord, and it is truth that I had no ill-will against Sir Marhaus; for I only stood to do battle with him for the sake of mine uncle, King Mark of Cornwall, and to enhance mine own honor; and I took my fortune with him as he took his with me. Moreover, I fought with Sir Marhaus upon the same day that I was made knight, and that was the first battle which I fought, and in that battle I was wounded so sorely that I was like to die as you very well know. As for him, he was a knight well-tried and seasoned with many battles, and he suffered by no treachery but only with the fortune of war." So King Angus listened to all that Sir Tristram said, and when he had ended, quoth he: "As God sees me, Tristram, I cannot deny that you did with Sir Marhaus as a true knight should. For it was certes your part to take the cause of your uncle upon you if you had the heart to do so, and it was truly a real knightly thing for you who were so young to seek honor at the hands of so famous a knight as Sir Marhaus. For I do not believe that until you came his way there was any knight in the world who was greater than he, unless it were Sir Launcelot of the Lake. Wherefore, from that, and from what I saw you do at the tournament, some time ago, I believe that you are one of the strongest knights in the world, and the peer of Sir Launcelot, or of anybody else. "But though all this is true, nevertheless it will not be possible for me to maintain you in this country, for if I keep you here I shall greatly displease not only the Queen and her kin, but many of those lords and knights who were kin to Sir Marhaus or who were united to him in pledges of friendship. So you must even save yourself as you can and leave here straightway, for I may not help or aid you in any way." Then Sir Tristram said: "Lord, I thank you for your great kindness unto me, and I know not how I shall repay the great goodness that my Lady Belle Isoult hath showed to me. For I swear to you upon the pommel of my sword which I now hold up before me that I would lay down my life for her sake. Yea, and my honor too! for she hath the entire love of my heart, so that I would willingly die for her, or give up for her all that I have in the world. Now as for my knighthood, I do believe that I shall in time become a knight of no small worship, for I feel within my heart that this shall be so. So if my life be spared, it may be that you will gain more having me for your friend and your true servant than you will by taking my life in this outland place. For whithersoever I go I give you my knightly word that I shall be your daughter's servant, and that I shall ever be her true knight in right or in wrong, and that I shall never fail her if I shall be called upon to do her service." Then King Angus meditated upon this for a while, and he said: "Tristram, what thou sayest is very well said, but how shall I get you away from this place in safety?" Sir Tristram said: "Lord, there is but one way to get me away with credit unto yourself. Now I beseech you of your grace that I may take leave of my lady your daughter, and that I may then take leave of all your knights and kinsmen as a right knight should. And if there be any among them who chooses to stop me or to challenge my going, then I must face that one at my peril, however great it may be." "Well," said King Angus, "that is a very knightly way to behave, and so it shall be as you will have it." So Sir Tristram went down stairs to a certain chamber where Belle Isoult was. And he went straight to her and took her by the hand; and he said: "Lady, I am to go away from this place, if I may do so with credit to my honor; but before I go I must tell you that I shall ever be your own true knight in all ways that a knight may serve a lady. For no other lady shall have my heart but you, so I shall ever be your true knight. Even though I shall haply never see your face again, yet I shall ever carry your face with me in my heart, and the thought of you shall always abide with me withersoever I go." At this the Lady Belle Isoult fell to weeping in great measure, and thereat the countenance of Sir Tristram also was all writhed with passion, and he said, "Lady, do not weep so!" She said, "Alas I cannot help it!" Then he said: "Lady, you gave me my life when I thought I was to lose it, and you brought me back from pain unto ease, and from sorrow unto joy. Would God I were suffering all those pangs as aforetime, so that there might be no more tears upon your face." [Sidenote: Sir Tristram parts from Belle Isoult] Then, King Angus being by, he took her face into his hands and kissed her upon the forehead, and the eyes, and the lips. Therewith he turned and went away, all bedazed with his sorrow, and feeling for the latch of the door ere he was able to find it and go out from that place. After that Sir Tristram went straight unto the hall of the castle, and there he found a great many of the lords of the castle and knights attendant upon the King. For the news of these things had flown fast, and many of them were angry and some were doubtful. But Tristram came in very boldly, clad all in full armor, and when he stood in the midst of them he spoke loud and with great courage, saying: "If there be any man here whom I have offended in any way, let him speak, and I will give him entire satisfaction whoever he may be. But let such speech be now or never, for here is my body to make good my knighthood against the body of any man, whomsoever he may be." At this all those knights who were there stood still and held their peace, and no man said anything against Sir Tristram (although there were several knights and lords who were kin to the Queen), for the boldness of Tristram overawed them, and no one had the heart to answer him. So after a little while Sir Tristram left that place, without turning his head to see if any man followed him. [Sidenote: Sir Tristram departs from Ireland] So he left that castle and Gouvernail went with him, and no one stopped him in his going. After that, he and Gouvernail came to the shore and took a boat and they came to the ship of Sir Tristram, and so they sailed away from Ireland. But the heart of Sir Tristram was so full of sorrow that he wished a great many times that he was dead. So Sir Tristram, though as to his body he was very whole and sound, was, as to his spirit, very ill at ease; for though he was so well and suffered no pain, yet it appeared to him that all the joy of his life had been left behind him, so that he could nevermore have any more pleasure in this world which lieth outside of the walls of Paradise. [Illustration: Sir Tristram harpeth before King Mark] Chapter Fifth _How Sir Tristram was sent by command of King Mark to go to Ireland to bring the Lady the Belle Isoult from Ireland to Cornwall and how it fared with him._ So Sir Tristram came back again to Cornwall, and King Mark and all the knights and lords of the court of the King gave him great welcome and made much joy over him because he had returned safely. But Sir Tristram took no joy in their joy because he was filled with such heavy melancholy that it was as though even the blue sky had turned to sackcloth to his eyes, so that he beheld nothing bright in all the world. [Sidenote: Sir Tristram tells of the Lady Bell Isoult] But though he had no great pleasure in life, yet Sir Tristram made many very good songs about Belle Isoult; about her beauty and her graciousness; about how he was her sad, loving knight; about how he was pledged unto her to be true to her all of his life even though he might never hope to see her again. These like words he would sing to the music of his shining, golden harp, and King Mark loved to listen to him. And sometimes King Mark would sigh very deeply and maybe say: "Messire, that lady of thine must in sooth be a very wonderful, beautiful, gracious lady." And Sir Tristram would say, "Yea, she is all that." So it was at that time that King Mark had great love for Sir Tristram; in a little while all that was very different, and his love was turned to bitter hate, as you shall presently hear tell. Now in those days the knights of Cornwall were considered to be the least worthy of all knights in that part of the world, for they had so little skill and prowess at arms that they were a jest and a laughing-stock to many courts of chivalry. It was said of them that a knight-champion of Cornwall was maybe a knight, but certes was no champion at all; and this was great shame to all those of Cornwall, more especially as that saying was in a great measure true. [Sidenote: Sir Bleoberis comes to Cornwall] One day there came to the court of Cornwall a very noble, haughty knight, hight Sir Bleoberis de Ganys, who was brother to Sir Blamor de Ganys and right cousin to Sir Launcelot of the Lake. This knight was a fellow of King Arthur's Round Table, and so he was received with great honor at Cornwall, and much joy was taken of his being there; for it was not often that knights of such repute as he came to those parts. At that time Sir Tristram was not present at the court, having gone hunting into the forest, but a messenger was sent to him with news that Sir Bleoberis was present at the court of the King and that King Mark wished him to be at court also. Now whilst Sir Tristram was upon his way to return to the court in obedience to these commands, there was held a feast at the castle of the King in honor of Sir Bleoberis. There was much strong wine drunk at that feast, so that the brains of Sir Bleoberis and of others grew very much heated therewith. Then, what with the heat of the wine and the noise and tumult of the feast, Sir Bleoberis waxed very hot-headed, and boastful. So, being in that condition and not knowing very well how he spake, he made great boast of the prowess of the knights of King Arthur's court above those of Cornwall. And in this boastful humor he said: "It is perfectly true that one single knight of the Round Table is the peer of twenty knights of Cornwall, for so it is said and so I maintain it to be." Upon that there fell a silence over all that part of the feast, for all the knights and lords who were there heard what Sir Bleoberis said, and yet no one knew how to reply to him. As for King Mark, he looked upon Sir Bleoberis, smiling very sourly, and as though with great distaste of his words, and he said: "Messire, inasmuch as thou art our guest, and sitting here at feast with us, it is not fit that we should take thy words seriously; else what thou sayst might be very easily disproved." Upon this the blood rushed with great violence into the face and head of Sir Bleoberis, and he laughed very loud. Then he said: "Well, Lord, it need not be that I should be a guest here very long. And as for what I say, you may easily put the truth thereof to the proof." [Sidenote: Sir Bleoberis challenges the knights of Cornwall] Therewith Sir Bleoberis arose and looked about him, and he perceived that there was near by where he stood a goblet of gold very beautifully chased and cunningly carved. This Sir Bleoberis took into his hand, and it was half full of red wine. So he stood up before them all, and he cried in a very loud voice: "Messires, and all you knights of Cornwall, here I drink to your more excellent courage and prowess, and wish that you may have better fortune in arms than you have heretofore proved yourselves to have?" And therewith he drank all the wine that was in the goblet. Then he said: "Now I go away from here and take this goblet with me; and if any knight of Cornwall may take it away from me and bring it back again to the King, then I am very willing to own that there are better knights in this country than I supposed there to be." Therewith he turned and went out from that place very haughtily and scornfully, taking that goblet with him, and not one of all those knights who were there made any move to stay him, or to reprove him for his discourteous speech. Now after he had come out of the hall and into the cool of the air, the heat of the wine soon left him, and he began to repent him of what he had done; and he said: "Alas! meseems I was not very courteous to King Mark, who was mine host." So for a while he was minded to take that goblet back again and make amends for what he had said; but afterward he could not do this because of his pride. So he went to the chamber that had been allotted to him and clad himself in his armor, and after that he rode away from the court of King Mark carrying the goblet with him. [Sidenote: Sir Tristram is angry] Now some while after he had gone, Sir Tristram came into the hall where the others were, and there he found them all sitting with ill countenances, and no man daring, for shame, to look at his fellow. So Sir Tristram came to King Mark and said: "Where is Sir Bleoberis?" And King Mark said, "He is gone away." Sir Tristram said, "Why did he go?" Thereupon King Mark told Sir Tristram of what had befallen, and how Sir Bleoberis had taken away that goblet to the great shame and scorn of all those who were there. Upon this the blood flew very violently into Sir Tristram's face, and he said: "Was there no knight here with spirit enough to call reproof upon Sir Bleoberis, or to stay him in his going?" Therewith he looked all about that hall, and he was like a lion standing among them, and no man dared to look him in the face or to reply to him. Then he said: "Well, if there is no knight in Cornwall who hath the will to defend his King, then is there a knight of Lyonesse who will do so because he received knighthood at the hands of the King of Cornwall." And therewith he turned and went away, and left them very haughtily, and they were all still more abashed than they had been before. Then Sir Tristram went to his chamber and had himself armed in all wise; and he took his horse and mounted and rode away in the direction that Sir Bleoberis had gone, and Gouvernail went with him. [Sidenote: Sir Tristram follows Sir Bleoberis] So Sir Tristram and Gouvernail rode at a good pace for a long time, making inquiry of whomsoever they met if Sir Bleoberis had passed that way. At last they entered the forest and rode therein a great way, meeting no one till toward the latter part of the afternoon. By and by they saw before them two knights, very large and strong of frame and clad all in bright and shining armor, and each riding a great war-horse of Flemish strain. [Sidenote: Sir Tristram comes to two knights] "Gouvernail," said Sir Tristram, "ride forward apace and see for me who are yonder knights." So Gouvernail rode forward at a gallop, and so, in a little, came near enough to the two knights to see the devices upon their shields. Upon that he returned to Sir Tristram, and said: "Messire, those are two very famous worthy knights of King Arthur's Court, and of the two you are acquainted with one, but the other is a stranger to you. For the one is Sir Sagramore le Desirous, who was at that tournament in Ireland, and the other is Sir Dodinas le Sauvage." "Well," said Sir Tristram, "those are indeed two very good, worthy knights. Now if you will sit here for a while, I will go forward and have speech with them." "Messire," said Gouvernail, "I would counsel you not to have to do with those knights, for there are hardly any knights more famous at arms than they, so it is not likely that you can have success of them if you should assay them." But to this Sir Tristram said: "Peace, Gouvernail! Hold thy peace, and bide here while I go forward!" Now those knights when they became aware that Sir Tristram and Gouvernail were there, had halted at a clear part of the woodland to await what should befall. Unto them Sir Tristram came, riding with great dignity and haughtiness, and when he had come nigh enough he drew rein and spoke with great pride of bearing, saying: "Messires, I require of you to tell me whence you come, and whither you go, and what you do in these marches?" Unto him Sir Sagramore made reply, speaking very scornfully: "Fair knight, are you a knight of Cornwall?" and Sir Tristram said: "Why do you ask me that?" "Messire," said Sir Sagramore, "I ask you that because it hath seldom been heard tell that a Cornish knight hath courage to call upon two knights to answer such questions as you have asked of us." "Well," said Sir Tristram, "for the matter of that, I am at this present a knight of Cornwall, and I hereby let you know that you shall not go away from here unless you either answer my question or give me satisfaction at arms." Then Sir Dodinas spoke very fiercely, saying: "Sir Cornish knight, you shall presently have all the satisfaction at arms that you desire and a great deal more than you desire." Therewith he took a very stout spear in his hand and rode to a little distance, and Sir Tristram, beholding his intent to do battle, also rode to a little distance, and took stand in such a place as seemed to him to be best. Then, when they were in all wise prepared, they rushed together with such astonishing vehemence that the earth shook and trembled beneath them. [Sidenote: Sir Tristram does battle with Sir Dodinas] Therewith they met in the middle of their course with a great uproar of iron and wood. But in that onset the spear of Sir Dodinas broke into a great many small pieces, but the spear of Sir Tristram held, so that in the encounter he lifted Sir Dodinas entirely out of his saddle, and out behind the crupper of his horse. And he flung Sir Dodinas down so violently that his neck was nearly broken, and he lay for a while in a deep swoon like one who has been struck dead. Then Sir Sagramore said: "Well, Sir Knight, that was certes a very great buffet that you gave my fellow, but now it is my turn to have ado with you." [Sidenote: Sir Tristram does battle with Sir Sagramore] So therewith he took also his spear in hand and chose his station for an assault as Sir Dodinas had done, and Sir Tristram also took station as he had done before. Then immediately they two ran together with the same terrible force that Sir Tristram and Sir Dodinas had coursed, and in that encounter Sir Tristram struck Sir Sagramore so direful a buffet with his spear that he overthrew both horse and man, and the horse, falling upon Sir Sagramore, so bruised his leg that he could not for a while arise from where he lay. Therewith Sir Tristram, having run his course, came back to where those two knights lay upon the ground, and he said, "Fair Knights, will you have any more fighting?" They said, "No, we have had fighting enough." Then Sir Tristram said: "I pray you, tell me, are there any bigger knights at the court of King Arthur than you? If it is not so, then I should think you would take great shame to yourselves that you have been overthrown the one after the other by a single knight. For this day a knight of Cornwall hath assuredly matched you both to your great despite." [Sidenote: Sir Tristram acknowledges his degree] Then Sir Sagramore said: "Sir, I pray you upon your true knighthood to tell us who you are, for you are assuredly one of the greatest knights in the world." Upon this Sir Tristram laughed, "Nay," quoth he, "I am as yet a young knight, who has had but little proof in battle. As for my name, since you ask it of me, upon my knighthood I am not ashamed to tell you that I am hight Sir Tristram, and that I am King Meliadus' son of Lyonesse." "Ha!" said Sir Sagramore, "if that be so, then there is little shame in being overthrown by you. For not only do I well remember how at the court of the King of Ireland you overthrew six knights of the Round Table, and how easily you overthrew Sir Palamydes the Saracen, but it is also very well known how you did battle with Sir Marhaus, and of how you overcame him. Now Sir Marhaus and Sir Palamydes were two of the best knights in the world, so it is not astonishing that you should have done as you did with us. But, since you have overthrown us, what is it you would have us do?" "Messires," said Sir Tristram, "I have only to demand two things of you. One of them is that you give me your word that you will go to Cornwall and confess to King Mark that you have been overthrown by a Cornish knight; and the second thing is that you tell me if you saw Sir Bleoberis de Ganys pass this way?" They say: "Messire, touching that demand you make upon us to go to King Mark and to confess our fall, that we will do as you desire; and as for Sir Bleoberis, we met him only a short while ago, and he cannot even now be very far from this place." "Well," said Sir Tristram, "I give you good den, and thank you for your information. I have some words to say to Sir Bleoberis before he leave these marches." So thereafter he called Gouvernail, and they two rode into the forest and on their way as fast as they were able. As for Sir Dodinas and Sir Sagramore, they betook their course to the court of King Mark, as they had promised to do. [Sidenote: Sir Tristram comes to Sir Bleoberis] Now, by and by, after Sir Tristram and Gouvernail had gone some considerable distance farther upon that road, they beheld Sir Bleoberis before them in a forest path, riding very proudly and at an easy pass upon his way. At that time the sun was setting very low toward the earth, so that all the tops of the forest trees were aflame with a very ruddy light, though all below in the forest was both cool and gray. Now when Sir Tristram and Gouvernail with him had come pretty nigh to Sir Bleoberis, Sir Tristram called to him in a very loud voice, and bade him turn and stand. Therewith Sir Bleoberis turned about and waited for Sir Tristram to come up with him. And when Sir Tristram was come near by, he said to Sir Bleoberis: "Messire, I hear tell that you have with you a very noble goblet which you have taken in a shameful way from the table of King Mark of Cornwall. Now I demand of you that you give me that goblet to take back unto the King again." "Well," said Sir Bleoberis, "you shall freely have that goblet if you can take it from me, and if you will look, you will see where it hangs here from my saddle-horn. But I may tell you that I do not believe that there is any Cornish knight who may take away that goblet against my will." "As for that," said Sir Tristram, "we shall see in a little while how it may be." [Sidenote: Sir Tristram overcometh Sir Bleoberis] Therewith each knight took his spear in hand and rode a little distance away, and made himself in all wise ready for the assault. Then when they were in all ways prepared, each launched himself against the other, coming together with such violence that sparks of fire flew out from the points of their spears. And in that assault the horse of each knight was overthrown, but each knight voided his saddle and leaped very lightly to earth, without either having had a fall. Then each drew his sword and set his shield before him, and therewith came together, foining and lashing with all the power of their might. Each gave the other many sore strokes, so that the armor of each was indented in several places and in other places was stained with red. Then at last Sir Tristram waxed very wode with anger and he rushed at Sir Bleoberis, smiting him so fiercely that Sir Bleoberis bare back and held his shield low before him. This Sir Tristram perceived, and therewith, rushing in upon Sir Bleoberis, he smote that knight such a great buffet upon the head that Sir Bleoberis fell down upon his knees, without having strength to keep his feet. Then Sir Tristram rushed off the helmet of Sir Bleoberis, and he said, "Sir Knight, yield to me or I shall slay you." "Messire," said Sir Bleoberis, "I yield myself to you, and indeed you are as right a knight as ever I met in all of my life." Then Sir Tristram took Sir Bleoberis by the hand and he lifted him up upon his feet, and he said: "Sir, I am very sorry for to have had to do with you in this fashion, for almost would I rather that you should have overcome me than that I should have overcome you. For I do not at any time forget that you are cousin unto Sir Launcelot of the Lake, and I honor Sir Launcelot above all men else in the world, and would rather have his friendship than that of any man living. So I have had no despite against you in this battle, but have only fought with you because it behooved me to do so for the sake of the King of Cornwall, who is my uncle." Then Sir Bleoberis said, "Messire, I pray you tell me who you are?" "Lord," said Sir Tristram, "I am a very young knight hight Tristram, and I am the son of King Meliadus of Lyonesse and the Lady Elizabeth, sister unto King Mark of Cornwall." [Sidenote: Sir Bleoberis gives the goblet to Sir Tristram] "Ha," said Sir Bleoberis, "I have heard great report of you, Sir Tristram, and now I know at mine own cost that you are one of the best knights in the world. Yea; I have no doubt that at some time you will be the peer of Sir Launcelot of the Lake himself, or of Sir Lamorak of Gales, and they two are, certes, the best knights in the world. Now I believe that I would have given you this goblet, even without your having to fight for it, had I known who you were; and as it is I herewith give it to you very freely." So Sir Bleoberis untied the goblet from where it hung at his saddle-bow, and Sir Tristram took the goblet and gave him gramercy for it; and therewith having recovered their horses, each knight mounted, and betook his way whither he was going. So a little after nightfall Sir Tristram came to the King of Cornwall and his court, and he said to King Mark: "Here is your goblet which I have brought back to you; and I would God that some of your knights who are so much older than I had the courage to do for you what I have had to do." And therewith he went away and left them all sitting ashamed. Now it chanced some little while after these things happened as aforesaid, that King Mark lay down upon his couch after his midday meal for to sleep a little space during the heat of the day; and it likewise happened that the window near by where he lay was open so that the air might come into the room. Now at that time three knights of the court sat in the garden beneath where the window was. These knights talked to one another concerning Sir Tristram, and of how he had brought back that goblet from Sir Bleoberis de Ganys, and of what honor it was to have such a champion in Cornwall for to stand for the honor of that court. In their talk they said to one another that if only the King of Cornwall were such a knight as Sir Tristram, then there would be plenty of knights of good worth who would come to that court, and Cornwall would no longer have to be ashamed of its chivalry as it was nowadays. So they said: "Would God our King were such a knight as Sir Tristram!" [Sidenote: King Mark takes hatred to Sir Tristram] All this King Mark overheard, and the words that they said were like a very bitter poison in his heart. For their words entered into his soul and abided there, and thereupon at that same hour all his love for Tristram was turned into hate. Thus it befell that, after that day, King Mark ever pondered and pondered upon that which he had heard, and the longer he pondered it, the more bitter did his life become to him, and the more he hated Sir Tristram. So it came to pass that whenever he was with Sir Tristram and looked upon him, he would say in his heart: "So they say that you are a better knight than I? Would God you were dead or away from this place, for I believe that some day you will be my undoing!" Yea; there were times when he would look upon Sir Tristram in that wise and whisper to himself: "Would God would send a blight upon thee, so that thou wouldst wither away!" But always the King dissembled this hatred for Sir Tristram, so that no one suspected him thereof; least of all did Sir Tristram suspect how changed was the heart of the King toward him. Now one day Sir Tristram was playing upon his harp and singing before King Mark, and the King sat brooding upon these things as he gazed at Tristram. And Sir Tristram, as he ofttimes did nowadays, sang of the Lady Belle Isoult, and of how her face was like to a rose for fairness, and of how her soul was like to a nightingale in that it uplifted the spirit of whosoever was near her even though the darkness of sorrow as of night might envelop him. And whilst Sir Tristram sang thus, King Mark listened to him, and as he listened a thought entered his heart and therewith he smiled. So when Sir Tristram had ended his song of the Belle Isoult, King Mark said: "Fair nephew, I would that you would undertake a quest for me." Sir Tristram said, "What quest is that, Lord?" "Nay," said King Mark, "I will not tell you what quest it is unless you will promise me upon your knighthood to undertake it upon my behalf." Then Sir Tristram suspected no evil, wherefore he smiled and said: "Dear Lord, if the quest is a thing that it is in my power to undertake, I will undertake it upon your asking, and unto that I pledge my knighthood." King Mark said, "It is a quest that you may undertake." Sir Tristram said, "Then I will undertake it, if you will tell me what it is." [Sidenote: King Mark betrays Sir Tristram to a promise] King Mark said: "I have listened to your singing for this long while concerning the Lady Belle Isoult. So the quest I would have you undertake is this: that you go to Ireland, and bring thence the Lady Belle Isoult to be my Queen. For because of your songs and ballads I have come to love her so greatly that I believe that I shall have no happiness in life until I have her for my Queen. So now, since you have pledged me your word upon your knighthood to do my bidding in this case, such is the quest that I would send you upon." And therewith he smiled upon Sir Tristram very strangely. [Sidenote: How Sir Tristram fell into despair] Then Sir Tristram perceived how he had been betrayed and he put aside his harp and rose from where he sat. And he gazed for a long while at King Mark, and his countenance was wonderfully white like that of a dead man. Then by and by he said: "Sir, I know not why you have put this upon me, nor do I know why you have betrayed me. For I have ever served you truly as a worthy knight and a kinsman should. Wherefore I know not why you have done this unto me, nor why you seek to compass my death. For you know very well that if I return to Ireland I shall very likely be slain either by the Queen or by some of her kindred, because that for your sake I slew in battle Sir Marhaus, the Queen's brother of Ireland. Yet, so far as that is concerned, I would rather lose my life than succeed in this quest, for if so be I do not lose my life, then I must do that which I would liever die than do. Yea; I believe that there was never any knight loved a lady as I love the Lady Belle Isoult. For I love her not only because of her beauty and graciousness, but because she healed mine infirmities and lent ease unto my great sufferings and brought me back from death unto life. Wherefore that which you bid me fulfil is more bitter to me than death." "Well," said King Mark, "I know nothing of all this--only I know that you have given me your knightly word to fulfil this quest." "Very well," said Sir Tristram, "if God will give me His good help in this matter, then I will do that which I have pledged my knighthood to undertake." Therewith he turned and went out from that place in such great despair that it was as though his heart had been turned into ashes. But King Mark was filled with joy that he should have caused Sir Tristram all that pain, and he said to his heart: "This is some satisfaction for the hate which I feel for this knight; by and by I shall maybe have greater satisfaction than that." After that Sir Tristram did not come any more where King Mark was, but he went straight away from the King's court and into a small castle that King Mark had given him some while since for his own. There he abided for several days in great despair of soul, for it seemed to him as though God had deserted him entirely. There for a while Gouvernail alone was with him and no one else, but after a while several knights came to him and gave him great condolence and offered to join with him as his knights-companion. And there were eighteen of these knights, and Sir Tristram was very glad of their comradeship. These said to him: "Sir, you should not lend yourself to such great travail of soul, but should bend yourself as a true knight should to assume that burden that God hath assigned you to bear." So they spoke, and by and by Sir Tristram aroused himself from his despair and said to himself: "Well, what these gentlemen say is true, and God hath assuredly laid this very heavy burden upon me; as that is so, I must needs assume it for His sake." [Sidenote: Sir Tristram departs from Cornwall] So Sir Tristram and the knights who were with him abode in that place for a day or two or three, and then one morning Sir Tristram armed himself and they armed themselves, and all took their departure from that castle and went down to the sea. Then they took ship with intent to depart to Ireland upon that quest Sir Tristram had promised King Mark he would undertake, and in a little they hoisted sail and departed from Cornwall for Ireland. But they were not to make their quest upon that pass so speedily as they thought, for, upon the second day of their voyaging, there arose a great storm of wind of such a sort that the sailors of that ship had never seen the like thereof in all of their lives. For the waves rose up like mountains, and anon the waters sank away into deep valleys with hills of water upon either side all crested over with foam as white as snow. And anon that ship would be uplifted as though the huge sea would toss it into the clouds; and anon it would fall down into a gulf so deep that it appeared as though the green waters would swallow it up entirely. The air roared as though it were full of demons and evil spirits out of hell, and the wind was wet and very bitter with brine. So the ship fled away before that tempest, and the hearts of all aboard were melted with fear because of the great storm of wind and the high angry waves. Then toward evening those who were watching from the lookout beheld a land and a haven, and they saw upon the land overlooking the haven was a noble castle and a fair large town, surrounded by high walls of stone. So they told the others of what they saw, and all gave great rejoicing for that they were so nigh the land. Therewith they sailed the ship toward the haven, and having entered therein in safety, they cast anchor under the walls of the castle and the town, taking great joy that God had brought them safe and sound through that dreadful peril of the tempest. [Sidenote: Sir Tristram comes to Camelot] Then Sir Tristram said to Gouvernail: "Knowest thou, Gouvernail, what place is this to which we have come?" "Messire," said Gouvernail, "I think it is Camelot." And then those knights of Cornwall who stood by said, "Yea, that is true, and it is Camelot." And one of them said: "Messire, it is likely that King Arthur is at that place at this very time, for so it was reported that he was, and so I believe it to be." "Ha," quoth Tristram, "that is very good news to me, for I believe that it would be the greatest joy to me that the world can now give to behold King Arthur and those noble knights of his court ere I die. More especially do I desire above all things to behold that great, noble champion, Sir Launcelot of the Lake. So let us now go ashore, and mayhap it shall come to pass that I shall see the great King and Sir Launcelot and mayhap shall come to speak with the one or the other." And that saying of Sir Tristram's seemed good to those knights who were with him, for they were weary of the sea, and desired to rest for a while upon the dry land. [Sidenote: Sir Tristram sets up his pavilion] So they presently all went ashore and bade their attendants set up their pavilions in a fair level meadow that was somewhat near a league distant away from the castle and the town. In the midst of the other pavilions upon that plain was set the pavilion of Sir Tristram. It was of fine crimson cloth striped with silver and there was the figure of a gryphon carved upon the summit of the centre pole of the pavilion. The spear of Sir Tristram was emplanted by the point of the truncheon in the ground outside the pavilion, and thereunto his shield was hung so that those who passed that way might clearly behold what was the device thereon. And now shall be told how Sir Tristram became united in friendship with the brotherhood of good knights at King Arthur's court. [Illustration: Sir Tristram sits with Sir Launcelot] Chapter Sixth _How Sir Tristram had to do in battle with three knights of the Round Table. Also how he had speech with King Arthur._ So came the next morning, and uprose the sun in all the splendor of his glory, shedding his beams to every quarter with a rare dazzling effulgence. For by night the clouds of storm had passed away and gone, and now all the air was clear and blue, and the level beams of light fell athwart the meadow-lands so that countless drops of water sparkled on leaf and blade of grass, like an incredible multitude of shining jewels scattered all over the earth. Then they who slept were awakened by the multitudinous voicing of the birds; for at that hour the small fowl sang so joyous a roundelay that all the early morning was full of the sweet jargon of their chanting. At this time, so early in the day, there came two knights riding by where Sir Tristram and his companions had set up their pavilions. These were two very famous knights of King Arthur's court and of the Round Table; for one was Sir Ector de Maris and the other was Sir Morganor of Lisle. [Sidenote: How two knights came to the pavilion of Sir Tristram] When these two knights perceived the pavilions of Sir Tristram and his knights-companion, they made halt, and Sir Ector de Maris said, "What knights are these who have come hither?" Then Sir Morganor looked and presently he said: "Sir, I perceive by their shields that these are Cornish knights, and he who occupies this central pavilion must be the champion of this party." "Well," quoth Sir Ector, "as for that I take no great thought of any Cornish knight, so do thou strike the shield of that knight and call him forth, and let us see of what mettle he is made." "I will do so," said Sir Morganor; and therewith he rode forward to where the shield of Sir Tristram hung from the spear, and he smote the shield with the point of his lance, so that it rang with a very loud noise. Upon this, Sir Tristram immediately came to the door of his pavilion, and said, "Messires, why did you strike upon my shield?" "Because," said Sir Ector, "we are of a mind to try your mettle what sort of a knight you be." Quoth Sir Tristram: "God forbid that you should not be satisfied. So if you will stay till I put on my armor you shall immediately have your will in this matter." Thereupon he went back into his tent and armed himself and mounted his horse and took a good stout spear of ash-wood into his hand. Then all the knights of Cornwall who were with Sir Tristram came forth to behold what their champion would do, and all their esquires, pages, and attendants came forth for the same purpose, and it was a very pleasant time of day for jousting. [Sidenote: Sir Tristram overthrows Sir Morganor] Then first of all Sir Morganor essayed Sir Tristram, and in that encounter Sir Tristram smote him so dreadful, terrible a blow that he cast him a full spear's length over the crupper of his horse, and that so violently that the blood gushed out of the nose and mouth and ears of Sir Morganor, and he groaned very dolorously and could not arise from where he lay. "Hah," quoth Sir Ector, "that was a very wonderful buffet you struck my fellow. But now it is my turn to have ado with you, and I hope God will send me a better fortune." [Sidenote: Sir Tristram overthrows Sir Ector] So he took stand for battle as did Sir Tristram likewise, and when they were in all wise prepared they rushed very violently to the assault. In that encounter Ector suffered hardly less ill fortune than Sir Morganor had done. For he brake his spear against Sir Tristram into as many as an hundred pieces, whilst Sir Tristram's spear held so that he overthrew both the horse and the knight-rider against whom he drove. Then all the knights of Cornwall gave loud acclaim that their knight had borne himself so well in those encounters. But Sir Tristram rode back to where those two knights still lay upon the ground, and he said: "Well, Messires, this is no very good hap that you have had with me." Upon that speech Sir Ector de Maris gathered himself up from the dust and said: "Sir Knight, I pray you of your knighthood to tell us who you be and what is your degree, for I declare to you, I believe you are one of the greatest knights-champion of the world." "Sir," said Sir Tristram, "I am very willing to tell you my name and my station; I am Sir Tristram, the son of King Meliadus of Lyonesse." "Ha," quoth Sir Ector, "I would God I had known that before I had ado with you, for your fame hath already reached to these parts, and there hath been such report of your prowess and several songs have been made about you by minstrels and poets. I who speak to you am Sir Ector, surnamed de Maris, and this, my companion, is Sir Morganor of Lisle." "Alas!" cried out Sir Tristram, "I would that I had known who you were ere I did battle with you. For I have greater love for the knights of the Round Table than all others in the world, and most of all, Sir Ector, do I have reverence for your noble brother Sir Launcelot of the Lake. So I take great shame to myself that any mishap should have befallen you this day through me." Upon this Sir Ector laughed. "Well," quoth he, "let not that trouble lie with you, for it was we who gave you challenge without inquiry who you were, and you did but defend yourself. We were upon our way to Camelot yonder, when we fell into this mishap, for King Arthur is at this time holding court at that place. So now, if we have your leave to go upon our way, we will betake ourselves to the King and tell him that you are here, for we know that he will be very glad of that news." Upon this Sir Tristram gave them leave to depart, and they did so with many friendly words of good cheer. And after they had gone Sir Tristram went back into his pavilion again and partook of refreshment that was brought to him. [Sidenote: There comes a knight in white armor] Now, some while after Sir Ector and Sir Morganor had left that place, and whilst Sir Tristram was still resting in his pavilion, there came a single knight riding that way, and this knight was clad altogether in white armor and his shield was covered over with a covering of white leather, so that one could not see what device he bare thereon. When this white knight came to the place where Sir Tristram and his companions had pitched their pavilions, he also stopped as Sir Ector and Sir Morganor had done, for he desired to know what knights these were. At that time Gouvernail was standing alone in front of Sir Tristram's pavilion, and unto him the white knight said: "Sir, I pray you, tell me who is the knight to whom this pavilion belongs." Now Gouvernail thought to himself: "Here is another knight who would have ado with my master. Perhaps Sir Tristram may have glory by him also." So he answered the white knight: "Sir, I may not tell you the name of this knight, for he is my master, and if he pleases to tell you his name he must tell it himself." "Very well," said the white knight, "then I will straightway ask him." Therewith he rode to where the shield of Sir Tristram hung, and he struck upon the shield so violent a blow that it rang very loud and clear. Then straightway came forth Sir Tristram and several of his knights-companion from out of the pavilion, and Sir Tristram said, "Sir Knight, wherefore did you strike upon my shield?" "Messire," quoth the white knight, "I struck upon your shield so that I might summon you hither for to tell me your name, for I have asked it of your esquire and he will not tell me." "Fair Knight," quoth Sir Tristram, "neither will I tell you my name until I have wiped out that affront which you have set upon my shield by that stroke you gave it. For no man may touch my shield without my having to do with him because of the affront he gives me thereby." "Well," said the white knight, "I am satisfied to have it as you please." [Sidenote: Sir Tristram does battle with the white knight] So therewith Sir Tristram went back into his pavilion and several went with him. These put his helmet upon his head and they armed him for battle in all ways. After that Sir Tristram came forth and mounted his horse and took his spear in hand and made himself in all ways ready for battle, and all that while the white knight awaited his coming very calmly and steadfastly. Then Sir Tristram took ground for battle, and the white knight did so likewise. So being in all ways prepared, each launched forth against the other with such amazing and terrible violence that those who beheld that encounter stood as though terrified with the thunder of the onset. Therewith the two knights met in the midst of the course, and each knight smote the other directly in the centre of the shield. In that encounter the spear of each knight broke all to small pieces, even to the truncheon which he held in his fist. And so terrible was the blow that each struck the other that the horse of each fell back upon his haunches, and it was only because of the great address of the knight-rider that the steed was able to recover his footing. As for Sir Tristram, that was the most terrible buffet he ever had struck him in all his life before that time. Then straightway Sir Tristram voided his saddle and drew his sword and dressed his shield. And he cried out: "Ha, Sir Knight! I demand of you that you descend from your horse and do me battle afoot." "Very well," said the white knight, "thou shalt have thy will." And thereupon he likewise voided his horse and drew his sword and dressed his shield and made himself in all ways ready for battle as Sir Tristram had done. Therewith they two came together and presently fell to fighting with such ardor that sparks of fire flew from every stroke. And if Sir Tristram struck hard and often, the white knight struck as hard and as often as he, so that all the knights of Cornwall who stood about marvelled at the strength and fierceness of the knights-combatant. Each knight gave the other many sore buffets so that the armor was here and there dinted and here and there was broken through by the edge of the sword so that the red blood flowed out therefrom and down over the armor, turning its brightness in places into an ensanguined red. Thus they fought for above an hour and in all that time neither knight gave ground or gained any vantage over the other. [Sidenote: Sir Tristram falls in the battle] Then after a while Sir Tristram grew more weary of fighting than ever he had been in all of his life before, and he was aware that this was the greatest knight whom he had ever met. But still he would not give ground, but fought from this side and from that side with great skill and address until of a sudden, he slipped upon some of that blood that he himself had shed, and because of his great weariness, fell down upon his knees, and could not for the instant rise again. Then that white knight might easily have struck him down if he had been minded to do so. But, instead, he withheld the blow and gave Sir Tristram his hand and said: "Sir Knight, rise up and stand upon thy feet and let us go at this battle again if it is thy pleasure to do so; for I do not choose to take advantage of thy fall." Then Sir Tristram was as greatly astonished at the extraordinary courtesy of his enemy as he had been at his prowess. And because of that courtesy he would not fight again, but stood leaning upon his sword panting. Then he said: "Sir Knight, I pray thee of thy knighthood to tell me what is thy name and who thou art." "Messire," said the white knight, "since you ask me that upon my knighthood, I cannot refuse to tell you my name. And so I will do, provided you, upon your part, will do me a like courtesy and will first tell me your name and degree." Quoth Sir Tristram: "I will tell you that. My name is Sir Tristram of Lyonesse, and I am the son of King Meliadus of that land whereby I have my surname." [Sidenote: Sir Launcelot confesses himself] "Ha, Sir Tristram," said the white knight, "often have I heard of thee and of thy skill at arms, and well have I proved thy fame this day and that all that is said of thee is true. I must tell thee that I have never yet met my match until I met thee this day. For I know not how this battle might have ended hadst thou not slipped and fallen by chance as thou didst. My name is Sir Launcelot, surnamed of the Lake, and I am King Ban's son of Benwick." At this Sir Tristram cried out in a loud voice: "Sir Launcelot! Sir Launcelot! Is it thou against whom I have been doing battle! Rather I would that anything should have happened to me than that, for of all men in the world I most desire thy love and friendship." [Sidenote: Sir Tristram yields to Sir Launcelot] Then, having so spoken, Sir Tristram immediately kneeled down upon his knees and said: "Messire, I yield myself unto thee, being overcome not more by thy prowess than by thy courtesy. For I freely confess that thou art the greatest knight in the world, against whom no other knight can hope to stand; for I could fight no more and thou mightest easily have slain me when I fell down a while since." "Nay, Sir Tristram," said Sir Launcelot, "arise, and kneel not to me, for I am not willing to accept thy submission, for indeed it is yet to be proved which of us is the better knight, thou or I. Wherefore let neither of us yield to the other, but let us henceforth be as dear as brothers-in-arms the one toward the other." Then Sir Tristram rose up to his feet again. "Well, Sir Launcelot," he said, "whatsoever thou shalt ordain shall be as thou wouldst have it. But there is one thing I must do because of this battle." [Sidenote: Sir Tristram breaks his sword] Then he looked upon his sword which he held naked and ensanguined in his hand and he said: "Good sword; thou hast stood my friend and hast served me well in several battles, but this day thou hast served me for the last time." Therewith he suddenly took the blade of the sword in both hands--the one at the point and the other nigh the haft--and he brake the blade across his knee and flung the pieces away. Upon this Sir Launcelot cried out in a loud voice: "Ha, Messire! why didst thou do such a thing as that? To break thine own fair sword?" "Sir," quoth Sir Tristram, "this sword hath this day received the greatest honor that is possible for any blade to receive; for it hath been baptized in thy blood. So, because aught else that might happen to it would diminish that honor, I have broken it so that its honor might never be made less than it is at this present time." Upon this Sir Launcelot ran to Sir Tristram and catched him in his arms, and he cried out: "Tristram, I believe that thou art the noblest knight whom ever I beheld!" And Sir Tristram replied: "And thou, Launcelot, I love better than father or kindred." Therewith each kissed the other upon the face, and all they who stood by were so moved at that sight that several of them wept for pure joy. [Sidenote: Sir Tristram and Sir Launcelot feast together] Thereafter they two went into Sir Tristram's pavilion and disarmed themselves. Then there came sundry attendants who were excellent leeches and these searched their hurts and bathed them and dressed them. And several other attendants came and fetched soft robes and clothed the knights therein so that they were very comfortable in their bodies. Then still other attendants brought them good strong wine and manchets of bread and they sat together at table and ate very cheerfully and were greatly refreshed. So I have told you of that famous affair-at-arms betwixt Sir Launcelot and Sir Tristram, and I pray God that you may have the same pleasure in reading of it that I had in writing of it. [Sidenote: King Arthur comes to Sir Tristram's pavilion] Now, as Sir Launcelot and Sir Tristram sat in the pavilion of Sir Tristram making pleasant converse together, there suddenly entered an esquire to where they were sitting. This esquire proclaimed: "Messires, hither cometh King Arthur, and he is very near at hand." Thereupon, even as that esquire spoke, there came from without the pavilion a great noise of trampling horses and the pleasant sound of ringing armor, and then immediately a loud noise of many voices uplifted in acclamation. Therewith Sir Launcelot and Sir Tristram arose from where they sat, and as they did so the curtains at the doorway of the pavilion were parted and there entered King Arthur himself enveloped, as it were, with all the glory of his royal estate. Unto him Sir Tristram ran, and would have fallen upon his knees, but King Arthur stayed him from so doing. For the great king held him by the hand and lifted him up, and he said, "Sir, are you Sir Tristram of Lyonesse?" "Yea," said Sir Tristram, "I am he." "Ha," said King Arthur, "I am gladder to see you than almost any man I know of in the world," and therewith he kissed Sir Tristram upon the face, and he said: "Welcome, Messire, to these parts! Welcome! And thrice welcome!" Then Sir Tristram besought King Arthur that he would refresh himself, and the King said he would do so. So Sir Tristram brought him to the chiefest place, and there King Arthur sat him down. And Sir Tristram would have served him with wine and with manchets of bread with his own hand, but King Arthur would not have it so, but bade Sir Tristram to sit beside him on his right hand, and Sir Tristram did so. After that, King Arthur spake to Sir Tristram about many things, and chiefly about King Meliadus, the father of Sir Tristram, and about the court of Lyonesse. Then, after a while King Arthur said: "Messire, I hear tell that you are a wonderful harper." And Sir Tristram said, "Lord, so men say of me." King Arthur said, "I would fain hear your minstrelsy." To which Sir Tristram made reply: "Lord, I will gladly do anything at all that will give you pleasure." So therewith Sir Tristram gave orders to Gouvernail, and Gouvernail brought him his shining golden harp, and the harp glistered with great splendor in the dim light of the pavilion. [Sidenote: Sir Tristram sings before King Arthur] Sir Tristram took the harp in his hands and tuned it and struck upon it. And he played upon the harp, and he sang to the music thereof so wonderfully that they who sat there listened in silence as though they were without breath. For not one of them had ever heard such singing as that music which Sir Tristram sang; for it was as though some angel were singing to those who sat there harkening to his chanting. So after Sir Tristram had ended, all who were there gave loud acclaim and much praise to his singing. "Ha, Messire!" quoth King Arthur, "many times in my life have I heard excellent singing, but never before in my life have I heard such singing as that. Now I wish that we might always have you at this court and that you would never leave us." And Sir Tristram said: "Lord, I too would wish that I might always be with you and with these noble knights of your court, for I have never met any whom I love as I love them." So they sat there in great joy and friendliness of spirit, and, for the while, Sir Tristram forgot the mission he was upon and was happy in heart and glad of that terrible storm that had driven him thitherward. And now I shall tell you the conclusion of all these adventures, and of how it fared with Sir Tristram. [Illustration: Belle Isoult and Sir Tristram drink the love draught] Chapter Seventh _How Sir Tristram had speech with King Angus of Ireland; how he undertook to champion the cause of King Angus and of what happened thereafter_. [Sidenote: Sir Tristram hears news of King Angus] Now, as Sir Tristram and King Arthur and Sir Launcelot sat together in the pavilion of Sir Tristram in pleasant, friendly discourse, as aforetold, there came Gouvernail of a sudden into that place. He, coming to Sir Tristram, leaned over his shoulder and he whispered into his ear: "Sir, I have just been told that King Angus of Ireland is at this very time at Camelot at the court of the King." Upon this Sir Tristram turned to King Arthur and said: "Lord, my esquire telleth me that King Angus of Ireland is here at Camelot; now I pray you tell me, is that saying true?" "Yea," said King Arthur, "that is true; but what of it?" "Well," said Sir Tristram, "I had set forth to seek King Angus in Ireland, when I and my companions were driven hither by a great storm of wind. Yet when I find him, I know not whether King Angus may look upon me as a friend or as an unfriend." [Sidenote: How Sir Bertrand was killed in Ireland] "Ha," said King Arthur, "you need not take trouble concerning the regard in which King Angus shall hold you. For he is at this time in such anxiety of spirit that he needs to have every man his friend who will be his friend, and no man his enemy whom he can reconcile to him. He is not just now in very good grace, either with me or with my court, for the case with him is thus: Some while ago, after you left the court of Ireland, there came to that place Sir Blamor de Ganys (who is right cousin to Sir Launcelot of the Lake) and with Sir Blamor a knight-companion hight Sir Bertrand de la Riviere Rouge. These two knights went to Ireland with intent to win themselves honor at the court of Ireland. Whilst they were in that kingdom there were held many jousts and tourneys, and in all of them Sir Blamor and Sir Bertrand were victorious, and all the knights of Ireland who came against them were put to shame at their hands. Many of the Irish knights were exceedingly angry at this, and so likewise was the King of Ireland. Now it happened one day that Sir Bertrand was found dead and murdered at a certain pass in the King's forest, and when the news thereof was brought to Sir Blamor, he was very wroth that his knight-companion should have been thus treacherously slain. So he immediately quitted Ireland and returned hither straightway, and when he had come before me he accused King Angus of treason because of that murder. Now at this time King Angus is here upon my summons for to answer that charge and to defend himself therefrom; for Sir Blamor offers his body to defend the truth of his accusation, and as for the King of Ireland, he can find no knight to take his part in that contention. For not only is Sir Blamor, as you very well know, one of the best knights in the world, but also nearly everybody here hath doubt of the innocence of King Angus in this affair. Now from this you may see that King Angus is very much more in need of a friend at this time than he is of an enemy." "Lord," said Sir Tristram, "what you tell me is very excellent good news, for now I know that I may have talk with King Angus with safety to myself, and that he will no doubt receive me as a friend." So after King Arthur and his court had taken their departure--it being then in the early sloping of the afternoon--Sir Tristram called Gouvernail to him and bade him make ready their horses, and when Gouvernail had done so, they two mounted and rode away by themselves toward that place where King Angus had taken up his lodging. When they had come there, Sir Tristram made demand to have speech with the King, and therewith they in attendance ushered him in to where the King Angus was. [Sidenote: King Angus welcomes Sir Tristram] But when King Angus saw Sir Tristram who he was, and when he beheld a face that was both familiar and kind, he gave a great cry of joy, and ran to Sir Tristram and flung his arms about him, and kissed him upon the cheek; for he was rejoiced beyond measure to find a friend in that unfriendly place. Then Sir Tristram said, "Lord, what cheer have you?" Unto that King Angus replied: "Tristram, I have very poor cheer; for I am alone amongst enemies with no one to befriend me, and unless I find some knight who will stand my champion to-morrow or the next day I am like to lose my life for the murder of Sir Bertrand de la Riviere Rouge. And where am I to find any one to act as my champion in defence of my innocence in this place, where I behold an enemy in every man whom I meet? Alas, Tristram! There is no one in all the world who will aid me unless it be you, for you alone of all the knights in the world beyond the circle of the knights of the Round Table may hope to stand against so excellent and so strong a hero!" "Lord," quoth Sir Tristram, "I know very well what great trouble overclouds you at this time, and it is because of that that I am come hither for to visit you. For I have not at any time forgotten how that I told you when you spared my life in Ireland that mayhap the time might come when I might serve as your friend in your day of need. So if you will satisfy me upon two points, then I myself will stand for your champion upon this occasion." "Ah, Tristram," quoth King Angus, "what you say is very good news to me indeed. For I believe there is no other knight in all the world (unless it be Sir Launcelot of the Lake) who is so strong and worthy a knight as you. So tell me what are those two matters concerning which you would seek satisfaction, and, if it is possible for me to do so, I will give you such an answer as may please you." "Lord," said Sir Tristram, "the first matter is this: that you shall satisfy me that you are altogether innocent of the death of Sir Bertrand. And the second matter is this: that you shall grant me whatsoever favor it is that I shall have to ask of you." [Sidenote: King Angus swears innocence to Sir Tristram] Then King Angus arose and drew his sword and he said: "Tristram, behold; here is my sword--and the guard thereof and the blade thereof and the handle thereof make that holy sign of the cross unto which all Christian men bow down to worship. Look! See! Here I kiss that holy sign and herewith I swear an oath upon that sacred symbol, and I furthermore swear upon the honor of my knighthood, that I am altogether guiltless of the death of that noble, honorable knight aforesaid. Nor do I at all know how it was he met his death, for I am innocent of all evil knowledge thereof. Now, Messire, art thou satisfied upon that point?" And Sir Tristram said, "I am satisfied." Then King Angus said: "As to the matter of granting you a favor, that I would do in any case for the love I bear you. So let me hear what it is that you have to ask of me." [Sidenote: Sir Tristram asks his boon] "Lord," cried out Sir Tristram, "the favor is one I had liever die than ask. It is this: that you give me your daughter, the Lady Belle Isoult, for wife unto mine uncle, King Mark of Cornwall." Upon these words, King Angus sat in silence for a long while, gazing very strangely upon Sir Tristram. Then by and by he said: "Messire, this is a very singular thing you ask of me; for from what you said to me aforetime and from what you said to my daughter I had thought that you desired the Lady Belle Isoult for yourself. Now I can in no wise understand why you do not ask for her in your name instead of asking for her in the name of King Mark." Then Sir Tristram cried out as in great despair: "Messire, I love that dear lady a great deal more than I love my life; but in this affair I am fulfilling a pledge made upon the honor of my knighthood and unto the King of Cornwall, who himself made me knight. For I pledged him unaware, and now I am paying for my hastiness. Yet I would God that you might take the sword which you hold in your hand and thrust it through my heart; for I had liefer die than fulfil this obligation to which I am pledged." "Well," said King Angus, "you know very well that I will not slay you, but that I will fulfil your boon as I have promised. As for what you do in this affair, you must answer for it to God and to the honor of your own knighthood whether it is better to keep that promise which you made to the King of Cornwall or to break it." Then Sir Tristram cried out again in great travail of soul: "Lord, you know not what you say, nor what torments I am at this present moment enduring." And therewith he arose and went forth from that place, for he was ashamed that anyone should behold the passion that moved him. And now is to be told of that famous battle betwixt Sir Tristram and Sir Blamor de Ganys of which so much hath been written in all the several histories of chivalry that deal with these matters. Now when the next morning had come--clear and fair and with the sun shining wonderfully bright--a great concourse of people began to betake themselves to that place where the lists had been set up in preparation for that ordeal of battle. That place was on a level meadow of grass very fair bedight with flowers and not far from the walls of the town nor from the high road that led to the gate of the same. [Sidenote: Of the meadow of battle] And, indeed, that was a very beautiful place for battle, for upon the one hand was the open countryside, all gay with spring blossoms and flowers; and upon the other hand were the walls of the town. Over above the top of those walls was to be seen a great many tall towers--some built of stone and some of brick--that rose high up into the clear, shining sky all full of slow-drifting clouds, that floated, as it were, like full-breasted swans in a sea of blue. And beyond the walls of the town you might behold a great many fair houses with bright windows of glass all shining against the sky. So you may see how fair was all that place, where that fierce battle was presently to be fought. Meanwhile, great multitudes of people had gathered all about the meadow of battle, and others stood like flies upon the walls of the town and looked down into that fair, pleasant meadow-land, spread with its carpet of flowers. All along one side of the ground of battle was a scaffolding of seats fair bedraped with fabrics of various colors and textures. In the midst of all the other seats were two seats hung with cloth of scarlet, and these seats were the one for King Arthur and the other for King Angus of Ireland. In the centre of the meadow-land Sir Blamor rode up and down very proudly. He was clad in red armor, and the trappings and the furniture of his horse were all of red, so that he paraded the field like a crimson flame of fire. "Sir." quoth King Arthur to King Angus, "yon is a very strong, powerful, noble knight; now where mayst thou find one who can hope to stand against him in this coming battle?" [Sidenote: King Angus presents Sir Tristram for his champion] "Lord," said King Angus, "I do believe that God hath raised up a defender for me in this extremity. For Sir Tristram of Lyonesse came to me yesterday, and offered for to take this quarrel of mine upon him. Now I do not believe that there is any better knight in all of Christendom than he, wherefore I am to-day uplifted with great hopes that mine innocence shall be proved against mine accuser." "Ha!" quoth King Arthur, "if Sir Tristram is to stand thy champion in this affair, then I do believe that thou hast indeed found for thyself a very excellent, worthy defender." So anon there came Sir Tristram riding to that place, attended only by Gouvernail. And he was clad all in bright, polished armor so that he shone like a star of great splendor as he entered the field of battle. He came straight to where King Arthur sat and saluted before him. King Arthur said, "Sir, what knight art thou?" "Lord," answered he, "I am Sir Tristram of Lyonesse, and I am come to champion King Angus who sits beside you. For I believe him to be innocent of that matter of which he is accused, and I will emperil my body in that belief for to prove the truth of the same." "Well," quoth King Arthur, "this King accused hath, certes, a very noble champion in thee. So go and do thy devoirs, and may God defend the right." [Sidenote: Sir Tristram does battle with Sir Blamor] Thereupon each knight took a good stout spear into his hand and chose his place for the encounter, and each set his shield before him and feutered his lance in rest. Then, when each was ready, the marshal blew a great blast upon his trumpet, and thereupon, in an instant, each knight launched against the other like a bolt of thunder. So they met in the very middle of the course with such violence that the spear of each knight was shattered all into pieces unto the very truncheon thereof. Each horse fell back upon his haunches, and each would no doubt, have fallen entirely, had not the knight-rider recovered his steed with the greatest skill and address. Then each knight voided his saddle and each drew his sword and set his shield before him. Therewith they came to battle on foot like two wild boars--so fiercely and felly that it was terrible to behold. For they traced this way and that and foined and struck at one another so that whole pieces of armor were hewn from the bodies of each. [Sidenote: Sir Tristram overcomes Sir Blamor] But in all this battle Sir Tristram had so much the better that, by and by after they had fought for above an hour, Sir Blamor de Ganys began to bare back before him, and to give ground, holding his shield low for weariness. This Sir Tristram perceived, and, running in suddenly upon Sir Blamor, he struck him so terrible a blow upon the right shoulder that Sir Blamor's arm was altogether benumbed thereby, and he could no longer hold his sword in his hand. So the sword of Sir Blamor fell down into the grass, and Sir Tristram, perceiving this, ran and set his foot upon it. Then Sir Blamor could not stand any longer, but fell down upon his knees because of a great weariness and faintness that lay upon him like the weariness and faintness of approaching death. Then Sir Tristram said: "Sir Knight, thou canst fight no longer. Now I bid thee for to yield thyself to me as overcome in this battle." Thereunto Sir Blamor made reply, speaking very deep and hollow from out of his helmet: "Sir Knight, thou hast overcome me by thy strength and prowess, but I will not yield myself to thee now nor at any time. For that would be so great shame that I would rather die than endure it. I am a knight of the Round Table, and have never yet been overcome in this wise by any man. So thou mayst slay me, but I will not yield myself to thee." Then Sir Tristram cried out: "Sir Knight, I beseech thee to yield thyself, for thou art not fit to fight any more this day." Sir Blamor said, "I will not yield, so strike and have done with it." So Sir Tristram wist not what to do, but stood there in doubt looking down upon Sir Blamor. Then Sir Blamor said, again: "Strike, Sir Knight, and have done with it." Upon this Sir Tristram said: "I may not strike thee, Sir Blamor de Ganys, to slay thee, for thou art very nigh of blood to Sir Launcelot of the Lake, and unto him I have sworn brotherhood in arms; wherefore I pray thee now to yield thyself to me." Sir Blamor said, "Nay, I will not yield me to thee." "Well," said Sir Tristram, "then I must fain act this day in a manner like as I acted yesterday." [Sidenote: Sir Tristram gives Sir Blamor back his sword] Therewith speaking, he took his sword into both his hands and he swung it several times around his head and when he had done that he flung it to a great distance away, so that he was now entirely unarmed saving only for his misericordia. After that he gave Sir Blamor his hand and lifted him up upon his feet. And he stooped and picked up Sir Blamor's sword out of the grass and gave it back to Sir Blamor into his hands, and he said: "Sir Knight, now thou art armed and I am entirely unarmed, and so thou hast me at thy mercy. Now thou shalt either yield thyself to me or slay me as I stand here without any weapon; for I cannot now strike thee, and though I have overcome thee fairly yet thou hast it now in thy power to slay me. So now do thy will with me in this matter." Then Sir Blamor was greatly astonished at the magnanimity of Sir Tristram, and he said, "Sir Knight, what is thy name?" Sir Tristram said, "It is Tristram, surnamed of Lyonesse." Upon this Sir Blamor came to Sir Tristram and put his arms about his shoulders, and he said: "Tristram, I yield myself to thee, but in love and not in hate. For I yield myself not because of thy strength of arms (and yet I believe there is no knight in the world, unless it be my cousin Sir Launcelot of the Lake, who is thy peer), but I yield me because of thy exceeding nobility. Yet I would that I might only be satisfied that this King of Ireland is no traitor." "Messire," said Sir Tristram, "of that I have assured myself very strongly ere I entered into this contest, wherefore I may now freely avouch upon mine own knightly word that he is innocent." "Then," said Sir Blamor, "I also am satisfied, and I herewith withdraw all my impeachment against him." [Sidenote: Sir Tristram and Sir Blamor are reconciled] Then those two noble, excellent knights took one another by the hand and went forward together to where King Arthur sat in high estate, and all those who looked on and beheld that reconciliation gave loud acclaim. And when King Arthur beheld them coming thus, he arose from where he sat and met them and embraced them both, and he said: "I do not believe that any king can have greater glory in his life than this, to have such knights about him as ye be." So ended this famous battle with great glory to Sir Tristram and yet with no disregard to that famous knight against whom he did battle. After that, they and King Arthur and King Angus of Ireland and all the court went up unto the castle of Camelot, and there the two knights-combatant were bathed in tepid water and their wounds were searched and dressed and they were put at their ease in all ways that it was possible. Now that very day, as they all sat at feast in the castle of Camelot, there came one with news that the name of Sir Tristram had suddenly appeared upon one of the seats of the Round Table. So after they had ended their feast they all immediately went to see how that might be. When they came to the pavilion of the Round Table, there, behold! was his name indeed upon that seat that had once been the seat of King Pellinore. For this was the name that now was upon that seat: SIR TRISTRAM OF LYONESSE [Sidenote: Sir Tristram becomes knight of the Round Table] So the next day Sir Tristram was duly installed as a knight-companion of the Round Table with a great pomp and estate of circumstance, and a day or two after that he set sail for Ireland with King Angus, taking with him Gouvernail and those Cornish knights who were his companions. So they all reached Ireland in safety, and, because Sir Tristram had aided the King of Ireland in the day of his extremity, the Queen forgave him all the despite she held against him, so that he was received at the court of the King and Queen with great friendship and high honor. [Sidenote: How Sir Tristram dwelt in Ireland] For a while Sir Tristram dwelt in Ireland and said nothing concerning that purpose for which he had come. Then one day he said to King Angus: "Lord, thou art not to forget to fulfil that promise which thou madst to me concerning the Lady Belle Isoult." To this King Angus made reply: "I had hoped that now we were come to Ireland you had changed your purpose in that matter. Are you yet of the same mind as when you first spake to me?" "Yea," said Sir Tristram, "for it cannot be otherwise." "Well, then," said King Angus, "I shall go to prepare my daughter for this ill-hap that is to befall her, though indeed it doth go against my heart to do such a thing. After I have first spoken to her, you are to take the matter into your own hands, for, to tell you the truth, I have not the heart to contrive it further." So King Angus went away from where Sir Tristram was, and he was gone a long while. When he returned he said: "Sir, go you that way and the Lady Belle Isoult will see you." So Sir Tristram went in the direction King Angus had said, and a page showed him the way. So by and by he came to where the Lady Belle Isoult was, and it was a great chamber in a certain tower of the castle and high up Under the eaves of the roof. [Sidenote: How Lady Belle Isoult appeared to Sir Tristram] The Lady Belle Isoult stood upon the farther side of this chamber so that the light from the windows shone full upon her face, and Sir Tristram perceived that she was extraordinarily beautiful, and rather like to a shining spirit than to a lady of flesh and blood. For she was clad altogether in white and her face was like to wax for whiteness and clearness, and she wore ornaments of gold set with shining stones of divers colors about her neck and about her arms so that they glistered with a wonderful lustre. Her eyes shone very bright and clear like one with a fever, and Sir Tristram beheld that there were channels of tears upon her face and several tears stood upon her white cheeks like to shining jewels hanging suspended there. So, for a while, Sir Tristram stood still without speaking and regarded her from afar. Then after a while she spake and said, "Sir, what is this you have done?" "Lady," he said, "I have done what God set me to do, though I would rather die than do it." She said, "Tristram, you have betrayed me." Upon the which he cried out in a very loud and piercing voice, "Lady, say not so!" She said: "Tristram, tell me, is it better to fulfil this pledge you have made, knowing that in so doing you sacrifice both my happiness and your happiness to satisfy your pride of honor; or is it better that you sacrifice your pride and break this promise so that we may both be happy? Tristram, I beseech you to break this promise you have made and let us be happy together." At this Sir Tristram cried out in a very loud voice: "Lady, did you put your hand into my bosom and tear my naked heart, you could not cause me so much pain as that which I this moment endure. It cannot be as you would have it, for it is thus with me: were it but myself whom I might consider, I would freely sacrifice both my life and my honor for your sake. But it may not be so, lady; for I am held to be one of the chiefest of that order of knighthood to which I belong, wherefore I may not consider myself, but must ever consider that order. For if I should violate a pledge given upon my knighthood, then would I dishonor not myself, but that entire order to which I belong. For, did I so, all the world would say, what virtue is there in the order of knighthood when one of the chiefest of that order may violate his pledge when it pleases him to do so? So, lady, having assumed that great honor of knighthood I must perform its obligations even to the uttermost; yea, though in fulfilling my pledge I sacrifice both Thee and myself." Then Belle Isoult looked upon Sir Tristram for some little while, and by and by she smiled very pitifully and said: "Ah, Tristram, I believe I am more sorry for thee than I am for myself." "Lady," said Tristram, "I would God that I lay here dead before you. But I am not able to die, but am altogether strong and hale--only very sorrowful at heart." And therewith he turned and left that place. Only when he had come to a place where he was entirely by himself with no one but God to see him, he hid his face in his hands and wept as though his heart were altogether broken. So it was that Sir Tristram fulfilled his pledge. [Sidenote: Belle Isoult and Sir Tristram depart for Cornwall] After that, King Angus furnished a very noble and beautiful ship with sails of satin embroidered with figures of divers sorts, and he fitted the ship in all ways such as became the daughter of a king and the wife of a king to embark upon. And that ship was intended for the Lady Belle Isoult and Sir Tristram in which to sail to the court of Cornwall. And it was ordained that a certain very excellent lady of the court of the Queen, who had been attendant upon the Lady Belle Isoult when she was a little child and who had been with her in attendance ever since that time, should accompany her to the Court of Cornwall. And the name of this lady was the Lady Bragwaine. [Sidenote: The Queen of Ireland provides a love potion for King Mark and Belle Isoult] Now the day before the Lady Belle Isoult was to take her departure from Ireland, the Queen of Ireland came to the Lady Bragwaine and she bare with her a flagon of gold very curiously wrought. And the Queen said: "Bragwaine, here is a flask of a very singular and precious sort of an elixir; for that liquor it is of such a sort that when a man and a woman drink of it together, they two shall thereafter never cease to love one another as long as they shall have life. Take this flask, and when you have come to Cornwall, and when the Lady Belle Isoult and King Mark have been wedded, then give them both to drink of this elixir; for after they have drunk they shall forget all else in the world and cleave only to one another. This I give you to the intent that the Lady Isoult may forget Sir Tristram, and may become happy in the love of King Mark whom she shall marry." Soon thereafter the Lady Belle Isoult took leave of the King and the Queen and entered into that ship that had been prepared for her. Thus, with Sir Tristram and with Dame Bragwaine and with their attendants, she set sail for Cornwall. Now it happened that, whilst they were upon that voyage, the Lady Bragwaine came of a sudden into the cabin of that ship and there she beheld the Lady Belle Isoult lying upon a couch weeping. Dame Bragwaine said, "Lady, why do you weep?" Whereunto the Lady Belle Isoult made reply: "Alas, Bragwaine, how can I help but weep seeing that I am to be parted from the man I love and am to be married unto another whom I do not love?" Dame Bragwaine laughed and said: "Do you then weep for that? See! Here is a wonderful flask as it were of precious wine. When you are married to the King of Cornwall, then you are to quaff of it and he is to quaff of it and after that you will forget all others in the world and cleave only to one another. For it is a wonderful love potion and it hath been given to me to use in that very way. Wherefore dry your eyes, for happiness may still lay before you." When the Lady Belle Isoult heard these words she wept no more but smiled very strangely. Then by and by she arose and went away to where Sir Tristram was. When she came to him she said, "Tristram, will you drink of a draught with me?" He said, "Yea, lady, though it were death in the draught." She said, "There is not death in it, but something very different," and thereupon she went away into the cabin where that chalice aforesaid was hidden. And at that time Dame Bragwaine was not there. Then the Lady Belle Isoult took the flagon from where it was hidden, and poured the elixir out into a chalice of gold and crystal and she brought it to where Sir Tristram was. When she had come there, she said, "Tristram, I drink to thee," and therewith she drank the half of the elixir there Was in the chalice. Then she said, "Now drink thou the rest to me." Upon that Sir Tristram took the chalice and lifted it to his lips, and drank all the rest of that liquor that was therein. [Sidenote: Sir Tristram and Belle Isoult drink the love potion] Now immediately Sir Tristram had drunk that elixir he felt it run like fire through every vein in his body. Thereupon he cried out, "Lady, what is this you have given me to drink?" She said: "Tristram, that was a powerful love potion intended for King Mark and me. But now thou and I have drunk of it and never henceforth can either of us love anybody in all of the world but the other." Then Sir Tristram catched her into his arms and he cried out: "Isoult! Isoult! what hast thou done to us both? Was it not enough that I should have been unhappy but that thou shouldst have chosen to be unhappy also?" Thereat the Lady Belle Isoult both wept and smiled, looking up into Sir Tristram's face, and she said: "Nay, Tristram; I would rather be sorry with thee than happy with another." He said, "Isoult, there is much woe in this for us both." She said, "I care not, so I may share it with thee." Thereupon Sir Tristram kissed her thrice upon the face, and then immediately put her away from him and he left her and went away by himself in much agony of spirit. Thereafter they reached the kingdom of Cornwall in safety, and the Lady Belle Isoult and King Mark were wedded with much pomp and ceremony and after that there was much feasting and every appearance of rejoicing. PART II The Story of Sir Tristram and Sir Lamorack And now shall be told the story of Sir Tristram and Sir Lamorack of Gales, how they became brothers-in-arms; how Sir Lamorack took offence at Sir Tristram, and how they became reconciled again. But first of all you must know that Sir Lamorack of Gales was deemed to be one of the greatest knights alive. For it was said that there were three knights that were the greatest in all of the world, and those three were Sir Launcelot of the Lake, Sir Tristram of Lyonesse, and Sir Lamorack of Gales. Sir Lamorack was the son of King Pellinore, of whom it hath already been told in the Book of King Arthur that he was the greatest knight during that time; and he was the brother of Sir Percival, of whom it is to be told hereinafter that he was the peer even of Sir Launcelot of the Lake. So because that house produced three such great and famous knights, the house of King Pellinore hath always been singularly renowned in all histories of chivalry. For indeed there was not any house so famous as it saving only the house of King Ban of Benwick, which brought forth those two peerless knights beyond all compare:--to wit, Sir Launcelot of the Lake and Sir Galahad, who achieved the quest of the San Grail. So I hope that you may find pleasure in the story of how Sir Tristram and Sir Lamorack became acquainted, and of how they became brothers-in-arms. [Illustration: Sir Lamorack of Gales] Chapter First _How Sir Lamorack of Gales came to Tintagel and how he and Sir Tristram sware friendship together in the forest._ After these happenings, Sir Tristram abode for awhile at the Court of Cornwall, for so King Mark commanded him to do. And he sought in every way to distract his mind from his sorrows by deeds of prowess. So during this time he performed several adventures of which there is not now space to tell you. But these adventures won such credit to his knighthood that all the world talked of his greatness. And ever as he grew more and more famous, King Mark hated him more and more. For he could not bear to see Sir Tristram so noble and so sorrowful with love of the Lady Belle Isoult. Also Sir Tristram spent a great deal of time at chase with hawk and hound; for he hoped by means also of such sports to drive away, in some measure, his grief for the loss of Belle Isoult. Now the season whereof this chapter speaketh was in the autumn of the year, what time all the earth is glorious with the brown and gold of the woodlands. For anon, when the wind would blow, then the leaves would fall down from the trees like showers of gold so that everywhere they lay heaped like flakes of gold upon the russet sward, rustling dry and warm beneath the feet, and carpeting all the world with splendor. And the deep blue sky overhead was heaped full of white, slow-moving clouds, and everywhere the warm air was fragrant with the perfume of the forest, and at every strong breeze the nuts would fall pattering down upon the ground like hailstones. [Sidenote: Sir Tristram rides ahunting] And because the world was so beautiful and so lusty, Sir Tristram took great pleasure in life in spite of that trouble that lay upon him. So he and his court rode very joyfully amid the trees and thickets, making the woodlands merry with the music of winding horns and loud-calling voices and with the baying of hounds sounding like sweet tolling bells in the remoter aisles of the forest spaces. Thus Sir Tristram made sport all one morning, in such an autumn season, and when noon had come he found himself to be anhungered. So he gave orders to those who were in attendance upon him that food should be spread at a certain open space in the forest; and therewith, in accordance with those orders, they in attendance immediately opened sundry hampers of wicker, and therefrom brought forth a noble pasty of venison, and manchets of bread and nuts and apples and several flasks and flagons of noble wine of France and the Rhine countries. This abundance of good things they set upon a cloth as white as snow which they had laid out upon the ground. Now just as Sir Tristram was about to seat himself at this goodly feast he beheld amid the thin yellow foliage that there rode through a forest path not far away a very noble-seeming knight clad all in shining armor and with vestments and trappings of scarlet so that he shone like a flame of fire in the woodlands. Then Sir Tristram said to those who stood near him, "Know ye who is yonder knight who rides alone?" They say, "No, Lord, we know him not." Sir Tristram said, "Go and bid that knight of his courtesy that he come hither and eat with me." So three or four esquires ran to where that knight was riding, and in a little they came attending him to where Sir Tristram was, and Sir Tristram went to meet him. Then Sir Tristram said: "Sir Knight, I pray you for to tell me your name and degree, for it seems to me that you are someone very high in order of knighthood." [Sidenote: Sir Lamorack meets Sir Tristam] "Messire," quoth the other, "I shall be very glad to tell you my name if so be you will do the like courtesy unto me. I am Sir Lamorack of Gales, and I am son of the late King Pellinore, who was in his days held to be the foremost knight in this realm. I come to these parts seeking Sir Tristram of Lyonesse, of whose fame I hear told in every court of chivalry whither I go. For I have never beheld Sir Tristram, and I have a great desire to do so." "Well," quoth Sir Tristram, "meseems I should be greatly honored that you should take so much trouble for nothing else than that; for lo! I am that very Sir Tristram of Lyonesse whom you seek." Then Sir Lamorack immediately leaped down from his war-horse and putting up the umbril of his helmet, he came to Sir Tristram and took him by the hand and kissed him upon the cheek. And Sir Tristram kissed Sir Lamorack again, and each made great joy of the other. After that, Sir Lamorack, with the aid of these esquires attendant upon Sir Tristram, put aside his armor, and bathed his face and neck and hands in a cold forest brook, as clear as crystal, that came brawling down out of the woodlands. Therewith, being greatly refreshed he and Sir Tristram sat down to that bountiful feast together, and ate and drank with great joy and content of spirit. And whiles they ate each made inquiry of the other what he did, and each told the other many things concerning the goodly adventures that had befallen him. [Sidenote: Sir Tristram sings to Sir Lamorack] And after they were through eating and drinking, Sir Tristram took his harp in hand and sang several excellent ballads and rondels which he had made in honor of Belle Isoult, and Sir Lamorack listened and made great applause at each song that Sir Tristram sang. And so each knight loved the other more and more the longer they sat together. Then, after a while, Sir Tristram said: "Dear friend, let us swear brotherhood to one another, for I find that my heart goeth out to thee with a wonderful strength." "Ha, Tristram," said Sir Lamorack, "I would rather live in brotherhood with thee than with any man whom I know, for I find that the longer I am with thee, the greater and the stronger my love groweth for thee." Then Sir Tristram drew from his finger a very splendid ring (for the ring held an emerald carved into the likeness of the head of a beautiful woman, and that emerald was set into the gold of the ring) and Sir Tristram said: "Give me that ring upon thy finger, O Lamorack! and take thou this ring in its stead; so we shall have confirmed our brotherhood to one another." Then Sir Lamorack did very joyfully as Sir Tristram bade him, and he took the ring that Sir Tristram gave him and kissed it and put it upon his finger; and Sir Tristram kissed the ring that Sir Lamorack gave him and put it upon his finger. Thus they confirmed brotherhood with one another that day as they sat together in the forest at feast, with the golden leaves falling about them. And so they sat together all that afternoon and until the sun began to hang low in the west; after that, they arose and took horse, and rode away together toward Tintagel in great pleasure of companionship. [Sidenote: Sir Lamorack is honored at Tintagel] Now all the court at Tintagel was greatly rejoiced at the presence of so famous a knight as Sir Lamorack of Gales; so there was great celebration upon that account, and everybody did the most that he was able to give pleasure to Sir Lamorack. And during the time that Sir Lamorack was at Tintagel there were several joustings held in his honor, and in all these assays at arms Sir Lamorack himself took part and overthrew everyone who came against him, so that he approved himself to be so wonderful a champion that all men who beheld his performance exclaimed with astonishment at his prowess. But from all these affairs at arms Sir Tristram held himself aloof, and would not take part in them. For he took such pleasure in Sir Lamorack's glory that he would not do anything that might imperil the credit that his friend thus gained by his prowess. For though Sir Tristram dearly loved such affairs, he would ever say to himself: "Perhaps if I should enter the lists against my friend it might be my mishap to overthrow him and then his glory would be forfeited unto me." [Sidenote: Sir Lamorack does famous battle] Now upon a certain time there was held a great day of jousting in honor of Sir Lamorack, and in that affair at arms twenty of the best knights, both of Cornwall and the countries circumadjacent, took the field to hold it against all comers. Of these knights, several were well-known champions, so that they maintained the field for a long while, to the great credit both of themselves and of Cornwall. But some while after the prime of day, there came Sir Lamorack into that field, and, the day being cool and fresh, he was filled with a wonderful strength and spirit of battle. So he challenged first one of those Cornish champions and then another, and in all such challenges he was successful, so that he overthrew of those knights, the one after the other, fifteen men, some of whom were sorely hurt in the encounter. Upon this, the other five of those champions, beholding the prowess and strength and skill of Sir Lamorack said to one another: "Why should we venture against this man? Of a verity, this knight is no mere man, but a demon of strength and skill. Wherefore no man may hope to stand against him in an assault of arms; for lo! if he doth but touch a man with his lance that man straightway falleth from his saddle." So they withdrew themselves from that encounter and would not have to do with Sir Lamorack. Now at that time Sir Tristram was sitting with the court of the King, and not far from the Lady Belle Isoult, overlooking the meadow of battle. To him King Mark said: "Messire, why do you take no part against this knight? Is it that you fear him?" To this Sir Tristram replied with great calmness: "Nay, I fear not him nor any man alive, and that you know, Lord, better than anyone in all of the world." "I am glad to hear of your courage and fearlessness," quoth King Mark, "for meseems it is a great shame to all of us that this gentleman, who is a stranger amongst us, should win so much credit to the disadvantage of all the knights of Cornwall. Now, as you say you have no fear of him, I pray you go down into the field and do battle with him in our behalf." So said King Mark, for he thought to himself: "Perhaps Sir Lamorack may overthrow Sir Tristram, and so bring him into disrepute with those who praise him so greatly." But Sir Tristram said: "No; I will not go down to battle against Sir Lamorack this day whatever I may do another day. For I have sworn brotherhood to that noble and gentle champion, and it would ill beseem me to assault him now, when he is weary and short of breath from this great battle which he hath done to-day against such odds. For if I should overthrow him now, it would bring great shame upon him. Some other day and in some other place I may assay him in friendliness, with honor and credit both to myself and him." [Sidenote: King Mark commands Sir Tristram to do battle] "Well," said King Mark, "as for that, I do not choose to wait. Nor am I pleased that you should sit by and suffer this knight to carry away all the credit of arms from Cornwall in despite of the knights of Cornwall. For not only would this be a great shame to the knights of Cornwall (of whom you are the acknowledged champion), but it would be equally a shame unto this lady whom you have fetched hither from Ireland to be Queen of Cornwall. So I lay this command upon you--not only because I am your King, but because I am he who made you knight--that you straightway go down into yonder meadow and do battle with this knight who beareth himself so proudly in our midst." Then Sir Tristram looked upon King Mark with great anger and bitterness, and he said: "This is great shame and despite which you seek to put upon me by giving such commands unto me. Verily, it would seem that in all ways you seek to put shame and sorrow upon me. And yet I have ever been your true knight, and have saved your kingdom from truage to Ireland and have served you very faithfully in all ways. Would to God I had been made knight by any man in the world rather than by you." At this King Mark smiled very bitterly upon Tristram. "Sirrah," quoth he, "meseems you speak very outrageously to me who am your King. Now I herewith command you to go straightway down into that field without any further words and to do my bidding against yonder knight." Then Sir Tristram groaned in spirit, and then he said, "I go." So Sir Tristram arose and went away from that place very full of bitterness and anger against the King and his court. For whiles there were some of that court who were sorry for the affront that King Mark had put upon him in public before the eyes of the entire court, yet there were others who smiled and were glad of his humiliation. For even so true and noble a gentleman as Sir Tristram, when he groweth great and famous, is like to have as many enemies as friends. For there are ever those who envy truth and nobility in a man, as well as others who hate meanness and falsity, and so Sir Tristram ever had many enemies whithersoever he went. And that also was the case with Sir Launcelot and Sir Lamorack, and with other noble knights at that time. [Sidenote: Sir Tristram arms himself] But though Sir Tristram was so filled with indignation he said nothing to any man, but went to his lodging and summoned Gouvernail, and bade Gouvernail to help him to his armor and his horse. Gouvernail said: "Lord, what would you do for to arm and horse yourself at this hour?" Sir Tristram made reply: "The King hath commanded me to do battle with Sir Lamorack, and yet Sir Lamorack is my very dear friend and sworn brother-in-arms. He is already weary with battle, and of a surety I shall be very likely to overthrow him in an assault at arms at this time." Gouvernail said, "Lord, that would be great shame to you as well as to him." And Sir Tristram said, "Yea, it is great shame." Then Gouvernail beheld Sir Tristram's face, how it was all filled with a passion of shame and indignation, and so he guessed what had passed, and held his peace. So when Sir Tristram was armed and mounted, he rode down into the meadow of battle, where was Sir Lamorack parading with great glory before the applause of all who looked down upon that field. [Sidenote: Sir Lamorack speaks to Sir Tristram] But when Sir Lamorack beheld that it was Sir Tristram who came against him, he was greatly astonished, and cried out: "Ha, Tristram, how is this? Is it you who come against me? Have you then forgot that I am your brother-in-arms and a fellow of the Round Table?" To this Sir Tristram said: "Messire, I come not of my own free will, but only because I must needs come, being so commanded by the King of Cornwall." "Very well," said Sir Lamorack, "so be it as you will, though I am very much surprised that you should do battle against me, after all that hath passed betwixt us. More especially at this season when, as you very well know, I am weary and winded with battle." Thereupon and without further parley, each knight took stand for the encounter at the position assigned to him. Then when they were in all ways prepared, the marshal of the field blew upon his trumpet a call for the assault. So rushed those two together like two stones, flung each out of a catapult; and therewith they two smote together in the midst of their course like to a clap of thunder. [Sidenote: Sir Tristram overthrows Sir Lamorack] In that encounter the spear of Sir Lamorack brake into as many as twenty or thirty pieces; but the spear of Sir Tristram held, so that the horse of Sir Lamorack, which was weary with the several charges he had made, was overthrown into a great cloud of dust. But Sir Lamorack did not fall with his steed; for he voided his saddle with a very wonderful agility and dexterity, so that he himself kept his feet, although his horse fell as aforesaid. Then he was filled with great rage and shame that he had been so overthrown before all those who looked upon him; wherefore he immediately drew his sword and cried out aloud: "Come down, Sir Knight, and do battle with me afoot, for though my horse hath failed me because of his weariness, yet you shall find that my body shall not so fail me." But that while Sir Tristram sat very sorrowful, and he said: "Nay, I will not have to do with thee again this day, for it was against my will that I came hither to do battle with thee, and it is to my shame that I did so. Wherefore I will not now do further battle with thee. But wait until to-morrow and until thou art fresh, and then I will give thee the chance of battle again." To this Sir Lamorack made answer very bitterly: "Sir, I think you talk to amuse me; for first you put shame upon me in this encounter, and then you bid me wait until to-morrow ere I purge me of that shame. Now I demand of you to do battle with me upon this moment and not to-morrow." Sir Tristram said: "I will not do battle with thee, Lamorack, for I have done wrong already, and I will not do more wrong." [Sidenote: Sir Lamorack reproves Sir Tristram] Upon this, Sir Lamorack was so filled with anger that he scarce knew what to say or to do. Wherefore he turned him to several who had come down into the meadow of battle, and he said: "Hear ye all, and listen to my words: This knight came against me in this field after I had had to do with fifteen other knights. In that encounter he overthrew me, because of the weariness of my horse. Having done that unknightly deed, he now refuseth me any further test of battle, but allows me to lie beneath that shame which he put upon me. Now I bid you who stand here to take this word to Sir Launcelot of the Lake; I bid ye tell Sir Launcelot that Sir Tristram of Lyonesse, having sworn brother-hood-in-arms to me, and being a fellow-knight of the Round Table, hath come against me when I was weary with battle and he was fresh. Tell Sir Launcelot that so Sir Tristram overthrew me with shame to himself and with discredit to me, and that he then refused me all satisfaction such as one true knight should afford another." Then Sir Tristram cried out in a loud voice, "I pray you, hear me speak, Messire!" But Sir Lamorack replied, "I will not hear thee!" and therewith turned and went away, leaving Sir Tristram where he was. And Sir Tristram sat there without movement, like to a statue of stone. [Sidenote: Sir Lamorack leaves Tintagel] After that Sir Lamorack did not tarry longer at Tintagel, but immediately left the King's court without making speech with anyone. And thereafter he went down to the seashore and embarked in a boat with intent to sail to Camelot where King Arthur was then holding court. For his heart was still so bitter against Sir Tristram that he intended to lay complaint against him before the court of chivalry at Camelot. But Sir Lamorack did not reach Camelot upon that voyage; for, whilst he was in passage, there suddenly arose a great tempest of wind, and in spite of all that the mariners could do, that small ship wherein he sailed was driven upon a cruel headland of rocks and cliffs where it was dashed to pieces. But Sir Lamorack had foreseen that that small boat was to be wrecked, wherefore, before the end came, he stripped himself entirely naked and leaped into the waters and swam for his life. [Sidenote: Sir Lamorack is shipwrecked upon a strange land] So he swam for a long time until he was wellnigh exhausted and upon the point of drowning in the waters. But at that moment he came by good hap to where was a little bay of quiet water, whereinto he swam and so made shift to come safe to land--but faint and weak, and so sick that he feared that he was nigh to death. Then Sir Lamorack perceived that there was heather at that place growing upon the rocks of the hillside, so he crawled into the heather and lay him down therein in a dry spot and immediately fell into such a deep sleep of weariness that it was more like to the swoon of death than to slumber. [Sidenote: Of Sir Nabon le Noir] Now the lord of that country whereunto Sir Lamorack had come was a very wicked knight, huge of frame and very cruel and hard of heart. The name of this knight was Sir Nabon, surnamed le Noir; for he was very swarth of hue, and he always wore armor entirely of black. This knight had several years before slain the lord of that land, and had seized upon all of the island as his own possession, and no one dared to come against him for to recover these possessions, for his prowess was so remarkable and his body so huge that all the world was afraid of him. So he dwelt there unmolested in a strong castle of stone built up upon a rock near to the seashore, whence he might behold all the ships that passed him by. Then, whenever he would see such a ship pass by, he would issue forth in his own ships and seize upon that other vessel, and either levy toll upon it or sink it with all upon board. And if he found any folk of high quality aboard such a ship, that one he would seize and hold for ransom. So Sir Nabon made himself the terror of all that part of the world, and all men avoided the coasts of so inhospitable a country. Such was the land upon which Sir Lamorack had been cast by the tempest. [Sidenote: The fisher-folk disarm Sir Lamorack] Now whilst Sir Lamorack lay sleeping in the heather in that wise as aforetold, there came by that way several fisher-folk; these, when they saw him lying there, thought at first that he was dead. But as they stood talking concerning him, Sir Lamorack was aware of their voices and woke and sat up and beheld them. Then the chiefest of those fisher-folk spake and said, "Who are you, and how came you here?" Him Sir Lamorack answered: "Alas! friend! I am a poor soul who was cast ashore from a shipwreck, naked as you see me. Now I pray you, give me some clothes to cover my nakedness, and give me some food to eat, and lend me such succor as man may give to man in distress." Then the chief fisherman perceived the ring upon Sir Lamorack's finger that Sir Tristram had given him, and he said, "How got you that ring upon your finger?" Sir Lamorack said, "He who was my friend gave it to me." "Well," quoth the fisherman, "I will give you clothes to wear and food to eat, but if I do so you must give me that ring that I see upon your hand. As for lending you aid, I must tell you that the lord of this island hath ordained upon peril of our lives that all who come hither must straightway be brought before him to be dealt with as he may deem fitting. Wherefore, after I have fed you and clothed you I must immediately take you to him." [Sidenote: The fisher-folk give Sir Lamorack clothes and food] "Alas!" quoth Sir Lamorack, "this is certes an inhospitable land into which I have come! Ne'ertheless, as I am naked and starving, I see that I have no choice other than that which ye put upon me." So therewith he gave the chief of the fisher-folk the ring that Sir Tristram had given him, and in return the fishermen gave him such garments as they could spare to cover his nakedness; and they gave him black bread and cheese to eat, and bitter ale to drink from a skin that they carried with them. After that they tied Sir Lamorack's hands behind his back, and so, having made him prisoner, they brought him to the castle of Sir Nabon, and before Sir Nabon who was there at that time. Now it chanced that the swineherd of Sir Nabon's castle had been slain in a quarrel with one of his fellows, so that when Sir Nabon beheld Sir Lamorack, that he was big and sturdy of frame, he said: "I will spare this fellow his life, but I will make him my swineherd. So take ye him away and let him herd my swine." [Sidenote: Sir Lamorack turns swineherd] So they led Sir Lamorack away, and he became swineherd to Sir Nabon surnamed le Noir, and presently in a little while he grew so rough and shaggy that his own mother would hardly have known him had she beheld him. So endeth this adventure of Sir Lamorack. And now it shall be told how it befel with Sir Tristram after Sir Lamorack had left Tintagel as aforetold. [Illustration: Sir Tristram cometh to ye castle of Sir Nabon] Chapter Second _How Sir Tristram started to go to Camelot, and how he stayed by the way to do battle with Sir Nabon le Noir._ Now after Sir Lamorack had quit the court of King Mark of Cornwall as aforetold, Sir Tristram was very sad at heart for a long while. Nevertheless, he tried to comfort himself by saying: "Well, it was not by my will that I did battle with my friend and brother-in-arms, for I had no choice as to that which I was compelled to do." So he spake to himself, and took what comfort he was able from such considerations, and that comfort was not very great. [Sidenote: Sir Launcelot sends a letter to Sir Tristram] Then one day there came from Sir Launcelot of the Lake a letter in which Sir Launcelot said that he had heard that Sir Tristram had assailed Sir Lamorack when that knight was weary and spent with battle. And in that letter Sir Launcelot further said: "It is very strange to me, Messire, that such things should be said of you, and that by several mouths. Now, I pray you, set this matter at right, for I do not choose to have such a thing said of you; that you would wait until a knight was weary with fighting before you would do battle with him. Moreover, Sir Lamorack is your sworn brother-at-arms, and a fellow-knight of the Round Table, and is, besides, one of the noblest and gentlest knights in Christendom. Wherefore I beseech you to set this matter right, so that those who accuse you of unknightliness may be brought to confusion." So wrote Sir Launcelot, and at those words Sir Tristram was cast into a great deal of pain and trouble of spirit; for he wist not how to answer that letter of Sir Launcelot's so as to make the matter clear to that knight. Wherefore he said: "I will straightway go to Camelot and to Sir Launcelot and will speak to him by word of mouth, and so will make him understand why I did that which I had to do." [Sidenote: Sir Tristram rides to Camelot] So when the next day had come Sir Tristram arose and took horse and rode away from Tintagel with intent to betake himself to Camelot where King Arthur was then holding court, and where he might hope to find Sir Launcelot abiding. And Sir Tristram took no companion with him, not even Gouvernail. And now I shall tell you how Sir Tristram rode: the way that he took led him down by the seashore, and by and by to a deep forest, which was then nearly altogether devoid of leaves, so that the branches above him were in some places like to the meshes of a net spread against the sky. Here that young knight rode upon a deep carpet of leaves, so that the steps of his war-horse were silenced save only for the loud and continued rustling of his footfalls in the dry and yellow foliage. And as Sir Tristram rode he sang several songs in praise of the Lady Belle Isoult, chanting in a voice that was both clear and loud and very sweet, and that sounded to a great distance through the deep, silent aisles of the forest. Thus he travelled, anon singing as aforetold of, and anon sank in meditation, so travelling until the day declined and the early gray of the evening began to fall. Then he began to bethink him how he should spend the night, and he thought he would have to sleep abroad in the forest. But just as the gray of the evening was fading away into darkness he came to a certain place of open land, where, before him, he perceived a tall castle, partly of stone and partly of red bricks, built up upon a steep hill of rocks. And upon one side of this castle was the forest, and upon the other side was the wide and open stretch of sea. And Sir Tristram perceived that there were lights shining from several windows of that castle, and that all within was aglow with red as of a great fire in the hall of the castle; and at these signs of good cheer, his heart was greatly expanded with joy that he should not after all have to spend that night in the darkness and in the chill of the autumn wilds. [Sidenote: Sir Tristram comes to a friendly castle] So Sir Tristram set spurs to his good horse and rode up to the castle and made request for rest and refreshment for the night. Then, after a little parley, the drawbridge was lowered, and the portcullis was raised, and he rode with a great noise into the stone-paved courtyard of the castle. Thereupon there came several attendants of the castle, and took his horse and aided him to descend from the saddle; and then other attendants came and led him away into the castle and so to an apartment where there was a warm bath of tepid water, and where were soft towels and napkins of linen for to dry himself upon after he was bathed. And when he had bathed and refreshed himself, there came still other attendants bearing soft warm robes for him in which to clothe himself after his journey; and Sir Tristram clothed himself and felt greatly at his ease, and was glad that he had come to that place. For thus it was that worthy knights like Sir Tristram travelled the world in those days so long ago; and so they were received in castle and hall with great pleasure and hospitality. For all folk knew the worth of these noble gentlemen and were glad to make them welcome whithersoever they went. And so I have told to you how Sir Tristram travelled, that you might, perchance, find pleasure in the thought thereof. [Sidenote: Sir Tristram meets the lady of the castle] Now after Sir Tristram had refreshed himself and clothed himself as aforesaid, there came the steward of the castle and besought him that he would come to where the lady of the castle was awaiting him for to welcome him. And Sir Tristram went with the steward, and the steward brought him where the lady sat at a table prepared for supper. And Sir Tristram perceived that the lady was very beautiful, but that she was clad in the deep weeds of a widow. When the lady perceived Sir Tristram, she arose and went to meet him, and gave him welcome, speaking in a voice both soft and very sweet. "Messire," quoth she, "I am grieved that there is no man here to welcome you in such a manner as is fitting. But, alas! as you may see by the weeds in which I am clad, I am alone in the world and without any lord of the castle to do the courtesies thereof as is fitting. Yet such as I am, I give you welcome with my entire heart." "Lady," quoth Sir Tristram, "I give you gramercy for your courtesy. And indeed I am grieved to see you in such sorrow as your dress foretells. Now if there is any service I may render to you, I beseech you to call upon me for whatever aid I may give you." [Sidenote: Sir Tristram feasts with the chatelaine] "Nay," quoth she, "there is nothing you can do to help me." And therewith the lady, who was hight Loise, took Sir Tristram by the hand and led him to the table and sat him down beside her. Then straightway there came sundry attendants, and set a noble feast before them, with good excellent wines, both white and red; and they two ate and drank together with great appetite and enjoyment. Now after that feast was over and done, Sir Tristram said: "Lady, will you not of your courtesy tell me why you wear the weeds of sorrow in which you are clad? This I ask, not from idle humor, but because, as I said before, I may haply be able to aid you in whatever trouble it is under which you lie." [Sidenote: The Lady telleth Sir Tristram of Sir Nabon le Noir] "Alas, Sir Knight!" quoth she, "my trouble lieth beyond your power to aid or to amend. For can you conquer death, or can you bring the dead back to life again? Nevertheless, I will tell you what my sorrow is, and how it came unto me. You must know that some distance away across the sea, which you may behold from yonder window, there lieth an island. The present lord of that island is a very wicked and cruel knight, huge of frame and big of limb, hight Sir Nabon surnamed le Noir. One time the noble and gentle knight who was my husband was the lord of that island and the castle thereon, and of several other castles and manors and estates upon this mainland as well. But one evil day when I and my lord were together upon that island, this Sir Nabon came thither by night, and with certain evil-disposed folk of the island he overcame my lord and slew him very treacherously. Me also he would have slain, or else have taken into shameful captivity, but, hearing the noise of that assault in which my lord was slain, I happily escaped, and so, when night had come, I got away from that island with several attendants who were faithful to me, and thus came to this castle where we are. Since that time Sir Nabon has held that castle as his own, ruling it in a very evil fashion. For you are to know that the castle sits very high upon the crags overlooking the sea, and whenever a vessel passeth by that way, Sir Nabon goeth forth to meet it; and upon some of these crafts he levies toll, and other ships he sinks after slaying the mariners and sailor-folk who may by evil hap be aboard thereof. And if anyone is by chance cast ashore upon that island, that one he either slays or holds for ransom, or makes thereof a slave for to serve him. Because of this, very few ships now go by that way, for all people shun the coasts of so evil a country as that. So Sir Nabon took that land away from me; nor have I any kin who will take up this quarrel for me, and so I must endure my losses as best I may." "Ha!" quoth Sir Tristram, "and is there then no good knight-champion in this country who will rid the world of such an evil being as that Sir Nabon of whom you speak?" "Nay," said the lady, "there is no one who cares to offer challenge to that knight, for he is as strong and as doughty as he is huge of frame, and he is as fierce and cruel as he is strong and masterful, wherefore all men hold him in terror and avoid him." "Well," said Sir Tristram, "meseems it is the business of any knight to rid the world of such a monster as that, whatever may be the danger to himself. Now as there is no knight hereabouts who hath heart to undertake such an adventure, I myself shall undertake it so soon as to-morrow shall have come." "Sir," said the lady, "I beseech you to think twice before you enter into such an affair as that. Or rather be ruled by me and do not undertake this quest at all; for I misdoubt that anyone could conquer this huge and powerful champion, even if that knight were such as Sir Launcelot of the Lake or Sir Tristram of Lyonesse." [Sidenote: Sir Tristram confesses his degree to the chatelaine] At this Sir Tristram laughed with great good-will, and he said, "Lady, do you not then know who I am?" "Nay," said she, "I know you not." "Well," said Sir Tristram, "then I may tell you that I am that Sir Tristram of Lyonesse of whom you spoke just now. And I also tell you that I shall undertake this adventure to-morrow morning." Now when the lady found that the stranger she had taken in was Sir Tristram of Lyonesse, she made great exclamation of surprise and pleasure at having him at that place, for at that time all the world was talking of Sir Tristram's performances. So she took great pleasure and pride that her castle should have given him shelter. She made many inquiries concerning his adventures, and Sir Tristram told her all she asked of him. Then the lady said: "Messire, I hear tell that you sing very sweetly, and that you are a wonderful harper upon the harp. Now will you not chaunt for me a song or two or three?" And Sir Tristram said: "Lady, I will do whatsoever you ask me that may give you pleasure." [Sidenote: Sir Tristram sings to the lady] So the lady bade them bring a harp and they did so. And Sir Tristram took the harp and set it before him and tuned it and played upon it, and sang so sweetly that they of the castle said: "Certes, this is no knight-errant who sings, but an angel from Paradise who hath come among us. For surely no one save an angel from Paradise could sing so enchantingly." So passed that evening very pleasantly until the hours waxed late. Then Sir Tristram retired to a very noble apartment where a soft couch spread with flame-colored linen had been prepared for him, and where he slept a soft sleep without disturbance of any kind. [Sidenote: Sir Tristram departs for the island of Sir Nabon] Now when the next morning had come, Sir Tristram armed himself and mounted upon his war-horse, and rode him to a certain place on the shore. There he found some mariners in haven with a large boat, and to these he paid ten pieces of silver money to bear him across the sea to that island where Sir Nabon le Noir abided. At first these mariners said they would not sail to such a coast of danger and death; but afterward they said they would, and they did do so. But still they would not bring Sir Tristram to land nigh to the castle, but only at a place that was a great way off, and where they deemed themselves to be more safe from the cruel lord of that land. As for Sir Tristram he made merry with their fear, saying: "It is well that we who are knights-errant have more courage than you who are sailor-men, else it would not be possible that monsters such as this Sir Nabon should ever be made an end of." Upon this the captain of these sailors replied: "Well, Messire, for the matter of that, it is true that mariners such as we have not much courage, for we are the first of our order who have dared to come hither. But it is also true that you are the first errant-knight who hath ever had courage to come hither. So what say you for the courage of your own order?" And at that Sir Tristram laughed with great good will and rode his way. [Sidenote: Sir Tristram arrives at the castle of Sir Nabon] Thereafter he rode forward along the coast of that land for several leagues, with the noise of the sea ever beating in his ears, and the shrill clamor of the sea-fowl ever sounding in the air about him. By and by he came to a place of certain high fells, and therefrom perceived before him in the distance a tall and forbidding castle standing upon a high headland of the coast. And the castle was built of stone, that was like the rocks upon which it stood, so that at first one could not tell whether what one beheld was a part of the cliffs or whether it was the habitation of man. But when Sir Tristram had come somewhat nearer, he perceived the windows of the castle shining against the sky, and he saw the gateway thereof, and the roofs and the chimneys thereof, so that he knew that it was a castle of great size and strength and no wall of rock as he had at first supposed it to be; and he wist that this must be the castle of that wicked and malignant knight, Sir Nabon, whom he sought. Now as Sir Tristram wended his way toward that castle by a crooked path meditating how he should come at Sir Nabon for to challenge him to battle, he was by and by aware of a fellow clad in pied black and white, who walked along the way in the direction that he himself was taking. At the first that fellow was not aware of Sir Tristram; then presently he was aware of him and turned him about, and beheld that a strange knight was riding rapidly down toward him upon a horse. Then at first that fellow stood like one struck with amazement; but in a moment he cried out aloud as with a great fear, and instantly turned again and ran away, yelling like one who had gone mad. But Sir Tristram thundered after him at speed, and, in a little, came up with him, and catched him by the collar of his jerkin and held him fast. And Sir Tristram said: "Fellow, who are you?" "Lord," quoth the fellow, "I am an attendant upon the knight of yonder castle, which same is hight Sir Nabon surnamed le Noir." [Sidenote: Sir Tristram talks with a knave of the earth] Then Sir Tristram said: "Sirrah, why did you run from me when you first beheld me?" And the fellow replied: "Messire, you are the first stranger who hath dared to come hither to this country; wherefore, seeing you, and seeing that you rode upon horseback, and not knowing how you came to this land, I wist not whether you were a man of flesh and blood, or whether you were a spirit come hither for to punish us for our sins; so I ran away from you." "Well," said Sir Tristram, "as you see, I am no spirit, but a man of flesh and blood. Yet I have great hope that I have indeed been sent hither for to punish those who have done evil, for I come hither seeking the knight of yonder castle for to do battle with him in behalf of that lady whose lord he slew so treacherously as I have heard tell. And I hope to take away from him this island and return it to the Lady Loise, to whom it belongeth." "Alas, Messire," quoth the fellow, "this is for you a very sorry quest upon which you have come. For this Sir Nabon whom you seek is accounted to be the most potent knight in all of the world. Yea; he is held to be a bigger knight than even Sir Launcelot of the Lake or Sir Tristram of Lyonesse or Sir Lamorack of Gales. Wherefore I beseech you to turn about and go away whither you have come whilst there is still the chance for you to escape." [Sidenote: Sir Tristram sends challenge to Sir Nabon] "Gramercy for your pity, good fellow," quoth Sir Tristram, "and may God grant that it may not be deserved. Nevertheless, in spite of the danger in this quest, I am still of the same mind as I was when I came hither. So do you presently go to your lord and tell him from me that a knight hath come to do battle with him upon the behalf of the lady to whom this island by rights belongeth." Therewith Sir Tristram let the fellow go, and he ran off with great speed and so away to the postern of the castle and entered in and shut the door behind him. Now at that time Sir Nabon le Noir was walking along the wall of the castle, and his son, who was a lad of seventeen years, was with him. There the messenger from Sir Tristram found him and delivered his message. Thereupon Sir Nabon looked over the battlements and down below and he beheld that there was indeed a tall and noble knight seated upon horseback in a level meadow that reached away, descending inland from the foot of the crags whereon the castle stood. But when Sir Nabon perceived that a stranger knight had dared to come thus into his country, he was filled with amazement at the boldness of that knight that he wist not what to think. Then, presently a great rage got hold upon him, and he ground his teeth together, and the cords on his neck stood out like knots on the trunk of a tree. For a while he stood as though bereft of speech; then anon he roared out in a voice like that of a bull, crying to those who were near him: "Go! Haste ye! Fetch me straightway my horse and armor and I will go immediately forth and so deal with yonder champion of ladies that he shall never take trouble upon their account again." Then those who were in attendance upon Sir Nabon were terrified at his words and ran with all speed to do his bidding, and presently fetched his armor and clad him in it; and they fetched his horse into the courtyard of the castle and helped him to mount upon it. And lo! the armor of Sir Nabon was as black as ink; and the great horse upon which he sat was black; and all the trappings and furniture of the armor and of the horse were black, so that from top to toe he was altogether as black and as forbidding as Death himself. [Sidenote: Sir Nabon rides forth to meet Sir Tristram] So when Sir Nabon was thus in all wise prepared for battle, the portcullis of the castle was lifted up, and he rode forth to meet Sir Tristram; and his young son rode with him as his esquire. Then all the people of the castle gathered together upon the walls to see that battle that was to be, and not one of those several score of folk thought otherwise than that Sir Tristram would certainly be overcome in that encounter. Sir Nabon rode straight up to Sir Tristram and he said very fiercely, "Sirrah, what is it brings you hither to this land?" "As to that," said Sir Tristram, "the messenger whom I have sent to you hath, I believe, told you what I come for, and that it is to redeem this island from your possession, and to restore it to the Lady Loise, to whom it belongeth. Likewise that I come to punish you for all the evil you have done." "And what business is all this of yours?" quoth Sir Nabon, speaking with great fury of voice. "Messire," quoth Sir Tristram, "know ye not that it is the business of every true knight to rid the world of all such evil monsters as you be?" "Ha!" quoth Sir Nabon, "that was very well said, for whatever mercy I should have been willing before this to show you hath now been forfeited unto you. For now I shall have no mercy upon you but shall slay you." "Well," quoth Sir Tristram, "as for that, meseems it will be time enough to offer me mercy after you have overcome me in battle." [Sidenote: Sir Tristram does battle with Sir Nabon] So thereupon each knight took his place for assault, and when they were in all ways prepared, each set spurs to his horse and dashed the one against the other, with a dreadful, terrible fury of onset. Each smote the other in the very midst of his shield, and at that blow the lance of each was altogether shivered into pieces to the very truncheon thereof. But each knight recovered his horse from the fall and each leaped to earth and drew his sword, and each rushed against the other with such fury that it was as though sparks of pure fire flew out from the oculariums of the helmets. Therewith they met together, and each lashed and smote at the other such fell strokes that the noise thereof might easily have been heard several furlongs away. Now in the beginning of that battle Sir Tristram was at first sore bestead and wist that he had met the biggest knight that ever he had encountered in all of his life, unless it was Sir Launcelot of the Lake, whom he had encountered as aforetold of in this history. So at first he bore back somewhat from the might of the blows of Sir Nabon. For Sir Nabon was so huge of frame and the blows he struck were so heavy that they drove Sir Tristram back as it were in spite of himself. [Sidenote: Sir Tristram slays Sir Nabon] Then Sir Tristram began to say to himself: "Tristram, if you indeed lose this battle, then there will be no one to defend your honor before Sir Launcelot who hath impeached it." Therewith it was as though new strength and life came back to him, and of a sudden he rushed that battle, and struck with threefold fury, and gave stroke upon stroke with such fierceness of strength that Sir Nabon was astonished and fell back before his assault. Then Sir Tristram perceived how Sir Nabon held his shield passing low, and therewith he rushed in upon him and smote him again and again and yet again. And so he smote Sir Nabon down upon his knees. Then he rushed in upon him and catched his helmet and plucked it off from his head. And he catched Sir Nabon by the hair of his head and drew his head forward. And Sir Tristram lifted his sword on high and he smote Sir Nabon's head from off his body so that it rolled down into the dust upon the ground. Now when the son of Sir Nabon perceived how that his father was slain, he shrieked like a woman. And he fell down upon his knees and crawled upon his knees to Sir Tristram and catched him about the thighs, crying out to him, "Spare me, and slay me not!" But Sir Tristram thrust him away and said, "Who art thou?" "Messire," said the youth, "I am the son of him whom thou hast just slain." [Sidenote: Sir Tristram slays the son of Sir Nabon] Then Sir Tristram looked closely into his face, and he perceived that it was wicked and treacherous and malevolent like to the face of Sir Nabon. Thereupon Sir Tristram said: "If a man shall slay the wolf and spare the whelp of the wolf, what shall the world be the better therefor?" Therewith he catched the son of Sir Nabon by the hair and dragged him down and smote off his head likewise as he had smitten off the head of his father, so that it fell upon the ground beside the head of Sir Nabon. And now it shall be told how Sir Tristram discovered Sir Lamorack upon the island and how he made amends to him, so that they became friends and brethren-in-arms once more as they had been before. [Illustration: Sir Lamorack herds the swine of Sir Nabon] Chapter Third _How Sir Tristram did justice in the island, and thereby released Sir Lamorack from captivity. Also how Sir Tristram and Sir Lamorack renewed their great tenderness toward one another._ Now after Sir Tristram had overcome Sir Nabon le Noir, and had slain the son of Sir Nabon as has been just told, he went straightway to the castle that had been Sir Nabon's, and commanded that they should bring forth the seneschal and the officers thereof unto him. Meantime, being a little wounded in that battle, he sat himself down upon a bench of wood that stood in the hall of the castle, and there he held his court. So, in a little while, there came the seneschal and several of the officers of the household to where Sir Tristram was, and when the seneschal came before Sir Tristram, he fell down upon his knees and besought pardon and mercy. [Sidenote: Sir Tristram talks with the castle help] Then Sir Tristram said: "I will consider thy case anon, and if I may assure myself that thou and these others are truly repentant, and if I may have assurity that ye will henceforth be faithful in your duty toward that lady who is now again the mistress of this castle and land, then I shall have mercy. But if ye show yourselves recreant and treacherous, according to the manners of this Sir Nabon who is dead, then I shall of a surety return hither and shall punish you even as ye beheld me punish that wicked knight and his young son." Then Sir Tristram said, "Who is the porter of this castle?" And the porter lifted his hand and said, "Lord, I am he." Sir Tristram said, "What captives have ye in this place?" The porter said: "Lord, there be four knights and three ladies who are held captive here for ransom." Then Sir Tristram said, "Bring them forth hither to me." [Sidenote: Sir Tristram comforts the captives] So the porter and several other of the castle folk departed with all speed and presently returned bringing with them those miserable captives whom they had liberated from the dungeons of the castle. These they led to where Sir Tristram still sat in justice upon the bench of wood. And Sir Tristram looked upon them with pity and beheld that they were in a very sad and forlorn condition and so sorrowful from their captivity that some of them wept from pure weakness of heart. Then Sir Tristram said: "Comfort ye, and take no more sorrow to yourselves, for now your troubles are past and gone, and happiness lieth before you. Sir Nabon is dead, and so is his son, and there is no one now to torment you. Moreover, I dare say that there is much treasure gathered at this place by Sir Nabon, and all that treasure shall be divided amongst you, for to comfort ye, wherefore when ye leave this place, ye shall go away a great deal richer than ye were when ye came." So spake Sir Tristram, promising them much for to comfort them a little. As to that treasure he spake of, ye shall immediately be told how it was. For when Sir Tristram had summoned the treasurer of that place, he brought Sir Tristram down into the vaults of the castle and there he beheld seven strong chests bolted and locked. Then Sir Tristram summoned the locksmith of that castle; and the smith came and burst open the chests; and lo! the eyes of all were astonished and bedazzled with the treasure which they therewith beheld; for in those chests was heaped an incalculable treasure of gold and silver and precious gems of many divers sorts. And besides this treasure, you are to know that they found in that vault many bales of cloths--some of silk and velvet, and some of tissues of cloth of gold and silver; and they found many precious ornaments, and many fine suits of armor, and many other valuable things. For in several years Sir Nabon had gathered all that treasure in toll from those ships that had sailed past that land. [Sidenote: Sir Tristram divides the treasure amongst the captives] All this treasure Sir Tristram had them bring forth into the light of day, and he divided it into seven equal parcels. Then he said to those sad, sorrowful captives: "Look! See! all this shall be yours for to comfort ye! Take each of you one parcel and depart hence in joy!" Then all they were greatly astonished at Sir Tristram's generosity, and they said: "Lord, how is this? Do you not then take any of this treasure for yourself?" To them Sir Tristram made reply: "Nay, why should I take it? I am not sad, nor sick, nor troubled at heart as you poor captives are. All this I have taken for to comfort you, and not for to satisfy my own covetousness. So let each take his share of it and see that ye all use it in comfort and peace and for the advantage of other men and women who are in trouble as ye have been. For, as hitherto this treasure hath been used for evil purpose, so shall it be henceforth that it shall be used to good purpose." So there was great rejoicing amongst all those poor people who had been so sad and sorrowful before. [Sidenote: Sir Tristram appoints Sir Segwarides governor of the castle] Now, after all this had been settled, Sir Tristram cast about how he might put that land under good government upon behalf of the Lady Loise. To this intent he chose from amongst those captives whom he had liberated a certain very worthy honorable knight of Cornwall hight Sir Segwarides. Him Sir Tristram appointed to be governor of that island, giving him liberty to rule it as he chose saving only that he should do homage to the Lady Loise as lady paramount. And Sir Tristram ordained that Sir Segwarides should pay tribute to that lady every year such an amount as should be justly determined upon betwixt them. For Sir Tristram wist that some strong worthy knight should rule that island, or else, from its position, it might again some time fall from the Lady Loise's possession into the hands of such an evil and malignant overlord as Sir Nabon had been. So it was done as Sir Tristram had ordained. And it may here be said that Sir Segwarides ruled that land very justly and that he and the Lady Loise became dear friends, so that at the end of three years from that time he and she were made husband and wife. Now Sir Tristram remained in that island several days, with intent to see to it that the power of Sir Segwarides should be established. And he made all the people of that land come before Sir Segwarides for to pledge obedience to him. Amongst these came Sir Lamorack in the guise of a swineherd, and Sir Tristram knew him not, because that he was clad in rags and in the skins of animals and because that his beard and his hair were uncut and unkempt, and hung down very shaggy upon his breast. But Sir Lamorack knew Sir Tristram yet would not acknowledge him, being ashamed that Sir Tristram should discover him in such a guise and so ragged and forlorn as he then was. So he kept his eyes from Sir Tristram, and Sir Tristram passed him by and knew him not. [Sidenote: Sir Tristram beholds Sir Lamorack's ring] But amongst other of the people of the castle that passed before Sir Tristram, there came a woman, very fair to look upon, and she had been a house-slave to Sir Nabon. As this woman passed before Sir Tristram, he beheld that she wore upon her thumb a very fair and shining ring, that bare a green stone set in wrought gold. And when he looked again he saw it was that ring of carven emerald that he had given to Sir Lamorack as aforetold. At this Sir Tristram was astonished beyond measure, and he ordered that woman to come before him, and she came and stood before him trembling. Then Sir Tristram said: "Fear not, but tell me where got ye that ring that I behold upon your hand?" And the woman said: "Lord, I will tell you the very truth. My husband is the chief fisherman of this place, and one day, some while ago, he gave me this ring when I had favor in his sight." Sir Tristram said, "Where is your husband?" The slave-woman said, "Yonder he stands." Then Sir Tristram said: "Come hither, Sirrah!" And therewith the fisherman came and stood before Sir Tristram as his wife had done, and he also trembled with fear as she had done. [Sidenote: Sir Tristram questions the fisherman] To him Sir Tristram said, "Why do you tremble so?" And the fisher-man said, "Lord, I am afeard!" Sir Tristram said: "Have no fear, unless you have done wrong, but tell me the truth. Where got ye that ring that yonder woman weareth?" "Lord," said the fisherman, "I will tell you the perfect truth. One day I and several of my fellows found a man lying naked in a bed of heather near the seaside. At first we thought he was dead, but he awoke and arose when he heard our voices. He was naked and hungry, and he besought us for clothes to cover his nakedness and for food to eat. So we gave him what we could, demanding that ring in payment. So he gave the ring to me, who am the chief of the fishermen, and I gave it to that woman who is my wife; and that, lord, is the very truth." Then Sir Tristram was very much disturbed in mind, for he feared that it might have gone ill with Sir Lamorack. And he said, "Where now is that man of whom ye speak?" The fisherman replied: "Lord, he was set to keep the swine, and he is the swineherd of the castle to this day." At this Sir Tristram was very glad that no more ill had befallen Sir Lamorack, and that he was yet alive. Then, after the fisherman had departed from that place, Sir Tristram sat for a while sunk into deep thought. And he said to himself: "Alas, that so noble a knight should be brought to such a pass as that! How greatly must my friend be abased when he would not acknowledge himself to me nor claim my assistance because of the shame of his appearance! Meseems it is not fitting for me to send for him to come to me in the guise which he now wears, for it would be discourteous a thing for me to do, to make him so declare himself. So first I shall see to it that he is clothed in such a manner as shall be fitting to his high estate, and then haply he will be willing to make himself manifest to me. After that, perhaps his love will return to me again, and remain with me as it was at first." So Sir Tristram called to him several of the people of that castle, and he bade them do certain things according to his command, and straightway they departed to do as he ordained. Now turn we to Sir Lamorack: whilst he sat keeping watch over his swine there came to him four men from the castle. These say to him, "You must come straightway with us." Sir Lamorack said, "Whither would you take me?" They say: "That we are not permitted to tell you, only that you are to go with us as we bid you." So Sir Lamorack arose and went with those four, much wondering what it was that was to befall him, and whether that which was to happen was good or evil. [Sidenote: Sir Lamorack is brought to the castle] The four men brought him to the castle and they entered in thereat, and they escorted Sir Lamorack, still greatly wondering, up the stairway of the castle, and so into a noble and stately apartment, hung with tapestries and embroidered hangings. And there Sir Lamorack beheld a great bath of tepid water, hung within and without with linen. There were at this place several attendants; these took Sir Lamorack and unclothed him and brought him to the bath, and bathed him and dried him with soft linen and with fine towels. Then there came the barber and he shaved Sir Lamorack and clipped his hair, and when he was thus bathed and trimmed, his nobility shone forth again as the sun shines forth from a thick cloud that hides its effulgence for a while, only to withdraw so that the glorious day-star may shine forth again with redoubled splendor. [Sidenote: Sir Lamorack is armed in armor] Then there came divers other attendants and clothed Sir Lamorack in rich and handsome garments such as were altogether fitting for a knight-royal to wear. And after that there came several esquires and brought a very splendid suit of armor; and they clad Sir Lamorack in that armor; and the armor gleamed as bright as daylight, being polished to a wonderful clearness, and inlaid with figures of arabesqued silver. Then Sir Lamorack said, "What means all this that ye do to me?" And they said, "Wait, Messire, and you shall see." So after all these things were done, five other esquires appeared to conduct Sir Lamorack away from that place. These led him through several passages and hallways until at last they came to a great space of hall wherein stood a single man; and that man was Sir Tristram. And Sir Tristram gazed upon Sir Lamorack and his heart yearned over him with great loving-kindness. But he would not betray his love to those who had come with Sir Lamorack, so he contained himself for a little, and he said to those in attendance, "Get ye gone," and straightway they departed. Then Sir Lamorack lifted up his eyes and he came to where Sir Tristram was standing and he said: "Is it thou, Tristram, who hath bestowed all these benefits upon me?" And he said: "From thy nobility of soul such things may be expected." [Sidenote: Sir Tristram and Sir Lamorack are reconciled] Then Sir Tristram wept for joy, and he said: "Lamorack, it is little that I have done to pleasure thee, and much that I have done to affront thee." Then Sir Lamorack said: "Nay; it is much that thou hast done to comfort me, and little to cause me discomfort. For lo! thou hast uplifted me from misery into happiness, and thou hast brought me from nakedness and want into prosperity and ease, and what more may one man do for another man than that?" "Lamorack," said Sir Tristram, "there is much more than one man may do for another man than that. For if one man hath given offence to another man, he may be reconciled to that one so offended, and so the soul of that other shall be clothed with peace and joy, even as thy body hath been clothed with garments of silk and fine linen." Then Sir Tristram took Sir Lamorack by the hand, and he said, "Dear friend, art thou now strong and fresh of body?" And Sir Lamorack, greatly wondering, said, "Ay." "Then," said Sir Tristram, "I may now offer thee reparation for that offence which I one time unwillingly committed against thee. For lo! I have had thee clad in the best armor that it is possible to provide, and now that thou art fresh and hale and strong, I am ready to do battle with thee at any time thou mayst assign. For if, before, thou wert overcome because thou wert weary with battle, now thou mayst prove thy prowess upon me being both strong and sound in wind and limb." But upon this Sir Lamorack ran to Sir Tristram and catched him in his arms and kissed him upon the cheek. And he said: "Tristram, thou art indeed a very noble soul. I will do no battle with thee, but instead I will take thee into my heart and cherish thee there forever." Sir Tristram said, "Art thou altogether satisfied?" And Sir Lamorack said, "Yea." And therewith Sir Tristram wept for pure joy. [Sidenote: Sir Tristram and Sir Lamorack depart from the island] Then Sir Tristram said: "Let us go to Sir Launcelot of the Lake, so that I may make my peace with him also. For he hath writ me a letter chiding me for having done battle with thee when thou wert weary and winded with fighting. And I was upon my way to see Sir Launcelot and to plead my cause with him when I came hither by good hap, and was able to uplift thee out of thy distress." To this Sir Lamorack said: "I will go with thee to Sir Launcelot whenever it shall please thee; and I will bear full testimony to thy knightliness and to thy courtesy." So when the next morning had come they took boat and sailed away from that island. And the night of that day they abided at the castle of the Lady Loise, who gave thanks without measure to Sir Tristram for ridding the world of so wicked and malign a being as Sir Nabon, and for restoring her inheritance of that land unto her again. And upon the morning of the next day those two good knights betook their way to Camelot, where they found Sir Launcelot. There Sir Lamorack exculpated Sir Tristram, and Sir Launcelot immediately withdrew his rebuke for that battle which Sir Tristram had aforetime done against Sir Lamorack. After that Sir Tristram and Sir Lamorack abode at the court of King Arthur for nigh a year, and during that time they went upon many quests and adventures of various sorts--sometimes alone, sometimes together. All these have been set down in ancient histories that tell of the adventures of Sir Tristram and Sir Lamorack. Some of them I would like right well to tell you of, but should I undertake to do so, the story of those happenings would fill several volumes such as this. Nevertheless, I may tell you that they did together many knightly deeds, the fame whereof hath been handed down to us in several histories of chivalry. Therein you may read of those things if you should care to do so. All this I leave to tell you how Sir Tristram returned into Cornwall, and likewise to tell you of one more famous adventure that he did at this time. [Sidenote: Sir Tristram hears from Cornwall of Sir Palamydes] Sir Tristram had been at the court of King Arthur for about a year when one day there came a messenger unto the court at Camelot with news that Sir Palamydes, the Saracen knight aforetold of in this history, had through a cunning trick seized the Lady Belle Isoult and had carried her away to a lonely tower in the forest of Cornwall. The messenger bore a letter from King Mark beseeching Sir Tristram to return as immediately as possible unto Cornwall and to rescue that lady from her captivity. And the letter further said that two knights of Cornwall had already essayed to rescue the Lady Belle Isoult, but that they had failed, having been overcome and sorely wounded in battle by Sir Palamydes. And the letter said that it was acknowledged by all men that Sir Tristram was the only knight of Cornwall who could achieve the rescue of Belle Isoult from so wonderful and puissant a knight as Sir Palamydes. So in answer to that letter, Sir Tristram immediately left the court of King Arthur and returned in all haste to Cornwall, and there he found them all in great perturbation that the Lady Belle Isoult had thus been stolen away. But Sir Tristram did not remain at court very long for, after he had obtained such information as he desired, he immediately left Tintagel and plunged into the forest with Gouvernail as his companion in quest of that lonely tower where Belle Isoult was said to be held prisoner. After several adventures of no great note he came at last very, very deep into the forest and into an open space thereof; and in the midst of that open space he beheld a lonely tower surrounded by a moat. And he wist that that must be the place where the Lady Belle Isoult was held prisoner. [Sidenote: Sir Tristram finds Sir Palamydes in the forest] But when Sir Tristram drew nigh to this tower he perceived a single knight sitting at the base of the tower with head hanging down upon his breast as though he were broken-hearted with sorrow. And when he came still more nigh, Sir Tristram was astonished to perceive that that mournful knight was Sir Palamydes the Saracen, and he wondered why Sir Palamydes should be so broken-hearted. And now it must be told why it was that Sir Palamydes came to be in such a sorry case as that; for the truth was that he was locked and shut outside of the tower, whilst the Lady Belle Isoult was shut and locked inside thereof. Now it hath already been told how the letter of King Mark had said to Sir Tristram that two knights of Cornwall went both against Sir Palamydes for to challenge him and to rescue the Lady Belle Isoult. The second of these knights was Sir Adthorp, and he had followed Sir Palamydes so closely through the forest that he had come to the forest tower not more than an hour after Sir Palamydes had brought the Lady Belle Isoult thither. Therewith Sir Adthorp gave loud challenge to Sir Palamydes to come forth and do him battle, and therewith Sir Palamydes came immediately out against him, full of anger that Sir Adthorp should have meddled in that affair. But immediately Sir Palamydes had thus issued forth to do battle with Sir Adthorp, the Lady Belle Isoult ran down the tower stairs and immediately shut the door through which he had passed, and she locked it and set a great bar of oak across the door. [Sidenote: How Sir Palamydes came without the tower] So when Sir Palamydes had overthrown the Cornish knight, and when he would have returned to the tower, he could not, for lo! it was fastened against him. So now for three days he had set there at the foot of the tower and beside the moat, sunk in sorrow like to one who had gone out of his mind. So Sir Tristram found him, and perceiving that it was Sir Palamydes who was sitting there, he said to Gouvernail: "Go thou and bid that knight to come and do battle with me." So Gouvernail went to Sir Palamydes and he said: "Sir, arise, for here is a knight would speak with you!" But Sir Palamydes would not move. Then Gouvernail touched him with his lance, and said: "Sir Palamydes, arise and bestir yourself, for here is Sir Tristram come to do battle with you." With that, Sir Palamydes awoke from his stupor and arose very slowly and stiffly. And he gathered up his helmet which was lying beside him and put it upon his head. Then he took down his shield from where it hung against the wall and he mounted upon his horse, doing all as though he were moving in a dream. But as soon as he was upon horseback he suddenly aroused himself, for his fierce spirit had come back to him once more. Then he gnashed his teeth, crying out in a loud voice, "Tristram, this time either thou or I shall perish." [Sidenote: Sir Tristram overcomes Sir Palamydes] Therewith he rushed upon Sir Tristram and smote him so violently that Sir Tristram had much ado to defend himself. And Sir Palamydes smote him again and again; and with that Sir Tristram smote in return. And if the blows of Sir Palamydes were terrible, the blows of Sir Tristram were terrible likewise. Then by and by Sir Tristram smote Sir Palamydes so sore a buffet that the Saracen knight fell down from his horse and was unable immediately to arise. Then Sir Tristram ran to him and rushed off his helmet and catched him by the hair with intent to cut his head from off his body. But with that the Lady Belle Isoult came running from out the tower and cried out: "Tristram, is it thou? Spare that mistaken knight and have mercy upon him as thou hopest for mercy." "Lady," said Sir Tristram, "for thy sake and at thy bidding I will spare him." Then he said to Sir Palamydes, "Arise." And Sir Palamydes arose very painfully, and Sir Tristram said: "Get thee hence, and go to the court of King Arthur and make thy confession to the King and ask him to forgive thee, and if he forgive thee, then also I will forgive thee." Therewith Sir Palamydes mounted upon his horse and rode away without speaking another word, his head bowed with sorrow upon his breast for shame and despair. Then Sir Tristram took the Lady Belle Isoult up behind him on his horse, and he and she and Gouvernail departed from that place. [Sidenote: Sir Tristram brings Belle Isoult back to Cornwall] So Sir Tristram brought the Lady Isoult back to Cornwall, and there he was received with loud praise and great rejoicing, for everybody was glad that Belle Isoult had been brought safely back again. And now it shall be told what reward Sir Tristram received for this deed of arms. For, though at first King Mark was greatly beholden to Sir Tristram, that he had thus rescued the Lady Belle Isoult, yet, by little and little, he grew to hate that noble knight more bitterly than ever. For he heard men say to one another: "Lo, Sir Tristram is, certes, the very champion of Cornwall, for who is there in this country is his equal?" So King Mark, hearing these things said to himself: "The more noble Tristram is, the more ignoble will men deem me to be who am under obligations to such an enemy." So he would say in his heart, "Yea, Tristram; I hate thee more than death." PART III The Madness of Sir Tristram _Here followeth the story of how Sir Tristram was driven out of Cornwall and of how he went mad because of his troubles. Likewise it shall be told how he performed several very wonderful adventures whilst he was in that state, and of how he was brought back into his senses again._ [Illustration: Sir Tristram assaults King Mark] Chapter First _How Sir Tristram was discovered with the Lady Belle Isoult; how he assaulted King Mark, and how he escaped from Tintagel into the forest._ After Sir Tristram had thus rescued the Lady Belle Isoult from the hand of Sir Palamydes, he dwelt very peacefully at the court of Cornwall for all of that winter and until the spring that followed, and during that time he was given every meed of praise and honor. But although King Mark and his court gave praise to Sir Tristram with the lips, yet he and many of his people hated Sir Tristram at heart, and there were many mischief-makers about the court who were ever ready to blow the embers of the King's wrath into a flame. Now the chiefest of all these mischief-makers was Sir Andred, who was nephew unto King Mark, and cousin-germaine unto Sir Tristram. Sir Andred was a fierce strong knight, and one very dextrous at arms; but he was as mean and as treacherous as Sir Tristram was generous and noble, wherefore he hated Sir Tristram with great bitterness (though he dissembled that hatred) and sought for every opportunity to do Sir Tristram a harm by bringing him and the King into conflict. [Sidenote: Sir Andred of Cornwall sets spies upon Sir Tristram] So Sir Andred set spies upon Sir Tristram, and he himself spied upon his cousin, yet neither he nor they were able to find anything with which to accuse Sir Tristram. Then one day Sir Andred came to Sir Tristram and said: "Sir, the Lady Belle Isoult wishes to see you to talk with you." Sir Tristram said, "Where is she?" And Sir Andred said, "She is in her bower." Then Sir Tristram said, "Very well, I will go to her." So Sir Tristram arose and departed from where he was with intent to find the lady; and therewith Sir Andred hurried to where King Mark was, and said: "Lord, arise, for Sir Tristram and the Lady Isoult are holding converse together." King Mark said, "Where are they?" And Sir Andred said, "They are in the bower of the Queen." At that King Mark's rage and jealousy blazed up into a flame, so that he was like one seized with a sudden frensy. So, in that madness of rage, he looked about for some weapon with which to destroy Sir Tristram, and he perceived a great sword where it hung against the wall. Thereupon he ran to the sword and took it down from where it was, and ran with all speed to that place where Sir Tristram and the Lady Isoult were, and Sir Andred guided him thither. [Sidenote: King Mark assaults Sir Tristram] And when King Mark reached the bower of the Lady Isoult he flung open the door and found Sir Tristram and the Lady Isoult sitting together in the seat of a deep window. And he perceived that the Lady Isoult wept and that Sir Tristram's face was very sorrowful because of her sorrow. Then King Mark twisted him about and bent double as with a great pain, and then he cried out thrice in a voice very hoarse and loud: "Traitor! Traitor! Traitor!" Saying those words three times. Therewith he ran at Sir Tristram and struck furiously at him with that sword he held, with intent to slay him. Now Sir Tristram was at that time altogether without armor and was clad in clothes of scarlet silk. Accordingly, he was able to be very quick and alert in his movements. So perceiving King Mark rushing upon him with intent to slay him he leaped aside and so avoided the blow. Then immediately he rushed in upon King Mark and catched him by the wrist and wrenched the sword out of his hand. Then Sir Tristram was blinded with his rage and might have slain his uncle, but the Lady Isoult, beholding the fury in his face, shrieked in a very piercing voice, "Forbear! Forbear!" And therewith he remembered him how that King Mark was his mother's brother and that it was his hand that had made him a knight. [Sidenote: Sir Tristram beats King Mark] So he turned the sword in his hand and he smote King Mark with the flat thereof again and again, and at those blows King Mark was filled with terror so that he howled like a wild beast. And King Mark fled away from that place, striving to escape, but Sir Tristram ever pursued him, grinding his teeth like a wild boar in rage, and smiting the King as he ran, over and over again, with the flat of the sword so that the whole castle was filled with the tumult and uproar of that assault. Then many of the knights of Cornwall came running with intent to defend the King, and with them came Sir Andred. But when Sir Tristram saw them, his rage suddenly left the King and went out toward them; so therewith, naked of armor as he was, he rushed at them, and he struck at them so fiercely that they were filled with the terror of his fury, and fled away from before his face. And Sir Tristram chased them through the courts of the castle, striking right and left until he was weary with striking, and many he struck down with the fierceness of his blows, and amongst them was Sir Andred who was sorely wounded. So after a while Sir Tristram grew weary of that battle, and he cried out, "Certes, these are not knights, but swine!" And therewith he ceased striking, and allowed those who could do so to escape. [Sidenote: Sir Tristram departs from Tintagel] Thereafter he went to his chamber and armed himself without summoning Gouvernail, and after that he took horse and rode away altogether from that place. And not even Gouvernail went with him, but only his favorite hound, hight Houdaine, which same followed him into the forest as he rode thitherward. And in his going Sir Tristram looked neither to the right nor to the left but straight before him very proudly and haughtily, and no one dared to stay him in his going. Yet, though he appeared so steadfast, he was like one who was brokenhearted, for he wist that in going away from that place he was leaving behind him all that he held dear in the world, wherefore he was like one who rode forth from a pleasant garden into an empty wilderness of sorrow and repining. [Sidenote: Gouvernail finds Sir Tristram in the forest] Then, some little while after Sir Tristram had gone, Gouvernail also took horse and rode into the forest, and he searched for a long while in the forest without finding his master. But after a while he came upon Sir Tristram seated under a tree with his head hanging down upon his breast. And Houdaine lay beside Sir Tristram and licked his hand, but Sir Tristram paid no heed to him, being so deeply sunk in his sorrow that he was unaware that Houdaine licked his hand in that wise. Then Gouvernail dismounted from his horse and came to where Sir Tristram was, and Gouvernail wept at beholding the sorrow of Sir Tristram. And Gouvernail said: "Messire, look up and take cheer, for there must yet be joy for thee in the world." Then Sir Tristram raised his eyes very slowly (for they were heavy and dull like lead) and he looked at Gouvernail for some while as though not seeing him. Then by and by he said: "Gouvernail, what evil have I done that I should have so heavy a curse laid upon me?" Gouvernail said, still weeping: "Lord, thou hast done no ill, but art in all wise a very noble, honorable gentleman." "Alas!" quoth Sir Tristram, "I must unwittingly have done some great evil in God's sight, for certes the hand of God lieth grievously heavy upon me." Gouvernail said: "Lord, take heart, and tell me whither shall we go now?" And Sir Tristram said, "I know not." Then Gouvernail said: "Lord, let us go hence, I care not where, for I reckon nothing of storm or rain or snow or hail if it so be that I am with you." [Sidenote: Sir Tristram bids Gouvernail return to Tintagel] Then Sir Tristram looked upon Gouvernail and smiled, and he said: "Gouvernail, it is great joy to me that you should love me so greatly as you do. But this time you may not go with me whither I go, for the Lady Belle Isoult hath few friends at the court of Cornwall, and many enemies, wherefore I would have you return unto her for my sake, so that you may befriend her and cherish her when that I am no longer by her for to stand her friend in her hour of need. And take this dog Houdaine with you and bid the Lady Belle Isoult for to keep him by her to remind her of my faithfulness unto her. For even as this creature is faithful unto me under all circumstances, so am I faithful unto her whether she be glad or sorry, or in good or evil case. So return to Tintagel as I bid thee, and see that thou pay thy duty unto that lady even as thou payst it unto me. For she is so singularly dear unto me that, even as a man's heart is the life of his body, so is her happiness the life of my life." Then Gouvernail wept again in very great measure, and he said, "Lord, I obey." Therewith he mounted his horse, still weeping with a great passion of sorrow, and rode away from that place, and Houdaine followed after him and Sir Tristram was left sitting alone in the deep forest. [Sidenote: Sir Tristram wanders in the forest mad] After that Sir Tristram wandered for several days in the forest, he knew not whither for he was bewildered with that which had happened; so that he ate no food and took no rest of any sort for all that time. Wherefore, because of the hardship he then endured, he by and by became distraught in his mind. So, after a while, he forgot who he himself was, and what was his condition, or whence he came or whither he wended. And because his armor weighed heavily upon him, he took it off and cast it away from him, and thereafter roamed half naked through the woodlands. Now upon the sixth day of this wandering he came to the outskirts of the forest and nigh to the coast of the sea at a spot that was not very far away was the castle of the Lady Loise, where he had once stayed at the time that he undertook the adventure against Sir Nabon as aforetold. There, being exhausted with hunger and weariness, he laid himself down in the sunlight out beyond the borders of the forest and presently fell into a deep sleep that was like to a swoon. Now it chanced at that time that there came that way a certain damsel attendant upon the Lady Loise. She perceiving that a man lay there on the grass at the edge of the forest was at first of a mind to quit that place. Then, seeing that the man lay very strangely still as though he were dead, she went forward very softly and looked into his face. Now that damsel had beheld Sir Tristram a great many times when he was at the castle of the Lady Loise; wherefore now, in spite of his being so starved and shrunken, and so unkempt and unshaved, she remembered his face and she knew that this was Sir Tristram. Therewith the damsel hurried away to the Lady Loise (and the lady was not a very great distance away) and she said: "Lady, yonder way there lieth a man by the forest side and I believe that it is Sir Tristram of Lyonesse. Yet he is but half-clad and in great distress of body so that I know not of a surety whether it is really Sir Tristram or not. Now I pray you come with me and look upon his face and see if you may know him." So the Lady Loise went with the damsel to where Sir Tristram lay and looked into his face, and she knew Sir Tristram in spite of his ill condition. [Sidenote: The Lady Loise finds Sir Tristram] Then the Lady Loise touched Sir Tristram upon the shoulder and shook him, and thereupon Sir Tristram awoke and sat up. Then the Lady Loise said, "Sir Tristram, is it thou who liest here?" And Sir Tristram said, "I know not who I am." The Lady Loise said, "Messire, how came you here in this sad case?" And Sir Tristram said: "I know not whence I came, nor how I came hither, nor who I am, nor what it is that ails me, for I cannot hold my mind with enough steadiness to remember those things." Then the lady sighed for sorrow of Sir Tristram, and she said: "Alas, Sir Tristram, that I should find you thus! Now I pray you, lord, for to come with me to my castle which is hard by. There we may care for you and may perhaps bring you back to health again." To this Sir Tristram said: "Lady, I may not go with you. For though I cannot remember whence I came, nor who I am, this much I know--I know that I am mad, and that the forest is the only fit place for such as I am come to be." The lady said: "Alas, Sir Tristram, thou wilt die if thou art left alone here in the forest." And Sir Tristram said: "Lady, I know not what you mean when you say I am to die. What is it to die?" So at these words the Lady Loise saw how it was with Sir Tristram; that his brains were altogether turned; and she wist that some sore trouble must have befallen to bring him to such a pass. Then she bethought her of how dearly he loved the music of the harp, and she said to herself: "Mayhap by means of music I may bring him back into his senses again." So she said to that damsel who had brought her thither: "Go thou and bring hither my little harp of gold, and let us see if music may charm him to remembrance." So the damsel ran to the castle and brought the harp thence, and the Lady Loise took the harp and tuned it and struck it and played upon it. And the lady sang very sweetly a ballad that she knew Sir Tristram loved. [Sidenote: The Lady Loise harps to Sir Tristram] Then when Sir Tristram heard the sound of the music and singing he aroused himself. For first he listened with great pleasure, and then he said, "Give it to me! Give it to me!" and he reached out his hands and would have taken the harp from the lady. [Sidenote: Sir Tristram comes to the Lady's castle] But the Lady Loise laughed and shook her head, and she walked away from Sir Tristram and toward the castle, still playing upon the little harp and singing; and Sir Tristram followed close after, saying ever, "Give it to me! Give it to me!" and reaching out his hands for the harp. So the Lady Loise led him away from that place across the meadows; and she led him to the castle and into the castle; and ever Sir Tristram followed after her, beseeching her for to give the harp unto him. And the lady led Sir Tristram that way until she had brought him to a fair room, and there she gave him the harp, and Sir Tristram took it very eagerly into his hands and struck upon it and played and sang most sweetly and with great joy and pleasure. Afterward, being so much comforted, he ate and drank with appetite, and then fell into a fair sound sleep. Yet, though he so slept, still Sir Tristram's wits in no wise recovered themselves; for when he awoke from that slumber he still could not remember who he was or whence he came, neither could he remember the faces of any of those who were around about him. But, though he was thus mad, he was still gentle and kind in his madness and courteous and civil to all those who came nigh him. So Sir Tristram remained a gentle captive in the castle of the Lady Loise for nigh upon a month, and somewhiles she would sing and harp to him, and otherwhiles he himself would harp and sing. But ever and anon, when he found the chance for to do so, he would escape from the captivity of the castle and seek the forest; for he was aware of his madness and he ever sought to hide that madness in the deep and shady woodland where only the wild creatures of the forest might see him. Yet always when he so escaped the Lady Loise would take her little golden harp and go forth to the skirts of the forest and play upon it, and when the music thereof would reach Sir Tristram's ears he would return to the castle, being led thither by the music. [Sidenote: Sir Tristram quits the Lady's castle] But one day he wandered so far astray that the music of the harp could not reach his ears, and then he wandered on farther and farther until he was altogether lost. At that Lady Loise took much sorrow for she had much love for Sir Tristram. So she sent many of her people to search the forest for him, but none of these were able to find him and thereafter he came no more to the castle. Thus Sir Tristram escaped from that castle and after that he wandered in the forest as he had done at the first. And in that time he took no food and but little rest. And the brambles tore his clothes, so that in a short time he was wellnigh altogether naked. And somewhiles during this time of wandering he would be seized as with a fury of battle, and in such case he would shout aloud as though in challenge to an enemy. And then he would rend and tear great branches from the trees in the fury of his imaginings. But otherwhiles he would wander through the leafy aisles of the forest in gentler mood, singing so sweetly that had you heard him you would have thought that it was some fairy spirit of the forest chanting in those solitudes. [Sidenote: Sir Tristram dwells with the swineherds] So he wandered until he failed with faintness, and sank down into the leaves; and I believe that he would then have died, had it not been that there chanced to come that way certain swineherds of the forest who fed their swine upon acorns that were to be therein found. These found Sir Tristram lying there as though dead, and they gave him to eat and to drink so that he revived once more. After that they took him with them, and he dwelt with them in those woodlands. There these forest folk played with him and made merry with him, and he made them great sport. For he was ever gentle and mild like a little child for innocence so that he did no harm to anyone, but only talked in such a way that the swineherds found great sport in him. Now Sir Andred of Cornwall very greatly coveted the possessions of Sir Tristram, so that when several months had passed by and Sir Tristram did not return to Tintagel, he said to himself: "Of a surety, Tristram must now be dead in the forest, and, as there is no one nigher of kin to him than I, it is altogether fitting that I should inherit his possessions." But as Sir Andred could not inherit without proof of the death of Sir Tristram, he suborned a certain very beautiful but wicked lady who dwelt in the forest, persuading her that she should give false evidence of Sir Tristram's death. Accordingly, he one day brought that lady before King Mark, and she gave it as her evidence that Sir Tristram had died in the forest and that she had been with him when he died. And she showed them a new-made grave in the forest, and she said: "That is the grave of Sir Tristram, for I saw him die and I saw him buried there with mine own eyes." [Sidenote: Sir Adred seizes Sir Tristram's possessions] So everybody believed this evidence, and thought that Sir Tristram was really dead, and so Sir Andred seized upon all the possessions of Sir Tristram. And there were many who were very sorry that Sir Tristram was dead and there were others who were glad thereof in the same measure. But when the news was brought to Belle Isoult that Sir Tristram was dead, she shrieked aloud and swooned away. And she lay in that swoon so long that they thought for a while she would never recover from it. But by and by she awoke therefrom, crying, "Would to God that I were dead with Tristram and had never awakened!" And thereafter she mourned continually for Sir Tristram and would not be comforted; for she was like to a woman who hath been widowed from a lover of her youth. And now it shall be told of how it fared with Sir Tristram in the forest where he dwelt with the swineherds, and of how he achieved a very notable adventure therein. [Illustration: Sir Kay and the Forest Madman] Chapter Second _How Sir Tristram got him a sword from Sir Kay and how he slew therewith a huge knight in the forest and rescued a lady in very great distress. Also how Sir Launcelot found Sir Tristram in the forest and brought him thence to Tintagel again._ Now it chanced one day that Sir Kay the Seneschal came riding through those parts of the forest where Sir Tristram abided with the swineherds, and with Sir Kay there came a considerable court of esquires. And with him besides there travelled Sir Dagonet, King Arthur's Fool. [Sidenote: Sir Kay and Sir Dagonet come to the forest] Now, you are to know that though Sir Dagonet was the King's jester, and though he was slack of wit, yet he was also a knight of no mean prowess. For he had performed several deeds of good repute and was well held in all courts of chivalry. So Sir Dagonet always went armed; though he bore upon his shield the device of a cockerel's head as a symbol of his calling. The time that Sir Kay and his court travelled as aforesaid was in the summer season and the day was very warm, so that Sir Kay was minded to take rest during the midday and until the coolness of the afternoon should come. So they all dismounted from their horses and sat them down under the shade of the trees where it was cool and pleasant and where the breezes reached them to breathe upon their faces. [Sidenote: Sir Dagonet wanders in the woodland] But whilst Sir Kay and his court thus rested themselves, Sir Dagonet must needs be gadding, for he was of a very restless, meddlesome disposition. So, being at that time clad only in half armor, he wandered hither and thither through the forest as his fancy led him. For somewhiles he would whistle and somewhiles he would gape, and otherwhiles he would cut a caper or two. So, as chance would have it, he came by and by to that open glade of the forest where the swineherds were gathered; and at that time they were eating their midday meal of black bread and cheese, and were drinking beer; some talking and laughing and others silent as they ate their food. Unto these Sir Dagonet appeared, coming out of the forest in very gay attire, and shining in the half armor he wore, so that he appeared like a bright bird of the woodland. Then Sir Dagonet, seeing where those rude boors were eating their meal of food, came to them and stood amongst them. And he said, "Who are ye fellows?" Whereunto they replied, "We are swineherds, Messire; who be ye?" Quoth Sir Dagonet: "I am King Arthur's Fool. And whilst there are haply many in the world with no more wits than I possess, yet there are few so honest as I to confess that they are fools." At these words those swineherds laughed very loudly. "Well," quoth one, "if King Arthur hath his fool, so have we, and yonder he is," and therewith he pointed to where Sir Tristram lay in the shade of the trees some distance away and beside a deep well of the forest. Upon that Sir Dagonet must needs go to where Sir Tristram lay, nearly naked, upon the ground. And when he had come there he said, "Arise, fool." Whereunto Sir Tristram replied: "Why should I arise? Lo! I am weary." Then Sir Dagonet said: "It is not fitting that thou, who art the fool of swineherds shouldst lie upon the grass, whilst I who am the fool of a king stand upright upon my shanks. So, fool, I bid thee bestir thyself and arise." But Sir Tristram said, "I will not arise." And therewith Sir Dagonet took his sword and pricked the thigh of Sir Tristram with the point thereof with intent to make him bestir himself. [Sidenote: Sir Tristram souses Sir Dagonet in the well] Now when Sir Tristram felt the prick of Sir Dagonet's sword, a certain part of his memory of knighthood came back to him and he was seized with a sudden fury against Sir Dagonet. So he arose and ran at Sir Dagonet and catched him in his arms, and lifted Sir Dagonet off his feet and he soused him in the well four or five times so that he was like to have drowned him. As for those swineherds, when they saw what their fool did to that other fool, they roared with laughter so that some of them rolled down upon the ground and lay grovelling there for pure mirth. But others of them called out to Sir Tristram, "Let be, or thou wilt drown that man"; and therewith Sir Tristram let Sir Dagonet go, and Sir Dagonet ran away. Nor did Sir Dagonet cease to run until he came to his party under the shade of the trees. But when Sir Kay perceived what a sorry plight it was in which Sir Dagonet appeared, he said, "What hath befallen thee?" To this Sir Dagonet replied as follows: "Messire, I, who am a fool, went into the forest and met another fool. I fool would have a jest with he fool, but he fool catched I fool and soused I fool in a well of cold water. So it came about that while I fool had the jest, he fool had the sport of the jest." [Sidenote: Sir Kay seeks to avenge Sir Dagonet] Then Sir Kay understood in some manner what had befallen, and he was very angry that Sir Dagonet should have been so served. Wherefore he said, "Where did this befall thee?" And Sir Dagonet said, "Over yonder ways." Then Sir Kay said: "I will avenge thee for the affront that hath been put upon thee. For no boor shall serve a knight of King Arthur's court in such a fashion!" So therewith Sir Kay arose and put on his armor and mounted his horse and rode away; and after a while he came to that place where the swineherds were. Then Sir Kay said very sternly: "Which of ye is that boor who put so grievous an affront upon a gentleman of my party?" The swineherds say: "Yonder he is lying by the well; but he is slack of wit, wherefore we beseech you to do him no harm." [Sidenote: Sir Tristram souses Sir Kay in the water] Then Sir Kay rode to where Sir Tristram was, and he said: "Sirrah, why did you souse Sir Dagonet into the water?" To this Sir Tristram did not reply, but only looked at Sir Kay and laughed, for it pleased him wonderfully to behold that knight all in shining armor. But when Sir Kay beheld Sir Tristram laugh in that wise, he waxed exceedingly wroth. Wherefore he drew his sword straightway, and rode at Sir Tristram with intent to strike him with the blade thereof. But when Sir Tristram saw the sword of Sir Kay shining like lightning in the sunlight, somewhat of his knightly spirit arose within him and took wing like to a bird springing up out of the marish grass into the clear air. For beholding that bright flashing sword he cried out aloud and arose and came very steadily toward Sir Kay, and Sir Kay rode toward Sir Tristram. Then when Sir Kay had come near enough to strike, he arose in his stirrups and lifted the blade on high with intent to strike Sir Tristram with it. But therewith Sir Tristram ran very quickly in beneath the blow, so that the stroke of Sir Kay failed of its mark. Then Sir Tristram leaped up and catched Sir Kay around the body and dragged him down from off his horse very violently upon the ground, and with that the sword of Sir Kay fell down out of his hands and lay in the grass. Then Sir Tristram lifted up Sir Kay very easily and ran with him to the well of water and soused him therein several times until Sir Kay cried out, "Fellow, spare me or I strangle!" Upon that Sir Tristram let go Sir Kay, and Sir Kay ran to his horse and mounted thereon and rode away from that place with might and main, all streaming with water like to a fountain. And all that while those swineherds roared with great laughter, ten times louder than they had laughed when Sir Tristram had soused Sir Dagonet into the well. Then Sir Tristram beheld the sword of Sir Kay where it lay in the grass and forthwith he ran to it and picked it up. And when he held it in his hands he loved it with a great passion of love, wherefore he hugged it to his bosom and kissed the pommel thereof. But when the swineherds beheld the sword in Sir Tristram's hands, they said, "That is no fit plaything for a madman to have," and they would have taken it from him, but Sir Tristram would not permit them, for he would not give them the sword, and no one dared to try to take it from him. [Sidenote: Sir Tristram keeps the sword of Sir Kay] So thereafter he kept that sword ever by him both by night and by day, and ever he loved it and kissed it and fondled it; for, as aforesaid, it aroused his knightly spirit to life within him, wherefore it was he loved it. So it hath been told how Sir Tristram got him a sword, and now it shall be told how well he used it. Now there was at that time in the woodlands of that part of Cornwall a gigantic knight hight Sir Tauleas, and he was the terror of all that district. For not only was he a head and shoulders taller than the tallest of Cornish men, but his strength and fierceness were great in the same degree that he was big of frame. Many knights had undertaken to rid the world of this Sir Tauleas, but no knight had ever yet encountered him without meeting some mishap at his hands. (Yet it is to be said that heretofore no such knight as Sir Launcelot or Sir Lamorack had come against Sir Tauleas, but only the knights of Cornwall and Wales, whose borders marched upon that district where Sir Tauleas ranged afield.) [Sidenote: Sir Daynant and his lady come to the forest] Now one day there came riding through the forest a very noble, gallant young knight, hight Sir Daynant, and with him rode his lady, a beautiful dame to whom he had lately been wedded with a great deal of love. These wayfarers in their travelling came to that part of the forest where the swineherds abode, and where were the open glade of grass and the fair well of water aforespoken of. Hereunto coming, and the day being very warm, these two travellers dismounted and besought refreshment of the swineherds who were there, and those rude good fellows gladly gave them to eat and to drink of the best they had. [Sidenote: Sir Daynant regards Sir Tristam] Whilst they ate, Sir Tristram came and sat nigh to Sir Daynant and his lady and smiled upon them, for he loved them very greatly because of their nobility and beauty. Then Sir Daynant looked upon Sir Tristram and beheld how strong and beautiful of body and how noble of countenance he was, and he saw that beautiful shining sword that Sir Tristram carried ever with him. And Sir Daynant said, "Fair friend, who are you, and where gat ye that sword?" "I know not who I am," said Sir Tristram, "nor know I whence I came nor whither I go. As for this sword, I had it from a gentleman who came hither to us no great while ago." Then the chiefest of the swineherds said: "Lord, this is a poor madman whom we found naked and starving in the forest. As for that sword, I may tell you that he took it away from a knight who came hither to threaten his life, and he soused that knight into the well so that he was wellnigh drowned." Sir Daynant said: "That is a very strange story, that a naked madman should take the sword out of the hands of an armed knight and treat that knight as ye tell me. Now maybe this is some famous hero or knight who hath lost his wits through sorrow or because of some other reason, and who hath so come to this sorry pass." (So said Sir Daynant, and it may here be said that from that time those rude swineherds began to look upon Sir Tristram with different eyes than before, saying amongst themselves: "Maybe what that knight said is true, and this is indeed no common madman.") Now whilst Sir Daynant sat there with his lady, holding converse with the swineherds concerning Sir Tristram in that wise, there came a great noise in the forest, and out therefrom there came riding with great speed that huge savage knight Sir Tauleas aforetold of. Then Sir Daynant cried out, "Alas, here is misfortune!" And therewith he made all haste to put his helmet upon his head. [Sidenote: Sir Tauleas strikes down Sir Daynant] But ere he could arm himself in any sufficient wise, Sir Tauleas drave down very fiercely upon him. And Sir Tauleas rose up in his stirrups and lashed so terrible a blow at Sir Daynant that it struck through Sir Daynant's helmet and into his brain-pan, wherefore Sir Daynant immediately fell down to the ground as though he had been struck dead. [Sidenote: Sir Tauleas bears away the lady] Then Sir Tauleas rode straightway to where the lady of Sir Daynant was, and he said: "Lady, thou art a prize that it is very well worth while fighting for! And lo! I have won thee." Therewith he catched her and lifted her up, shrieking and screaming and struggling, and sat her upon the saddle before him and held her there maugre all her struggles. Then straightway he rode away into the forest, carrying her with him; and all that while Sir Tristram stood as though in a maze, gazing with a sort of terror upon what befell and not rightly knowing what it all meant. For there lay Sir Daynant as though dead upon the ground, and he could yet hear the shrieks of the lady sounding out from the forest whither Sir Tauleas had carried her. Then the chief of the swineherds came to Sir Tristram, and said: "Fellow, as thou hast a sword, let us see if thou canst use it. If thou art a hero as that knight said of thee a while since, and not a pure madman, then follow after that knight and bring that lady back hither again." [Sidenote: Sir Tristram follows Sir Tauleas] Then Sir Tristram awoke from that maze and said, "I will do so." And therewith he ran away very rapidly into the forest, pursuing the direction that Sir Tauleas had taken. And he ran for a great distance, and by and by, after a while, he beheld Sir Tauleas before him where he rode. And by that time the lady was in a deep swoon and lay as though dead across the saddle of Sir Tauleas. Then Sir Tristram cried out in a great voice: "Stay, Sir Knight, and turn this way, for I come to take that lady away from thee and to bring her back unto her friend again!" [Sidenote: Sir Tristram slays Sir Tauleas] Then Sir Tauleas turned him and beheld a naked man running after him with a sword in his hand, whereupon he was seized with a great rage of anger, so that he put that lady he carried down to the ground. And he drew his sword and rushed at Sir Tristram very violently with intent to slay him. And when he came nigh to Sir Tristram he arose up on his stirrups and lashed so terrible a blow at him that, had it met its mark, it would have cloven Sir Tristram in twain. But Sir Tristram leaped aside and turned the blow very skilfully; and therewith a memory of his knightly prowess came upon him and he, upon his part, lashed a blow at Sir Tauleas that Sir Tauleas received very unexpectedly. And that blow struck Sir Tauleas so terrible a buffet upon the head that the brain of Sir Tauleas swam, and he swayed about and then fell down from off his horse. Therewith Sir Tristram ran to him and rushed his helmet from off his head. And when he beheld the naked head of Sir Tauleas he catched it by the hair and drew the neck of Sir Tauleas forward. Then Sir Tauleas cried out, "Spare me, fellow!" But Sir Tristram said, "I will not spare thee for thou art a wicked man!" And therewith he lifted his sword on high and smote off the head of Sir Tauleas so that it rolled down upon the ground. After that, Sir Tristram went to the Lady and he chafed her hands and her face so that she revived from her swoon. And when she was revived, he said: "Lady, take cheer; for look yonder and thou wilt see thy enemy is dead, and so now I may take thee back again unto thy friend." And therewith the lady smiled upon Sir Tristram and catched his hand in hers and kissed it. Then Sir Tristram lifted the lady upon the horse of Sir Tauleas, and after that he went back again to where he had left Sir Daynant and the swineherds; and he led the horse of Sir Tauleas by the bridle with the lady upon the back thereof and he bore the head of Sir Tauleas in his hand by the hair. But when those swineherds saw Sir Tristram come forth thus out of the forest bringing that lady and bearing the head of Sir Tauleas, they were amazed beyond measure, and they said to one another: "Of a certainty what this young knight hath just said is sooth and this madman is indeed some great champion in distress. But who he is no one may know, since he himself doth not know." And when Sir Daynant had recovered from that blow that Sir Tauleas had given him, he also gave Sir Tristram great praise for what he had done. And Sir Tristram was abashed at all the praise that was bestowed upon him. Then Sir Daynant and his lady besought Sir Tristram that he would go with them to their castle so that they might care for him, but Sir Tristram would not, for he said: "I wist very well that I am mad, and so this forest is a fit place for me to dwell and these kind rude fellows are fit companions for me at this time whilst my wits are wandering." Thus it was with this adventure. And now you shall hear how Sir Launcelot found Sir Tristram in the forest and how he brought him out thence and likewise what befell thereafter. [Sidenote: Sir Launcelot enters the forest] For only the next day after all these things had happened, Sir Launcelot came riding through the forest that way, seeking for Sir Tauleas with intent to do battle with him because of his many evil deeds. For Sir Launcelot purposed either to slay him or else to bring him captive to King Arthur. So it came to pass that Sir Launcelot came to that place where Sir Tristram and the swineherds abode. There Sir Launcelot made pause for to rest and to refresh himself, and whilst he sat with his helmet lying beside him so that the breezes might cool his face, all those rude swineherds gathered about and stared at him. And Sir Launcelot smiled upon them, and he said: "Good fellows, I pray you tell me; do you know where, hereabouts, I shall find a knight whom men call Sir Tauleas?" Unto this the chief swineherd made reply, saying: "Lord, if you come hither seeking Sir Tauleas, you shall seek him in vain. For yesterday he was slain, and if you look yonder way you may see his head hanging from a branch of a tree at the edge of the glade." Upon this Sir Launcelot cried out in great amazement, "How hath that come to pass?" and therewith he immediately arose from where he sat and went to that tree where the head hung. And he looked into the face of the head, and therewith he saw that it was indeed the head of Sir Tauleas that hung there. Then Sir Launcelot said: "This is very wonderful. Now I pray you, tell me what knight was it who slew this wicked wretch, and how his head came to be left hanging here?" To this the chief of the swineherds made reply: "Messire, he who slew Sir Tauleas was no knight, but a poor madman whom we found in the forest and who has dwelt with us now for a year past. Yonder you may see him, lying half naked, sleeping beside that well of water." Sir Launcelot said, "Was it he who did indeed slay Sir Tauleas?" And the swineherd said, "Yea, lord, it was he." Sir Launcelot said, "Do ye not then know who he is?" The swineherd replied: "No, lord, we only know that one day we found him lying in the forest naked and nigh to death from hunger and that we fed him and clothed him, and that since then he hath dwelt ever with us, showing great love for us all." Then Sir Launcelot went to where Sir Tristram lay, and he looked upon him as he slept and he knew him not; for the beard and the hair of Sir Tristram had grown down all over his breast and shoulders and he was very ragged and beaten by the weather. But though Sir Launcelot knew him not, yet he beheld that the body of Sir Tristram was very beautiful and strong, for he saw how all the muscles and thews thereof were cut very smooth and clean as you might cut them out of wax, wherefore Sir Launcelot gazed for a long while and felt great admiration for his appearance. [Sidenote: Sir Launcelot regards Sir Tristam] Then Sir Launcelot beheld how the sleeping man held a naked sword in his arms very caressingly, as though he loved it, and thereat he was very much surprised to find such a sword as that in the hands of this forest madman. Wherefore he said to those swineherds, "Where got this man that sword?" "Messire," said the swineherd who had afore spoken, "some while since there came a knight hitherward who ill-treated him. Thereupon this poor man ran at the knight and overthrew him and took the sword away from him and soused him several times in the well. After that he hath ever held fast to this sword and would not give it up to any of us." "Ha!" said Sir Launcelot, "that is a very wonderful story, that a naked man should overthrow an armed knight and take his sword away from him. Now I deem that this is no mere madman, but some noble knight in misfortune." [Sidenote: Sir Launcelot awakens Sir Tristram] Therewith he reached forward and touched Sir Tristram very gently on the shoulder, and at that Sir Tristram awoke and opened his eyes and sat up. And Sir Tristram looked upon Sir Launcelot, but knew him not, albeit some small memory moved very deeply within him. Nevertheless, though he knew not Sir Launcelot, yet he felt great tenderness for that noble knight in arms, and he smiled very lovingly upon him. And Sir Launcelot felt in return a very great deal of regard for Sir Tristram, but wist not why that was; yet it seemed to Sir Launcelot that he should know the face of Sir Tristram, and that it was not altogether strange to him. Then Sir Launcelot said, "Fair friend, was it thou who slew Sir Tauleas?" And Sir Tristram said, "Ay." Sir Launcelot said, "Who art thou?" Whereunto Sir Tristram made reply: "I know not who I am, nor whence I come, nor how I came hither." Then Sir Launcelot felt great pity and tenderness for Sir Tristram, and he said: "Friend, wilt thou go with me away from this place and into the habitations of men? There I believe thy mind maybe made whole again, and that it may be with thee as it was beforetime. And verily, I believe that when that shall come to pass, the world shall find in thee some great knight it hath lost." Sir Tristram said: "Sir Knight, though I know not who I am, yet I know that I am not sound in my mind; wherefore I am ashamed to go out in the world and amongst mankind, but would fain hide myself away in this forest. Yet I love thee so much that, if thou wert to bid me go with thee to the ends of the world, I believe I would go with thee." Then Sir Launcelot smiled upon Sir Tristram very kindly and said, "I do bid thee come with me away from here," and Sir Tristram said, "I will go." [Sidenote: Sir Tristram quits the forest with Sir Launcelot] So Sir Launcelot bade the swineherds clothe Sir Tristram in such a wise that his nakedness might be covered, and he bade them give Sir Tristram hosen and shoon, and when Sir Tristram was thus decently clad, Sir Launcelot made ready to take his departure from that place. But ere the two left, all those good fellows crowded around Sir Tristram, and embraced him and kissed him upon the cheek; for they had come to love him a very great deal. Then the two went away through the forest, Sir Launcelot proudly riding upon his great horse and Sir Tristram running very lightly beside him. But Sir Launcelot had other business at that time than to seek out Sir Tauleas as aforetold. For at that time there were three knights of very ill-repute who harried the west coast of that land that overlooked the sea toward the Kingdom of Ireland, and Sir Launcelot was minded to seek them out after he had finished with Sir Tauleas. So ere he returned to the court of King Arthur he had first of all to go thitherward. Now you are to know that the castle of Tintagel lay upon the way that he was to take upon that adventure, and so it was that he brought Sir Tristram to the castle of Tintagel, where King Mark of Cornwall was then holding court. For Sir Launcelot was minded to leave Sir Tristram there whilst he went upon that adventure aforetold of. [Sidenote: Sir Tristram comes to Tintagel] And Sir Launcelot was received in Tintagel with very great honor and acclaim, for it was the first time he had ever been there. And King Mark besought Sir Launcelot for to abide a while in Tintagel; but Sir Launcelot refused this hospitality, saying: "I have an adventure to do for the sake of my master, King Arthur, and I may not abide here at this present. But I pray you to grant me a favor, and it is this: that you cherish this poor madman whom I found in the forest, and that you keep him here, treating him kindly until I shall return from the quest I am upon. For I have great love for this poor fellow and I would not have any harm befall him whilst I am away." Then King Mark said: "I am sorry you will not remain with us, but as to this thing it shall be done as you desire, for we will cherish and care for this man while you are away." So said King Mark, speaking with great cheerfulness and courtesy; for neither he nor any of his court at that time wist who Sir Tristram was. So Sir Launcelot went upon his way, and King Mark gave orders that Sir Tristram should be well-clothed and fed, and it was done as he commanded. * * * * * Thus it was that Sir Tristram was brought back to the castle of Tintagel again. And now it shall be told how it befell with him thereat. [Illustration: Sir Tristram leaps into ye Sea] Chapter Third _How Sir Tristram was discovered at Tintagel and of what befell thereby._ Now during the time that Sir Tristram abode thus unknown at the court of Tintagel, he was allowed to wander thereabouts whithersoever he chose, and no one hindered him either in going or in coming. For none in all that place suspected who he was, but everyone thought that he was only a poor gentle madman of the forest; so he was allowed to wander at will as his fancy led him. [Sidenote: How Sir Tristram dwelt at Tintagel] And Sir Tristram's memory never awoke; but though it awoke not, yet it stirred within him. For though he could not remember what this place was whereunto he had come, yet it was very strangely familiar to him, so that whithersoever he went, he felt that those places were not altogether strange to him. And in some of those places he felt great pleasure and in other places somewhat of pain, yet he knew not why he should have the one feeling or the other. Now of all those places whereunto he wandered, Sir Tristram found most pleasure in the pleasance of the castle where was a fair garden and fruit trees; for it was there that he and the Lady Belle Isoult had walked together aforetime ere his affliction had befallen him, and he remembered this place better than any other, and took more pleasure in it. Now one day Sir Tristram came wandering thus into that pleasance and, the day being warm, he sat under the shade of an appletree beside a marble fountain of water; and the appletree above his head was all full of red and golden fruit. So Sir Tristram sat there, striving to remember how it was that he had once aforetime beheld that fountain and that garden and that appletree beneath which he sat. So whilst he sat there pondering in that wise, there came the Lady Belle Isoult into the garden of that pleasance and her lady, the dame Bragwaine, was with her, and the hound, hight Houdaine, which Sir Tristram had sent to her by Gouvernail, walked beside her on the other side. Then Belle Isoult perceived that there was a man sitting under the appletree, and she said to dame Bragwaine: "Who is yonder man who hath dared to come hither into our privy garden?" Unto this, dame Bragwaine replied: "That, lady, is the gentle madman of the forest whom Sir Launcelot brought hither two days ago." Then the Lady Belle Isoult said, "Let us go nearer and see what manner of man he is"; and so they went forward toward where Sir Tristram sat, and the dog Houdaine went with them. Then Sir Tristram was aware that someone was nigh; and therewith he turned his face and beheld the Lady Isoult for the first time since he had gone mad in the forest; and the lady was looking at him, but knew him not. Then of a sudden, because of his great love for Belle Isoult, the memory of Sir Tristram came all back to him in the instant, and upon that instant he knew who he was and all that had befallen him, and how he had been brought there as a madman out of the forest. But though he knew her in that wise, yet, as has been said, she knew not him. Then Sir Tristram was all overwhelmed with shame that he should be thus found by that dear lady; wherefore he turned away his face and bowed his head so that she might not remember him, for he perceived that as yet she did not know him who he was. Now at that moment the dog, Houdaine, was aware of the savor of Sir Tristram; wherefore he leaped away from the Lady Belle Isoult and ran to Sir Tristram and smelt very eagerly of him. And with that he knew his master. [Sidenote: Houdaine knoweth Sir Tristram] Then the two ladies who looked beheld Houdaine fall down at the feet of Sir Tristram and grovel there with joy. And they beheld that he licked Sir Tristram's feet and his hands, and that he leaped upon Sir Tristram and licked his neck and face, and at that they were greatly astonished. Then of a sudden a thought came to dame Bragwaine, and she catched the Lady Isoult by the arm and she said: "Lady, know you not who yonder madman is?" But the Lady Belle Isoult said: "Nay, I know not who he is. Who is he, Bragwaine?" And Bragwaine said: "Certes, that is Sir Tristram, and no one else in all the world." [Sidenote: Belle Isoult knows Sir Tristram] Therewith, at those words, the scales suddenly fell from Lady Belle Isoult's eyes and she knew him. Then, for a little space, she stood as though turned into stone; then she emitted a great loud cry of joy and ran to Sir Tristram where he sat, and flung herself down upon the ground at the feet of Sir Tristram and embraced him about the knees. And she cried out in a voice of great passion: "Tristram! Tristram! Is it thou? They told me thou wert dead, and lo! thou art come to life again!" And with that she fell to weeping with such fury of passion that it was as though the soul of her were struggling to escape from her body. Then Sir Tristram got to his feet in great haste and agitation and he said: "Lady! Lady! This must not be--arise, and stay your passion or else it will be our ruin. For behold, I am alone and unarmed in this castle, and there are several herein who seek my life. So if it be discovered who I am, both thou and I are lost." Then, perceiving how that Belle Isoult was in a way distracted and out of her mind with joy and grief and love, he turned him unto Bragwaine and said to her: "Take thy lady hence and by and by I will find means whereby I may come to speech with her in private. Meanwhile it is death both for her and for me if she remain here to betray me unto the others of this castle." So Bragwaine and Sir Tristram lifted up the Lady Belle Isoult, and Bragwaine led her thence out of that place; for I believe that Belle Isoult knew not whither she went but walked like one walking half in a swoon. [Sidenote: Sir Andred knoweth Sir Tristram] Now it chanced at that time that Sir Andred was in a balcony overlooking that pleasance, and, hearing the sound of voices and the sound of a disturbance that was suppressed, he looked out and beheld all that passed. Then he also wist who was that madman whom Sir Launcelot had fetched to that place out of the forest, and that he was Sir Tristram. Therewith he was filled with a great rage and fury and was likewise overwhelmed with great fear lest, if Sir Tristram should escape from that castle with his life, he would reclaim those possessions that he, Sir Andred, had seized upon. [Sidenote: Sir Andres betrays Sir Tristram to King Mark] So therewith he withdrew himself from that balcony very softly, into the apartment behind. And he sat down in that apartment for a little while as though not knowing rightly what to do. But after a little while he arose and went to King Mark; and King Mark looked up and beheld him and said, "What news do you bring, Messire?" Thereunto Sir Andred made reply: "Lord, know you who that madman is whom Sir Launcelot hath fetched hither?" King Mark said, "Nay, I know not who he is." But with that he fell to trembling throughout his entire body, for he began to bethink him who that madman was. "Lord," said Sir Andred, "it is Sir Tristram, and me-seems Sir Launcelot was aware who it was, and that he was plotting treason when he fetched him hither." At that King Mark smote his hands together and he cried in a terrible voice, "I know it! I know it!" And then he said: "Blind! Blind! How was it that I knew him not?" Then after a little he fell to laughing and he said to Sir Andred: "Lo! God hath assuredly delivered that traitor, Sir Tristram, into mine hands so that I may punish him for his treasons. For, behold! he is here in our midst and he is altogether unarmed. Go, Messire, with all haste, gather together such force as may be needful, and seize upon him and bind him so that he may do no further harm to any man. Then let justice be executed upon him so soon as it is possible to do so." And Sir Andred said: "Lord, it shall be done according to your demands and upon the instant." Therewith Sir Andred went forth from where the King was, and he armed himself in complete armor, and he gathered together a number of knights and esquires and he led them to that place where he knew Sir Tristram would be; and there he found Sir Tristram sitting sunk in thought. And when Sir Tristram beheld those armed men come in thus upon him, he arose to defend himself. But then Sir Andred cried out in a loud voice: "Seize him ere he can strike and bind him fast, for he is unarmed and may do you no harm!" [Sidenote: The castle folk seize Sir Tristram] With that a dozen or more of those who were with Sir Andred flung themselves upon Sir Tristram, shouting and roaring like wild beasts. And they bore him to the earth by numbers, and after a while, by dint of great effort, they held him and bound his hands together by the wrists. Then they lifted up Sir Tristram and stood him upon his feet, and lo! his bosom heaved with his struggles, and his eyes were all shot with blood and his lips afroth with the fury of his fighting; and his clothes were torn in that struggle so that his body was half naked. And they held him there, a knight in armor with a naked sword standing upon his right hand and another armed knight with a naked sword standing upon his left hand. Then Sir Andred came and stood in front of Sir Tristram and taunted him, saying: "Ha, Tristram, how is it with thee now? Lo! thou camest like a spy into this place, and now thou art taken with all thy treason upon thee. So thou shalt die no knightly death, but, in a little while, thou shalt be hanged like a thief." Then he came close to Sir Tristram, and he laughed and said: "Tristram where is now the glory of thy strength that one time overcame all thine enemies? Lo! thou art helpless to strike a single blow in defence of thine honor." And therewith Sir Andred lifted his hand and smote Sir Tristram upon the face with the palm thereof. [Sidenote: Sir Tristram slays Sir Andred] At that blow the rage of Sir Tristram so flamed up in him that his eyes burned as with pure green fire. And in an instant, so quickly that no man wist what he did, he turned with amazing suddenness upon that knight who stood at his left hand, and he lifted up both hands that were bound, and he smote that knight such a blow upon the face that the knight fell down upon the ground and his sword fell out of his hand. Then Sir Tristram snatched the sword and, turning with astonishing quickness, he smote the knight upon his right hand such a buffet that he instantly fell down upon his knees and then rolled over upon the ground in a swoon. Then Sir Tristram turned upon Sir Andred, and lifting high the sword with both hands tied, he smote him so terrible a blow that the blade cut through his epulier and half through his body as far as the paps. At that great terrible blow the breath fled out of Sir Andred with a deep groan, and he fell down upon the ground and immediately died. Now all this had happened so suddenly that they who beheld it were altogether amazed and stood staring as though bewitched by some spell. But when they beheld Sir Tristram turn upon them and make at them with that streaming sword lifted on high, the terror of his fury so seized upon them that they everywhere broke from before him and fled, yelling, and with the fear of death clutching them in the vitals. And Sir Tristram chased them out of that place and into the courtyard of the castle, and some he smote down and others escaped; but all who could do so scattered away before him like chaff before the wind. Then, when they were gone, Sir Tristram stood panting and glaring about him like a lion at bay. Then he set the point of his sword upon the pavement of the court and the pommel thereof he set against his breast, and he drew the bonds that held his wrists across the edge of the sword so that they were cut and he was free. [Sidenote: Sir Tristram defends the chapel] But Sir Tristram wist that in a little the whole castle would be aroused against him, and that he would certainly be overwhelmed by dint of numbers, wherefore he looked about him for some place of refuge; and he beheld that the door of the chapel which opened upon the courtyard stood ajar. So he ran into the chapel and shut to that door and another door and locked and bolted them both, and set a heavy bar of wood across both of them so that for a while he was safe. But yet he was only safe for a little while, for about the time of early nightfall, which came not long thereafter, a great party of several score of King Mark's people came against the chapel where he was. And when they found that the doors were locked and barred, they brought rams for to batter in the chief door of the chapel. Then Sir Tristram beheld how parlous was his case, and that he must in a little while die if he did not immediately do something to save himself. So with that he ran to a window of the chapel and opened it and looked out thence. And lo! below him and far beneath was the sea, and the rocks of the shore upon which the castle was built; and the sea and the rocks lay twelve fathoms beneath him. [Sidenote: Sir Tristram leaps into the sea] But Sir Tristram said, "Better death there than here;" and therewith finding that the door was now falling in beneath the rams, he leaped out from the window-ledge, and thence he dived down into the sea; and no one saw that terrible leap that he made. So he sank down deep into the sea, but met no rocks, so that he presently came up again safe and sound. Then, looking about him, he perceived in the twilight a cave in the rocks, and thither he swam with the intent to find shelter for a little. Now when they who had come against him had broken into the chapel they all ran in in one great crowd, for they expected to find Sir Tristram and to do battle with him. But lo! Sir Tristram was not there, but only the empty walls. Then at first they were greatly astonished, and knew not what to think. And some who came cried out: "Is that man then a spirit that he can melt away into thin air?" But after a little, one of them perceived where the window of the chapel stood open, and therewith several of them ran thereunto and looked out, and they wist that Sir Tristram had leaped out thence into the sea. Then they said to one another: "Either that knight is now dead, or else he will perish when the tide rises and covers the rocks; so to-night we will do no more with this business; but to-morrow we will go and find his body where it lies among the rocks of the shore." So thereupon they shut the window and went their ways. Now Gouvernail was not at that time at Tintagel, nor did he return thereunto until all this affair was over and done. But when he came there, there were many voices to tell him what had befallen, and to all of them Gouvernail listened without saying anything. But afterward Gouvernail went and sought out a certain knight hight Sir Santraille de Lushon, who, next to himself, was the most faithful friend to Sir Tristram at that place. To him Gouvernail said: "Messire, I do not think that Sir Tristram is dead, for he hath always been a most wonderful swimmer and diver. But if he be alive, and we do not save him, he will assuredly perish when the tide comes up and covers over those rocks amongst which he may now be hidden." So Gouvernail and Sir Santraille went to that chapel unknown to anyone, and they went to that window whence Sir Tristram had leaped, and they opened the window, and leaned out and called upon Sir Tristram in low voices: "Sir Tristram, if thou art alive, arise and answer us, for we are friends!" Then after a while Sir Tristram recognized Gouvernail's voice and answered them: "I am alive; but save me, or I perish in a little while." Then Gouvernail said: "Lord, are you hurt, or are you whole?" Sir Tristram replied, "I am strong and well in body, but the tide rises fast." Gouvernail said, "Messire, can you wait a little?" Sir Tristram said, "Ay; for a little, but not for too long." [Sidenote: Gouvernail and Sir Santraille rescue Sir Tristram] Then Gouvernail and Sir Santraille withdrew from where they were and they made all haste, and they got together a great number of sheets and napkins, and tied these together and made a rope, and lowered the rope down to the rocks where Sir Tristram was. Then Sir Tristram climbed up the rope of linen and so reached the chapel in safety. And at that time it was nigh to midnight and very dark. But when Sir Tristram stood with them in the chapel, he gave them hardly any greeting, but said at once: "Messires, how doth it fare with the Lady Belle Isoult?" For he thought of her the first of all and above all things else. To this Sir Santraille made reply: "Sir, the lady hath been shut into a tower, and the door thereof hath been locked upon her, and she is a close prisoner." Then Sir Tristram said: "How many knights are there in the place who are my friends, and who will stand with me to break out hence?" To this Gouvernail said: "Lord, there are twelve besides ourselves, and that makes fourteen in all who are with thee in this quarrel unto life or death." Sir Tristram said: "Provide me presently with arms and armor and bring those twelve hither armed at all points. But first let them saddle horses for themselves and for us, and for the Lady Belle Isoult and for her waiting-woman, Dame Bragwaine. When this is done, we will depart from this place unto some other place of refuge, and I do not think there will be any in the castle will dare stop or stay us after we are armed." [Sidenote: Sir Tristram arms himself] So it was done as Sir Tristram commanded, and when all those were gathered together, and their horses ready, Sir Tristram and several of the knights of his party went openly to that tower where the Lady Belle Isoult was prisoner. And they burst open the doors and went in with torches, and found Belle Isoult and her attendant in the upper part of the castle. But when Belle Isoult beheld the face of Sir Tristram, she said: "Is it thou, my love; and art thou still alive, and art thou come tome?" Sir Tristram said: "Yea, I am still alive nor will I die, God willing, until I have first brought thee out of this wicked castle and into some place of safety. And never again will I entrust thee unto King Mark's hands; for I have great fear that if he have thee in his hands he will work vengeance upon thee so as to strike at my heart through thee. So, dear love, I come to take thee away from this place; and never again right or wrong, shalt thou be without the shelter of my arm." Then the Lady Belle Isoult smiled very wonderfully upon Sir Tristram so that her face appeared to shine with a great illumination of love. And she said: "Tristram, I will go with thee whithersoever thou wilt. Yea, I would go with thee even to the grave, for I believe that I should be happy even there, so that thou wert lying beside me." Then Sir Tristram groaned in spirit and he said: "Isoult, what have I done, that I should always bring unhappiness upon thee?" But the Lady Belle Isoult spake very steadily, saying: "Never unhappiness, Tristram, but always happiness; for I have thy love for aye, and thou hast mine in the same measure, and in that is happiness, even in tears and sorrow, and never unhappiness." With that Sir Tristram kissed Belle Isoult upon the forehead, and then he lifted her up and carried her in his arms down the stairs of the tower and sat her upon her horse. And Bragwaine followed after, and Gouvernail lifted her up upon her horse. [Sidenote: Sir Tristram taketh Belle Isoult away from Tintagel] Now all they of that castle were amazed beyond measure to find all those knights armed and prepared for battle so suddenly in their midst. And most of all were they filled with terror to find Sir Tristram at the head of these knights. Wherefore when Sir Tristram made demand that they should open the portcullis of the castle and let fall the drawbridge, the porters thereof dared not refuse him, but did as he said. So Sir Tristram and his knights rode forth with the Lady Belle Isoult and Bragwaine and no one stayed them. And they rode into the forest, betaking their way toward a certain castle of Sir Tristram's, which they reached in the clear dawning of the daytime. And so Sir Tristram brought the Lady Belle Isoult away from Tintagel and into safety. [Illustration: King Mark broods mischief] Chapter Fourth _How Sir Tristram and the Lady Belle Isoult returned to Cornwall and how they ended their days together._ And now remaineth to be told the rest of these adventures of Sir Tristram as briefly as may be. For indeed I thought not, when I began this history, to tell you as much concerning him as I have done. But as I have entered into this history I have come so strongly to perceive how noble and true and loyal was the knighthood of Sir Tristram, that I could not forbear telling you of many things that I had not purposed to speak of. Yet, as I have said before this, there are a great many adventures that I have not spoken of in this book. For I have told only those things that were necessary for to make you understand how it fared with him in his life. So now shall be told those last things that concerned him. [Sidenote: Sir Launcelot reproves King Mark] Now two days after those things aforesaid had come to pass, Sir Launcelot returned unto Tintagel from that quest which he had been upon, and so soon as he came thither he made inquiry of King Mark concerning the welfare of that madman of the forest whom he had left in the care of King Mark. But when he heard that that madman was Sir Tristram, he was astonished beyond all measure; but when he heard how Sir Tristram had been served by King Mark and by the people of the castle under the lead of Sir Andred, he was filled with a great and violent indignation. So he arose and stood before King Mark and said: "Lord King, I have heard much ill said of thee and shameful things concerning thy unknightliness in several courts of chivalry where I have been; and now I know that those things were true; for I have heard from the lips of many people here, how thou didst betray Sir Tristram into bringing the Lady Belle Isoult unto thee; and I have heard from many how thou dost ever do ill and wickedly by him, seeking to take from him both his honor and his life. And yet Sir Tristram hath always been thy true and faithful knight, and hath served thee in all ways thou hast demanded of him. I know that thou hast jealousy for Sir Tristram in thy heart and that thou hast ever imputed wickedness and sin unto him. Yet all the world knoweth that Sir Tristram is a true knight and altogether innocent of any evil. For all the evil which thou hast imputed to him hath no existence saving only in thine own evil heart. Now I give thee and all thy people to know that had ill befallen Sir Tristram at your hands I should have held you accountable therefor and should have punished you in such a way that you would not soon have forgotten it. But of that there is no need, for Sir Tristram himself hath punished you in full measure without any aid from me. So now I will go away from this place and will never come hither again; nor will I acknowledge you should I meet you in court or in field." So saying, Sir Launcelot turned and went away from that place very proudly and haughtily, leaving them all abashed at his rebuke. [Sidenote: Sir Launcelot findeth Sir Tristram and Belle Isoult in the forest] So that day Sir Launcelot went forward through the forest until he reached that castle whereunto Sir Tristram had taken the Lady Belle Isoult, and there he was received by Sir Tristram with all joy and honor. And Sir Launcelot abided at that place for two days, with great pleasure to himself and to Sir Tristram and to Belle Isoult. At the end of that time Sir Launcelot said to Sir Tristram: "Messire, it is not well that you and this dear lady should abide here so nigh to Tintagel. For, certes, King Mark will some time work some grievous ill upon you. So I beseech you to come with me unto my castle of Joyous Gard. There this lady shall reign queen paramount and we shall be her very faithful servants to do her pleasure in all ways. That castle is a very beautiful place, and there she may dwell in peace and safety and tranquillity all the days of her life if she chooses to do so." [Sidenote: They depart for Joyous Gard] Now that saying of Sir Launcelot's seemed good to Sir Tristram and to Belle Isoult; wherefore in three days all they and their court made ready to depart. And they did depart from that castle in the forest unto Joyous Gard, where they were received with great honor and rejoicing. So the Lady Belle Isoult abided for three years at Joyous Gard, dwelling there as queen paramount in all truth and innocence of life; and Sir Launcelot and Sir Tristram were her champions and all their courts were her servants. And during those three years there were many famous joustings held at Joyous Gard, and several bel-adventures were performed both by Sir Launcelot and Sir Tristram in her honor. And indeed I believe that this was the happiest time of all the Lady Belle Isoult's life, for she lived there in peace and love and tranquillity and she suffered neither grief nor misfortune in all that time. [Sidenote: King Arthur comes to Joyous Gard] Then one day there came King Arthur to Joyous Gard, and he was received with such joy and celebration as that place had never before beheld. A great feast was set in his honor, and after the feast King Arthur and Sir Tristram and Belle Isoult withdrew to one side and sat together in converse. Then after a while King Arthur said, "Lady, may I ask you a question?" And at that Lady Belle Isoult lifted up her eyes and looked very strangely upon the King, and after a while she said, "Ask thy question, Lord King, and I will answer it if I can." "Lady," said King Arthur, "answer me this question: is it better to dwell in honor with sadness or in dishonor with joy?" Then Belle Isoult began to pant with great agitation, and by and by she said, "Lord, why ask you me that?" King Arthur said: "Because, lady, I think your heart hath sometimes asked you the selfsame question." Then the Lady Belle Isoult clasped her hands together and cried out: "Yea, yea, my heart hath often asked me that question, but I would not answer it." King Arthur said: "Neither shalt thou answer me, for I am but a weak and erring man as thou art a woman. But answer thou that question to God, dear lady, and then thou shalt answer it in truth." Therewith King Arthur fell to talking of other things with Sir Tristram, but the lady could not join them in talk, but sat thenceforth in silence, finding it hard to breathe because of the oppression of tears that lay upon her bosom. And Belle Isoult said no more concerning that question that King Arthur had asked. But three days after that time she came to Sir Tristram and said: "Dear lord, I have bethought me much of what King Arthur said, and this hath come of it, that I must return again unto Cornwall." Then Sir Tristram turned away his face so that she might not see it, and he said, "Methought it would come to that." And then in a little he went away from that place, leaving her standing there. So it came about that peace was made betwixt Sir Tristram and King Mark, and Belle Isoult and King Mark, and King Arthur was the peacemaker. [Sidenote: Belle Isoult scorns King Mark] Thereafter Sir Tristram and his court and the Lady Belle Isoult returned unto Cornwall, and there they dwelt for some time in seeming peace. But in that time the Lady Belle Isoult would never see King Mark nor exchange a word with him, but lived entirely apart from him and in her own life in a part of the castle; and at that King Mark was struck with such bitterness of despair that he was like to a demon in torment. For he saw, as it were, a treasure very near and yet afar, for he could not come unto it. And the more he suffered that torment, the more he hated Sir Tristram, for in his suffering it appeared to him that Sir Tristram was the cause of that suffering. So it came about that King Mark set spies to watch Sir Tristram, for in his evil heart he suspected Sir Tristram of treason, and he hoped that his spies might discover Sir Tristram in some act for which he might be punished. So those spies watched Sir Tristram both night and day, but they could find nothing that he did that was amiss. Now one day Belle Isoult felt such a longing for Sir Tristram that she could not refrain from sending a note to him beseeching him for to come to her so that they might see one another again; and though Sir Tristram misdoubted what he did, yet he went as she desired, even if it should mean the peril of death to him. Then came those spies to King Mark and told him that Sir Tristram was gone to the bower of the Lady Belle Isoult, and that she had bidden him to come thither. At that the vitals of King Mark were twisted with such an agony of hatred and despair that he bent him double and cried out, "Woe! Woe! I suffer torments!" [Sidenote: King Mark spies upon Sir Tristram and Isoult] Therewith he arose and went very quickly to that part of the castle where the Lady Belle Isoult inhabited; and he went very softly up by a back way and through a passage to where was a door with curtains hanging before it; and when he had come there he parted the curtains and peeped within. And he beheld that the Lady Belle Isoult and Sir Tristram sat at a game of chess, and he beheld that they played not at the game but that they sat talking together very sadly; and he beheld that Dame Bragwaine sat in a deep window to one side--for Belle Isoult did not wish it to be said that she and Sir Tristram sat alone. All this King Mark saw and trembled with a torment of jealousy. So by and by he left that place and went very quietly back into that passageway whence he had come. And when he had come there he perceived a great glaive upon a pole two ells long. This he took into his hand and returned unto that curtained doorway again. Then being in all ways prepared he parted the curtains silently and stepped very quickly and without noise into the room. And the back of Sir Tristram was toward him. Then King Mark lifted the glaive on high and he struck; and Sir Tristram sank without a sound. Yea, I believe that that good knight knew naught of what had happened until he awoke in Paradise to find himself in that realm of happiness and peace. [Sidenote: Of the passing of Tristram and Isoult] Then Belle Isoult arose, overturning the table of chessmen as she did so, but she made no outcry nor sound of any sort. But she stood looking down at Sir Tristram for a little space, and then she kneeled down beside his body and touched the face thereof as though to make sure that it was dead. Therewith, as though being assured, she fell down with her body upon his; and King Mark stood there looking down upon them. All this had passed so quickly that Dame Bragwaine hardly knew what had befallen; but now, upon an instant, she suddenly fell to shrieking so piercingly that the whole castle rang with the sound thereof. Now there were in the outer room several of the knights of the court of Sir Tristram who had come thither with him as witnesses that he performed no treason to the King. These, when Dame Bragwaine shrieked in that wise, came running into the room and therewith beheld what had happened. Then all they stood aghast at that sight. [Sidenote: Sir Alexander slays King Mark] But there was in the court of Sir Tristram a very young, gallant knight hight Sir Alexander. This knight came to where King Mark stood looking down upon his handiwork as though entranced with what he had done. Then Sir Alexander said to King Mark, "Is this thy work?" And King Mark raised his eyes very heavily and looked at Sir Alexander and he answered, "Ay!" Then Sir Alexander cried out, "Thou hast lived too long!" And therewith drawing his misericordia, he catched King Mark by the left wrist and lifted his arm. And Sir Alexander drave the dagger into the side of King Mark, and King Mark groaned and sank down upon the ground, and in a little while died where he lay. Then those knights went to where the Lady Belle Isoult lay and lifted her up; but, lo! the soul had left her, and she was dead. For I believe that it was not possible for one of those loving souls to leave its body with out the other quitting its body also, so that they might meet together in Paradise. For there never were two souls in all the history of chivalry that clave to one another so tenderly as did the souls of Tristram and Isoult. So endeth this story of Sir Tristram, with only this to say, that they two were buried with the graves close together, and that it is said by many who have written of them that there grew a rose-tree up from Sir Tristram's grave, and down upon the grave of Belle Isoult; and it is said that this rose-tree was a miracle, for that upon his grave there grew red roses, and upon her grave there grew pure white roses. For her soul was white like to thrice-carded wool, and so his soul was red with all that was of courage or knightly pride. And I pray that God may rest the souls of those two as I pray He may rest the souls of all of us who must some time go the way that those two and so many others have travelled before us. Amen. The Book of Sir Percival _Here beginneth the story of Sir Percival of Gales, who was considered to be one of the three great knights of the Round Table at that time. For, if Sir Launcelot was the chiefest of all the knights who ever came unto King Arthur's court, then it is hard to say whether Sir Tristram of Lyonesse or Sir Percival of Gales was second unto him in renown_. _And I pray that it shall be given unto all of ye to live as brave and honorable and pure a life as he did; and that you, upon your part, may claim a like glory and credit in the world in which you dwell by such noble behavior as he exhibited_. [Illustration: Sir Percival of Gales] Prologue. The father of Sir Percival was that king hight Pellinore who fought so terrible a battle with King Arthur as has been told in the Book of King Arthur. For it was after that fight that King Arthur obtained his famous sword Excalibur, as was therein told. Now, King Pellinore was one of those eleven kings who, in the beginning of King Arthur's reign, were in rebellion against King Arthur as hath been told in the book aforesaid, and he was one of the last of all those kings to yield when he was overcome. So King Arthur drove him from town to town and from place to place until, at last, he was driven away from the habitations of men and into the forests like to a wild beast. [Sidenote: King Pellinore fleeth to the wilderness] Now, King Pellinore took with him into the wilderness his wife and his four sons; to wit, Lamorack and Aglaval and Dornar and Percival. Of these, Percival was but three years of age; the others, excepting Dornar, being nigh to the estate of manhood. Thereafter that noble family dwelt in the forest like hunted animals, and that was a very great hardship for the lady who had been queen; and, likewise, it was greatly to the peril of the young child, Percival. Now, Percival was extraordinarily beautiful and his mother loved him above all her other sons. Wherefore she feared lest the young child should die of those hardships in the wilderness. So one day King Pellinore said: "Dear love, I am now in no wise prepared for to defend thee and this little one. Wherefore, for a while, I shall put ye away from me so that ye may remain in secret hiding until such time as the child shall have grown in years and stature to the estate of manhood and may so defend himself. "Now of all my one-time possessions I have only two left to me. One of these is a lonely castle in this forest (unto which I am now betaking my way), and the other is a solitary tower at a great distance from this, and in a very desolate part of the world where there are many mountains. Unto that place I shall send ye, for it will not be likely that mine enemies will ever find ye there. "So my will is this: that if this child groweth in that lonely place to manhood, and if he be weak in body or timid in spirit, thou shalt make of him a clerk of holy orders. But if when he groweth, he shall prove to be strong and lusty of frame and high of spirit, and shall desire to undertake deeds of knighthood, thou then shalt not stay him from his desires, but shall let him go forth into the world as he shall have a mind to do. "And if a time should come when he desireth to go thus into the world behold! here is a ring set with a very precious ruby; let him bring that ring to me or to any of our sons wheresoever he may find us, and by that ring we shall know that he is my son and their brother, and we will receive him with great gladness." [Sidenote: Percival's mother taketh him to the mountains] And King Pellinore's lady said, "It shall be done as thou dost ordain." So it was that King Pellinore betook himself to that lonely castle where King Arthur found him and fought with him; and Percival's mother betook herself to that dwelling-place in the mountains of which King Pellinore had spoken--which was a single tower that reached up into the sky, like unto a finger of stone. There she abided with Percival for sixteen years, and in all that time Percival knew naught of the world nor of what sort it was, but grew altogether wild and was entirely innocent like to a little child. In the mean time, during those years, it happened very ill to the house of King Pellinore. For though King Arthur became reconciled to King Pellinore, yet there were in King Arthur's court many who were bitter enemies to that good, worthy knight. So it came about that first King Pellinore was slain by treachery, and then Sir Aglaval and Sir Dornar were slain in the same way, so that Sir Lamorack alone was left of all that noble family. (And it was said that Sir Gawaine and his brothers were implicated in those murders--they being enemies unto King Pellinore--and great reproach hath always clung to them for the treacherous, unknightly way in which those noble knights of the house of Pellinore were slain.) [Sidenote: Percival's mother grieveth for the death of her dear ones] Now the news of those several deaths was brought to that lonely tower of the mountain wilderness and to Sir Percival's mother; and when she heard how her husband and two of her sons were dead she gave great outcry of grief, and smote her hands together and wept with great passion. And she cried out: "Mefeareth it will be the time of Lamorack next to be slain. As for Percival; never shall I be willing for him to go out into that cruel world of wicked murderers. For if he should perish also, my heart would surely break." [Sidenote: How Percival dwelt in the mountains] So she kept Percival always with her and in ignorance of all that concerned the world of knighthood. And though Percival waxed great of body and was beautiful and noble of countenance, yet he dwelt there among those mountains knowing no more of the world that lay beyond that place in which he dwelt than would a little innocent child. Nor did he ever see anyone from the outside world, saving only an old man who was a deaf-mute. And this old man came and went betwixt that tower where Percival and his mother dwelt and the outer world, and from the world he would come back with clothing and provisions loaded upon an old sumpter horse for Percival and his mother and their few attendants. Yet Percival marvelled many times whence those things came, but no one told him and so he lived in entire ignorance of the world. And Percival's mother would not let him touch any weapon saving only a small Scot's spear which same is a sort of javelin. But with this Percival played every day of his life until he grew so cunning in handling it that he could pierce with it a bird upon the wing in the air. Now it chanced upon a time when Percival was nineteen years of age that he stood upon a pinnacle of rock and looked down into a certain valley. And it was very early in the spring-time, so that the valley appeared, as it were, to be carpeted all with clear, thin green. There was a shining stream of water that ran down through the midst of the valley, and it was a very fair and peaceful place to behold. [Sidenote: Percival beholds a knight-rider] So Percival stood and gazed into that low-land, and lo! a knight rode up through that valley, and the sun shone out from behind a cloud of rain and smote upon his armor so that it appeared to be all ablaze as with pure light, and Percival beheld that knight and wist not what it was he saw. So, after the knight had gone away from the valley, he ran straightway to his mother, all filled with a great wonder, and he said: "Mother! Mother! I have beheld a very wonderful thing." She said, "What was it thou didst see?" Percival said: "I beheld somewhat that was like a man, and he rode upon a horse, and he shone very brightly and with exceeding splendor. Now, I prithee tell me what it was I saw?" Then Percival's mother knew very well what it was he had seen, and she was greatly troubled at heart, for she wist that if Percival's knightly spirit should be awakened he would no longer be content to dwell in those peaceful solitudes. Wherefore she said to herself: "How is this? Is it to be that this one lamb also shall be taken away from me and nothing left to me of all my flock?" Then she said to Percival: "My son, that which thou didst behold was doubtless an angel." And Percival said, "I would that I too were an angel!" And at that speech the lady, his mother, sighed very deeply. Now it chanced upon the next day after that that Percival and his mother went down into the forest that lay at the foot of the mountain whereon that tower stood, and they had intent to gather such early flowers of the spring-time as were then abloom. And whilst they were there, lo! there came five knights riding through the forest, and, the leaves being thin like to a mist of green, Percival perceived them a great way off. So he cried out in a loud voice: "Mother! Mother! Behold! Yonder is a whole company of angels such as I saw yesterday! Now I will go and give them greeting." But his mother said: "How now! How now! Wouldst thou make address unto angels!" And Percival said: "Yea; for they appear to be both mild of face and gentle of mien." So he went forward for to greet those knights. [Sidenote: Percival holds discourse with five knights] Now the foremost of that party of knights was Sir Ewaine, who was always both gentle and courteous to everybody. Wherefore, when Sir Ewaine saw Percival nigh at hand, he gave him greeting and said, "Fair youth, what is thy name?" Unto this Percival made reply: "My name is Percival." Sir Ewaine said: "That is a very good name, and thy face likewise is so extraordinarily comely that I take thee to be of some very high lineage. Now tell me, I prithee, who is thy father?" To this Percival said, "I cannot tell thee what is my lineage, for I do not know," and at that Sir Ewaine marvelled a very great deal. Then, after a little while, he said: "I prithee tell me, didst thou see a knight pass this way to-day or yesterday?" And Percival said, "I know not what sort of a thing is a knight." Sir Ewaine said, "A knight is such a sort of man as I am." Upon this Percival understood many things that he did not know before, and he willed with all his soul to know more than those. Wherefore he said: "If thou wilt answer several questions for me, I will gladly answer thine." Upon this Sir Ewaine smiled very cheerfully (for he liked Percival exceedingly), and he said: "Ask what thou wilt and I will answer thee in so far as I am able." So Percival said, "I prithee tell me what is this thing?" And he laid his hand thereon. And Sir Ewaine said, "That is a saddle." And Percival said, "What is this thing?" And Sir Ewaine said, "That is a sword." And Percival said, "What is this thing?" And Sir Ewaine said, "That is a shield." And so Percival asked him concerning all things that appertained to the accoutrements of a knight, and Sir Ewaine answered all his questions. Then Percival said: "Now I will answer thy question. I saw a knight ride past this way yesterday, and he rode up yonder valley and to the westward." Upon this Sir Ewaine gave gramercy to Percival and saluted him, and so did the other knights, and they rode their way. After they had gone Percival returned to his mother, and he beheld that she sat exactly where he had left her, for she was in great travail of soul because she perceived that Percival would not now stay with her very much longer. And when Percival came to where she sat he said to her: "Mother, those were not angels, but very good, excellent knights." And upon this the lady, his mother, burst into a great passion of weeping, so that Percival stood before her all abashed, not knowing why she wept. So by and by he said, "Mother, why dost thou weep?" But she could not answer him for a while, and after a while she said, "Let us return homeward." And so they walked in silence. Now when they had come to the tower where they dwelt, the lady turned of a sudden unto Percival and she said to him, "Percival, what is in thy heart?" And he said, "Mother, thou knowest very well what is there." She said, "Is it that thou wouldst be a knight also?" And he said, "Thou sayst it." And upon that she said, "Thou shalt have thy will; come with me." So Percival's mother led him to the stable and to where was that poor pack-horse that brought provisions to that place, and she said: "This is a sorry horse but I have no other for thee. Now let us make a saddle for him." So Percival and his mother twisted sundry cloths and wisps of hay and made a sort of a saddle thereof. And Percival's mother brought him a scrip with bread and cheese for his refreshment and she hung it about his shoulder. And she brought him his javelin which he took in his hand. And then she gave him the ring of King Pellinore with that precious ruby jewel inset into it, and she said: "Take thou this, Percival, and put it upon thy finger, for it is a royal ring. Now when thou leavest me, go unto the court of King Arthur and make diligent inquiry for Sir Lamorack of Gales. And when thou hast found him, show him that ring, and he will see that thou art made a very worthy knight; for, Percival, Sir Lamorack is thy brother. One time thou hadst a father alive, and thou hadst two other brothers. But all they were slain by treachery of our enemies, and only thou and Lamorack are left; so look to it that thou guard thyself when thou art in the world and in the midst of those enemies; for if thou shouldst perish at their hands, I believe my heart would break." [Sidenote: Percival's mother giveth him advice] Then she gave Percival advice concerning the duty of one who would make himself worthy of knighthood, and that advice was as follows: "In thy journeying thou art to observe these sundry things: When thou comest to a church or a shrine say a pater-noster unto the glory of God; and if thou hearest a cry of anyone in trouble, hasten to lend thine aid--especially if it be a woman or a child who hath need of it; and if thou meet a lady or a damosel, salute her in seemly fashion; and if thou have to do with a man, be both civil and courageous unto him; and if thou art an-hungered or athirst and findest food and wine, eat and drink enough to satisfy thee, but no more; and if thou findest a treasure or a jewel of price and canst obtain those things without injustice unto another, take that thing for thine own--but give that which thou hast with equal freedom unto others. So, by obeying these precepts, thou shalt become worthy to be a true knight and, haply, be also worthy of thy father, who was a true knight before thee." And Percival said, "All these things will I remember and observe to do." And Percival's mother said, "But thou wilt not forget me, Percival?" [Sidenote: Percival departs from the mountain] And he said: "Nay, mother; but when I have got me power and fame and wealth, then will I straightway return thitherward and take thee away from this place, and thou shalt be like to a Queen for all the glory that I shall bestow upon thee." Upon this the lady, his mother, both laughed and wept; and Percival stooped and kissed her upon the lips. Then he turned and left her, and he rode away down the mountain and into the forest, and she stood and gazed after him as long as she could see him. And she was very lonely after he had gone. So I have told you how it came that Percival went out into the world for to become a famous knight. [Illustration: The Lady Yvette the Fair] Chapter First _How Percival departed into the world and how he found a fair damsel in a pavilion; likewise how he came before Queen Guinevere and how he undertook his first adventure_. [Sidenote: Percival maketh himself armor of willow twigs] Now after Percival had ridden upon his way for a very long time, he came at last out of that part of the forest and unto a certain valley where were many osiers growing along beside a stream of water. So he gathered branches of the willow-trees and peeled them and wove them very cunningly into the likeness of armor such as he had seen those knights wear who had come into his forest. And when he had armed himself with wattled osiers he said unto himself, "Now am I accoutred as well as they." Whereupon he rode upon his way with an heart enlarged with joy. By and by he came out of the forest altogether and unto a considerable village where were many houses thatched with straw. And Percival said to himself: "Ha! how great is the world; I knew not that there were so many people in the world." [Sidenote: How Percival rode in the world] But when the folk of that place beheld what sort of a saddle was upon the back of the pack-horse; and when they beheld what sort of armor it was that Percival wore--all woven of osier twigs; and when they beheld how he was armed with a javelin and with no other weapon, they mocked and laughed at him and jeered him. But Percival understood not their mockery, whereupon he said: "Lo! how pleasant and how cheerful is the world. I knew not it was so merry a place." So he laughed and nodded and gave them greeting who mocked him in that manner. And some of them said, "That is a madman." And others said, "Nay, he is a silly fool." And when Percival heard these he said to himself: "I wonder whether there are other sorts of knights that I have not yet heard tell of?" So he rode upon his way very happy, and whenever he met travellers, they would laugh at him; but he would laugh louder than they and give them greeting because of pure pleasure that the great world was so merry and kind. Now in the declining of the afternoon, he came to a certain pleasant glade, and there he beheld a very noble and stately pavilion in among the trees, And that pavilion was all of yellow satin so that it shone like to gold in the light of the declining sun. Then Percival said to himself: "Verily, this must be one of those churches concerning which my mother spake to me." So he descended from his horse and went to that pavilion and knelt down and said a pater-noster. [Sidenote: Percival enters the golden pavilion] And when he had ended that prayer, he arose and went into the pavilion, and lo! he beheld there a wonderfully beautiful young damsel of sixteen years of age who sat in the pavilion upon a carved bench and upon a cushion of cloth of gold, and who bent over a frame of embroidery, which she was busy weaving in threads of silver and gold. And the hair of that damosel was as black as ebony and her cheeks were like rose leaves for redness, and she wore a fillet of gold around her head, and she was clad in raiment of sky blue silk. And near by was a table spread with meats of divers sorts and likewise with several wines, both white and red. And all the goblets were of silver and all the pattens were of gold, and the table was spread with a napkin embroidered with threads of gold. Now you are to know that the young lady who sat there was the Lady Yvette the Fair, the daughter of King Pecheur. When Percival came to that pavilion the Lady Yvette looked up and beheld him with great astonishment, and she said to herself: "That must either be a madman or a foolish jester who comes hither clad all in armor of wattled willow twigs." So she said to him, "Sirrah, what dost thou here?" He said, "Lady, is this a church?" Upon that she was angered thinking that he had intended to make a jest and she said: "Begone, fool, for if my father, who is King Pecheur, cometh and findeth thee here, he will punish thee for this jest." But Percival replied, "Nay; I think he will not, lady." Then the damosel looked at Percival more narrowly and she beheld how noble and beautiful was his countenance and she said to herself: "This is no fool nor a jester, but who he is or what he is I know not." [Sidenote: Percival breaks bread in the golden pavilion] So she said to Percival, "Whence comest thou?" and he said, "From the mountains and the wilderness." Then he said: "Lady, when I left my mother she told me that whenever I saw good food and drink and was an-hungered, I was to take what I needed. Now I will do so in this case." Whereupon he sat him down to that table and fell to with great appetite. Then when that damosel beheld what he did she laughed in great measure and clapped her hands together in sport. And she said: "If my father and brothers should return and find thee at this, they would assuredly punish thee very sorely, and thou couldst not make thyself right with them." Percival said, "Why would they do that, lady?" And she said: "Because that is their food and drink, and because my father is a king and my brethren are his sons." Then Percival said, "Certes, they would be uncourteous to begrudge food to a hungry man"; and thereat the damsel laughed again. Now when Percival had eaten and drunk his fill, he arose from where he sat. And he beheld that the damsel wore a very beautiful ring of carved gold set with a pearl of great price. So he said to her: "Lady, my mother told me that if I beheld a jewel or treasure and desired it for my own, I was to take it if I could do so without offence to anyone. Now I prithee give me that ring upon thy finger, for I desire it a very great deal." At this the maiden regarded Percival very strangely, and she beheld that he was comely beyond any man whom she had ever seen and that his countenance was very noble and exalted and yet exceedingly mild and gentle. So she said to him, speaking very gently, "Why should I give thee my ring?" Whereunto he made reply: "Because thou art the most beautiful lady whom mine eyes ever beheld and I find that I love thee more than I had thought possible to love anyone." At that the damosel smiled upon him and said, "What is thy name?" And he said, "It is Percival." She said, "That is a good name; who is thy father?" Whereunto he said: "That I cannot tell thee for my mother hath bidden me tell his name to no one yet whiles." She said, "I think he must be some very noble and worthy knight," and Percival said, "He is all that, for he too was a king." [Sidenote: The damsel giveth Percival her ring] Then the damsel said, "Thou mayst have my ring," and she gave it to him. And when Percival had placed it upon his finger he said: "My mother also told me that I should give freely of what is mine own, wherefore I do give thee this ring of mine in exchange for thine, and I do beseech thee to wear it until I have proved myself worthy of thy kindness. For I hope to win a very famous knighthood and great praise and renown, all of which, if I so accomplish my desires, shall be to thy great glory. I would fain come to thee another time in that wise instead of as I am at this present." At that the damsel said: "I know not what thou art or whence thou comest who should present thyself in such an extraordinary guise as thou art pleased to do, but, certes, thou must be of some very noble strain. Wherefore I do accept thee for my knight, and I believe that I shall some time have great glory through thee." [Sidenote: Percival salutes the damsel of the golden pavilion] Then Percival said: "Lady, my mother said to me that if I met a damosel I was to salute her with all civility. Now have I thy leave to salute thee?" And she said, "Thou hast my leave." So Percival took her by the hand, and kissed her upon the lips (for that was the only manner in which he knew how to salute a woman) and, lo! her face grew all red like to fire. Thereupon Percival quitted that pavilion and mounted his horse and rode away. And it seemed to him that the world was assuredly a very beautiful and wonderful place for to live in. Yet he knew not what the world was really like nor of what a sort it was nor how passing wide, else had he not been so certainly assured that he would win him credit therein, or that he could so easily find that young damsel again after he had thus parted from her. That night Percival came to a part of the forest where were many huts of folk who made their living by gathering fagots. These people gave him harborage and shelter for the night, for they thought that he was some harmless madman who had wandered afar. And they told him many things he had never known before that time, so that it appeared to him that the world was still more wonderful than he had thought it to be at first. So he abided there for the night, and when the next morning had come he arose and bathed himself and went his way; and, as he rode upon his poor starved horse, he brake his fast with the bread and cheese that his mother had put into his wallet, and he was very glad at heart and rejoiced exceedingly in the wonderfulness and the beauty of the world in which he found himself to be. [Sidenote: How Percival travelled in the forest] So Percival journeyed on into that forest, and he took such great delight in the beauty of the world in which he travelled that he was at times like to shed tears of pure happiness because of the joy he felt in being alive. For that forest path he travelled led beneath the trees of the woodland; and the trees at that time were in their early tender leaf, so that they appeared to shed showers of golden light everywhere down upon the earth. And the birds of the woodland sang in every bush and thicket; and, anon, the wood pigeon cooed so softly that the heart of Percival yearned with great passion for he knew not what. Thus he rode, somewhiles all in a maze of green, and somewhiles out thence into an open glade where the light was wide and bright; and other whiles he came to some forest stream where was a shallow pool of golden gravel, and where the water was so thin and clear that you might not tell where it ended and the pure air began. And therethrough he would drive his horse, splashing with great noise, whilst the little silvery fish would dart away upon all sides, hither and thither, like sparks of light before his coming. So, because of the beauty of this forest land in its spring-time verdure and pleasantness, the heart of Percival was uplifted with so much joy and delight that he was like to weep for pure pleasure as aforesaid. Now it chanced at that time that King Arthur and several of his court had come into that forest ahawking; but, the day being warm, the Queen had grown weary of the sport, so she had commanded her attendants to set up a pavilion for her whilst the King continued his hawking. And the pavilion was pitched in an open glade of the forest whereunto Percival came riding. Then Percival perceived that pavilion set up among the trees, and likewise he saw that the pavilion was of rose colored silk. Also he perceived that not far from him was a young page very gayly and richly clad. [Sidenote: Percival bespeaketh the Lady Guinevere's page] Now when the page beheld Percival and what a singular appearance he presented, he laughed beyond all measure, and Percival, not knowing that he laughed in mockery, laughed also and gave him a very cheerful greeting in return. Then Percival said to the page: "I prithee tell me, fair youth, whose is that pavilion yonder?" And the page said: "It belongeth to Queen Guinevere; for King Arthur is coming hither into the forest with his court." At this Percival was very glad, for he deemed that he should now find Sir Lamorack. So he said: "I pray thee tell me, is Sir Lamorack of Gales with the court of the King, for I come hither seeking that good worthy knight?" Then the page laughed a very great deal, and said: "Who art thou to seek Sir Lamorack? Art thou then a jester?" And Percival said, "What sort of a thing is a jester?" And the page said, "Certes, thou art a silly fool." And Percival said, "What is a fool?" Upon this the page fell alaughing as though he would never stint his mirth so that Percival began to wax angry for he said to himself: "These people laugh too much and their mirth maketh me weary." So, without more ado, he descended from his horse with intent to enter the Queen's pavilion and to make inquiry there for Sir Lamorack. Now when that page saw what Percival had a mind to do, he thrust in to prevent him, saying, "Thou shalt not go in!" Upon that Percival said, "Ha! shall I not so?" And thereupon he smote the page such a buffet that the youth fell down without any motion, as though he had gone dead. Then Percival straightway entered the Queen's pavilion. [Sidenote: Percival beholdeth Queen Guinevere] And the first thing he saw was a very beautiful lady surrounded by a court of ladies. And the Queen was eating a mid-day repast whilst a page waited upon her for to serve her, bearing for her refreshment pure wine in a cup of entire gold. And he saw that a noble lord (and the lord was Sir Kay the Seneschal), stood in the midst of that beautiful rosy pavilion directing the Queen's repast; for Sir Kay of all the court had been left in charge of the Queen and her ladies. Now when Percival entered the tent Sir Kay looked up, and when he perceived what sort of a figure was there, he frowned with great displeasure. "Ha!" he said, "what mad fool is this who cometh hitherward?" Unto him Percival made reply: "Thou tall man, I prithee tell me, which of these ladies present here is the Queen?" Sir Kay said, "What wouldst thou have with the Queen?" To this Percival said: "I have come hither for to lay my case before King Arthur, and my case is this: I would fain obtain knighthood, and meseems that King Arthur may best help me thereunto." [Sidenote: Sir Kay chides Percival] When the Queen heard the words of Percival she laughed with great merriment. But Sir Kay was still very wroth, and he said: "Sirrah, thou certainly art some silly fool who hath come hither dressed all in armor of willow twigs and without arms or equipment of any sort save only a little Scots spear. Now this is the Queen's court and thou art not fit to be here." "Ha," said Percival, "it seems to me that thou art very foolish--thou tall man--to judge of me by my dress and equipment. For, even though I wear such poor apparel as this, yet I may easily be thy superior both in birth and station." [Sidenote: Sir Boindegardus enters the Queen's pavilion] Then Sir Kay was exceedingly wroth and would have made a very bitter answer to Percival, but at that moment something of another sort befell. For, even as Percival ceased speaking, there suddenly entered the pavilion a certain very large and savage knight of an exceedingly terrible appearance; and his countenance was very furious with anger. And this knight was one Sir Boindegardus le Savage, who was held in terror by all that part of King Arthur's realm. For Sir Boindegardus was surnamed the Savage because he dwelt like a wild man in the forest in a lonely dismal castle of the woodland; and because that from this castle he would issue forth at times to rob and pillage the wayfarers who passed by along the forest byways. Many knights had gone against Sir Boindegardus, with intent either to slay him or else to make him prisoner; but some of these knights he had overcome, and from others he had escaped, so that he was as yet free to work his evil will as he chose. So now this savage knight entered that pavilion with his helmet upon his hip and his shield upon his shoulder, and all those ladies who were there were terrified at his coming, for they wist that he came in anger with intent of mischief. As for Sir Kay (he being clad only in a silken tunic of green color and with scarlet hosen and velvet shoes, fit for the court of a lady) he was afraid, and he wist not how to bear himself in the presence of Sir Boindegardus. Then Sir Boindegardus said, "Where is King Arthur?" And Sir Kay made no reply because of fear. Then one of the Queen's damsels said, "He is hawking out beyond here in the outskirts of the forest." Then Sir Boindegardus said: "I am sorry for that, for I had thought to find him here at this time and to show challenge to him and his entire court, for I fear no one of them. But, as King Arthur is not here, I may, at least, affront his Queen." [Sidenote: Sir Boindegardus affronts the Queen] With that he smote the elbow of the page who held the goblet for the Queen, and the wine was splashed all in the Queen's face and over her stomacher. Thereupon the Queen shrieked with terror, and one of her maidens ran to her aid and others came with napkins and wiped her face and her apparel and gave her words of cheer. Then Sir Kay found courage to say: "Ha! thou art a churlish knight to so affront a lady." With that Sir Boindegardus turned very fiercely upon him and said: "And thou likest not my behavior, thou mayst follow me hence into a meadow a little distance from this to the eastward where thou mayst avenge that affront upon my person if thou art minded to do so." Then Sir Kay knew not what to reply for he wist that Sir Boindegardus was a very strong and terrible knight. Wherefore he said, "Thou seest that I am altogether without arms or armor." Upon that Sir Boindegardus laughed in great scorn, and therewith seized the golden goblet from the hands of the page and went out from the pavilion, and mounting his horse rode away bearing that precious chalice with him. [Sidenote: Percival berates Sir Kay] Then the Queen fell aweeping very sorely from fright and shame, and when young Percival beheld her tears, he could not abide the sight thereof. So he cried out aloud against Sir Kay, saying: "Thou tall man! that was very ill done of thee; for, certes, with or without armor thou shouldst have taken the quarrel of this lady upon thee. For my mother told me I should take upon me the defence of all such as needed defence, but she did not say that I was to wait for arms or armor to aid me to do what was right. Now, therefore, though I know little of arms or of knighthood, I will take this quarrel upon myself and will do what I may to avenge this lady's affront, if I have her leave to do so." And Queen Guinevere said: "Thou hast my leave, since Sir Kay does not choose to assume my quarrel." [Sidenote: The damsel praises Percival] Now there was a certain very beautiful young damsel of the court of the Queen hight Yelande, surnamed the "Dumb Maiden," because she would hold no commerce with any knight of the court. For in all the year she had been at the court of the King, she had spoken no word to any man, nor had she smiled upon any. This damsel perceiving how comely and noble was the countenance of Percival, came to him and took him by the hand and smiled upon him very kindly. And she said to him: "Fair youth, thou hast a large and noble heart, and I feel very well assured that thou art of a sort altogether different from what thine appearance would lead one to suppose. Now I do affirm that if thou art able to carry this adventure through with thy life, thou wilt some time become one of the greatest knights in all of the world. For never did I hear tell of one who, without arm or armor, would take up a quarrel with a well-approved knight clad in full array. But indeed thy heart is as brave as thy face is comely, and I believe that thou art as noble as thy speech and manner is gentle." [Sidenote: Sir Kay strikes the damsel] Then Sir Kay was very angry with that damsel and he said: "Truly, thou art ill taught to remain for all this year in the court of King Arthur amid the perfect flower of chivalry and yet not to have given to one of those noble and honorable knights a single word or a smile such as thou hast bestowed upon this boor." So saying, he lifted his hand and smote that damsel a box on the ear so that she screamed out aloud with pain and terror. Upon this Percival came very close to Sir Kay and he said: "Thou discourteous tall man; now I tell thee, except that there are so many ladies here present, and one of these a Queen, I would have to do with thee in such a manner as I do not believe would be at all to thy liking. Now, first of all I shall follow yonder uncivil knight and endeavor to avenge this noble Queen for the affront he hath put upon her, and when I have done with him, then will I hope for the time to come in which I shall have to do with thee for laying hands upon this beautiful young lady who was so kind to me just now. For, in the fulness of time, I will repay the foul blow thou gavest her, and that twenty-fold." Thereupon Percival straightway went out from that pavilion and mounted upon his sorry horse and rode away in the direction that Sir Boindegardus had taken with the golden goblet. [Sidenote: Percival follows Sir Boindegardus] Now after a long time, he came to another level meadow of grass, and there he beheld Sir Boindegardus riding before him in great state with the golden goblet hanging to the horn of his saddle. And Sir Boindegardus wore his helmet and carried his spear in his right hand and his shield upon his other arm, and he was in all ways prepared for an encounter at arms. And when he perceived Percival come riding out of the forest in pursuit of him, he drew rein and turned. And when Percival had come nigh enough Sir Boindegardus said, "Whence comest thou, fool?" Percival replied, "I come from Queen Guinevere, her pavilion." Then Sir Boindegardus said, "Does that knight who was there follow me hitherward?" Unto which Percival made reply: "Nay, but I have followed thee with intent to punish thee for the affront which thou didst put upon Queen Guinevere." Then Sir Boindegardus was very wroth and he said: "Thou fool; I have a very good intention for to slay thee." Therewith he raised his spear and smote Percival with it upon the back of the neck so terrible a blow that he was flung violently down from off his horse. Upon this Percival was so angry that the sky all became like scarlet before his eyes. Wherefore, when he had recovered from the blow he ran unto Sir Boindegardus and catched the spear in his hands and wrestled with such terrible strength that he plucked it away from Sir Boindegardus. And having thus made himself master of that spear, he brake it across his knee and flung it away. [Sidenote: Percival slays Sir Boindegardus] Then Sir Boindegardus was in furious rage, wherefore he drew his bright, shining sword with intent to slay Percival. But when Percival saw what he would be at, he catched up his javelin and, running to a little distance, he turned and threw it at Sir Boindegardus with so cunning an aim that the point of the javelin entered the ocularium of the helmet of Sir Boindegardus and pierced through the eye and the brain and came out of the back of the head. Then Sir Boindegardus pitched down from off his horse all into a heap upon the ground, and Percival ran to him and stooped over him and perceived that he was dead. Then Percival said: "Well, it would seem that I have put an end to a terribly discourteous knight to ladies." [Sidenote: King Arthur sends Sir Launcelot and Sir Lamorack in quest of Percival] Now a little after Percival had quitted the pavilion of Queen Guinevere, King Arthur and eleven noble knights of the court returned thither from hawking, and amongst those knights was Sir Launcelot of the Lake and Sir Lamorack of Gales. Then those who were of the Queen's court told King Arthur what had befallen, and thereat the King felt great displeasure toward Sir Kay. And he said: "Kay, not only hast thou been very discourteous in not assuming this quarrel of the Queen's, but I believe that thou, a well-approved knight, hast in thy fear of Sir Boindegardus been the cause of sending this youth upon an adventure in which he will be subject to such great danger that it may very well be that he shall hardly escape with his life. Now I will that two of you knights shall follow after that youth for to rescue him if it be not too late; and those two shall be Sir Launcelot of the Lake and Sir Lamorack of Gales. So make all haste, Messires, lest some misfortune shall befall this brave, innocent madman." Thereupon those two knights mounted straightway upon their horses and rode away in that direction whither Percival had gone. [Illustration: Sir Percival & Sir Lamorack ride together] Chapter Second _How Sir Percival was made knight by King Arthur; how he rode forth with Sir Lamorack and how he left Sir Lamorack in quest of adventure upon his own account; likewise how a great knight taught him craft in arms_. So after a considerable time they came to that meadow-land where Percival had found Sir Boindegardus. [Sidenote: How the two knights find Percival in the meadow] But when they came to that place they perceived a very strange sight. For they beheld one clad all in armor of wattled willow-twigs and that one dragged the body of an armed knight hither and thither upon the ground. So they two rode up to where that affair was toward, and when they had come nigh enough, Sir Launcelot said: "Ha, fair youth, thou art doing a very strange thing. What art thou about?" To him Percival said: "Sir, I would get those plates of armor off this knight, and I know not how to do it!" Then Sir Launcelot laughed, and he said: "Let be for a little while, and I will show thee how to get the plates of armor off." And he said: "How came this knight by his death." Percival said: "Sir, this knight hath greatly insulted Queen Guinevere (that beautiful lady), and when I followed him thither with intent to take her quarrel upon me, he struck me with his spear. And when I took his spear away from him, and brake it across my knee, he drew his sword and would have slain me, only that I slew him instead." Then Sir Launcelot was filled with amazement, and he said: "Is not that knight Sir Boindegardus?" And Percival said: "Ay." Then Sir Launcelot said: "Fair youth, know that thou hast slain one of the strongest and most terrible knights in all the world. In this thou hast done a great service unto King Arthur, so if thou wilt come with us to the court of King Arthur, he will doubtless reward thee very bountifully for what thou hast done." Then Percival looked up into the faces of Sir Launcelot and Sir Lamorack and he perceived that they were very noble. So he smiled upon them and said: "Messires, I pray you tell me who you are and what is your degree." Then Sir Launcelot smiled in return and said: "I am called Sir Launcelot of the Lake, and this, my companion, is called Sir Lamorack of Gales." [Sidenote: Percival knoweth Sir Lamorack] Then Percival wist that he stood in the presence of his own brother, and he looked into the countenance of Sir Lamorack and marvelled how noble and exalted it was. And he felt a great passion of love for Sir Lamorack, and a great joy in that love. But he did not tell Sir Lamorack who he was, for he had learned several things since he had come out into the world, and one was that he must not be too hasty in such things. So he said to himself: "I will not as yet tell my brother who I am, lest he shall be ashamed of me. But first I shall win me such credit that he shall not be ashamed of me, and then I will acknowledge to him who I am." Then Sir Launcelot said: "I prithee, fair youth, tell me what is thy name since I have told thee ours, for I find that I have great love for thee so that I would fain know who thou art." Then Percival said: "My name is Percival." At that Sir Lamorack cried out: "I knew one whose name was Percival, and he was mine own brother. And if he be alive he must now be just such a youth as thou art." Then Percival's heart yearned toward Sir Lamorack, so that he looked up and smiled with great love into his face; yet he would not acknowledge to Sir Lamorack who he was, but held his peace for that while. Then Sir Launcelot said: "Now, fair youth, we will show you how to take the armor off of this dead knight, and after we have done that, we shall take you back to King Arthur, so that he may reward you for what you have done in the way that he may deem best." [Sidenote: The two knights arm Percival] So with that Sir Launcelot and Sir Lamorack dismounted from their horses, and they went to that dead knight and unlaced his armor and removed the armor from his body. And when they had done that they aided Percival to remove the armor of wattled osier twigs and they cased him in the armor of Sir Boindegardus; and thereafter they all three rode back to that pavilion where the King and Queen were holding court. But when King Arthur heard that Sir Boindegardus was dead he was filled with great joy; and when he heard how it was that Percival had slain him, he was amazed beyond measure; and he said to Percival: "Surely God is with thee, fair youth, to help thee to perform such a worthy feat of arms as this that thou hast done, for no knight yet hath been able to perform that service." Then he said: "Tell me what it is that thou hast most desire to have, and if it is in my power to give it to thee thou shalt have it." Then Percival kneeled down before King Arthur, and he said: "Lord, that which I most desire of all things else is to be made knight. So if it is in thy power to do so, I pray thee to make me a knight-royal with thine own hands." Then King Arthur smiled upon Percival very kindly, and he said: "Percival, it shall be as thou dost desire, and to-morrow I will make thee a knight." [Sidenote: King Arthur makes Percival a knight-royal] So that night Percival watched his armor in the chapel of a hermit of the forest, and the armor that he watched was the armor that had belonged to Sir Boindegardus (for Percival besought King Arthur that he might wear that armor for his own because it was what he himself had won in battle). And when the next morning had come, Sir Launcelot and Sir Lamorack brought Percival before King Arthur, and King Arthur made him a knight. After that Sir Percival besought King Arthur that he would give him leave to depart from court so that he might do some worthy deed of arms that might win him worship; and King Arthur gave him that leave he asked for. [Sidenote: Sir Percival threatens Sir Kay] Then Sir Percival went to where Sir Kay was sitting, and he said: "Messire, I have not forgot that blow you gave that fair damsel yesterday when she spake so kindly to me. As yet I am too young a knight to handle you; but by and by the time will come when I shall return and repay you that blow tenfold and twentyfold what you gave!" And at these words Sir Kay was in no wise pleased, for he wist that Sir Percival would one day become a very strong and worthy knight. Now all this while the heart of Sir Lamorack yearned very greatly toward Sir Percival, though Sir Lamorack knew not why that should be; so when Sir Percival had obtained permission to go errant, Sir Lamorack asked King Arthur for leave to ride forth so as to be with him; and King Arthur gave Sir Lamorack that leave. [Sidenote: Sir Percival and Sir Lamorack ride together] Thus it befell that Sir Lamorack and Sir Percival rode forth together very lovingly and cheerfully. And as they rode upon their way Sir Lamorack told Sir Percival many things concerning the circumstances of knighthood, and to all that he said Sir Percival gave great heed. But Sir Lamorack knew not that he was riding with his own brother or that it was his own brother to whom he was teaching the mysteries of chivalry, and Sir Percival told him nothing thereof. But ever in his heart Sir Percival said to himself: "If God will give me enough of His grace, I will some day do full credit unto thy teaching, O my brother!" Now, after Sir Percival and Sir Lamorack had travelled a great way, they came at last out of that forest and to an open country where was a well-tilled land and a wide, smooth river flowing down a level plain. And in the centre of that plain was a town of considerable size, and a very large castle with several tall towers and many roofs and chimneys that stood overlooking the town. That time they came thitherward the day was declining toward its close, so that all the sky toward the westward shone, like, as it were, to a flame of gold--exceedingly beautiful. And the highway upon which they entered was very broad and smooth, like to a floor for smoothness. And there were all sorts of folk passing along that highway; some afoot and some ahorseback. Also there was a river path beside the river where the horses dragged deep-laden barges down to the town and thence again; and these barges were all painted in bright colors, and the horses were bedight with gay harness and hung with tinkling bells. All these things Sir Percival beheld with wonder for he had never seen their like before; wherefore he cried out with amazement, saying: "Saints of Glory! How great and wonderful is the world!" Then Sir Lamorack looked upon him and smiled with great loving-kindness; and he said: "Ha, Percival! This is so small a part of the world that it is but a patch upon it." Unto this Sir Percival made reply: "Dear Messire, I am so glad that I have come forth into the world that I am hardly able to know whether I am in a vision or am awake." So, after a considerable while, they came to that town with its castle, and these stood close beside the river--and the town and the castle were hight Cardennan. And the town was of great consideration, being very well famed for its dyed woollen fabrics. [Sidenote: Sir Percival and Sir Lamorack come to Cardennan] So Sir Percival and Sir Lamorack entered the town. And when Sir Percival beheld all the people in the streets, coming and going upon their businesses; and when he beheld all the gay colors and apparels of fine fabrics that the people wore; and when he beheld the many booths filled with rich wares of divers sorts, he wist not what to think for the wonder that possessed him; wherefore he cried out aloud, as with great passion: "What marvel do I behold! I knew not that a city could be so great as this." And again Sir Lamorack smiled very kindly upon him and said: "Sayst thou so? Now I tell thee that when one compares this place with Camelot (which is the King's city) it is as a star compared to the full moon in her glory." And at that Sir Percival knew not what to think for wonder. So they went up the street of the town until they came to the castle of Cardennan and there requested admission. And when the name and the estate of Sir Lamorack were declared, the porter opened the gate with great joy and they entered. Then, by and by, the lord and the lady of the castle came down from a carved wooden gallery and bade them welcome by word of mouth. And after that sundry attendants immediately appeared and assisted Sir Percival and Sir Lamorack to dismount and took their horses to the stable, and sundry other attendants conducted them to certain apartments where they were eased of their armor and bathed in baths of tepid water and given soft raiment for to wear. After that the lord and the lady entertained them with a great feast, where harpers and singers made music, and where certain actors acted a mystery before them. [Sidenote: How the two knights were welcomed by the lord and lady of the castle] So these two knights and the lord and the lady of the castle ate together and discoursed very pleasantly for a while; but, when the evening was pretty well gone, Sir Lamorack bade good-night, and he and Sir Percival were conducted to a certain very noble apartment where beds of down, spread with flame-colored cloth, had been prepared for their repose. Thus ended that day which was the first day of the knighthood of Sir Percival of Gales. Now though Sir Percival had travelled very contentedly with Sir Lamorack for all that while, yet he had determined in his own mind that, as soon as possible, he would leave Sir Lamorack and depart upon his own quest. For he said to himself: "Lo! I am a very green knight as yet, and haply my brother may grow weary of my company and cease to love me. So I will leave him ere he have the chance to tire of me, and I will seek knighthood for myself. After that, if God wills it that I shall win worthy knighthood, then my brother will be glad enough to acknowledge me as his father's son." So when the next morning had come, Sir Percival arose very softly all in the dawning, and he put on his armor without disturbing Sir Lamorack. Then he stooped and looked into Sir Lamorack's face and beheld that his brother was still enfolded in a deep sleep as in a soft mantle. And as Sir Percival gazed upon Sir Lamorack thus asleep, he loved him with such ardor that he could hardly bear the strength of his love. But he said to himself: "Sleep on, my brother, whilst I go away and leave thee. But when I have earned me great glory, then will I return unto thee and will lay all that I have achieved at thy feet, so that thou shalt be very glad to acknowledge me." So saying to himself, he went away from that place very softly, and Sir Lamorack slept so deeply that he wist not that Sir Percival was gone. [Sidenote: Sir Percival leaves Sir Lamorack] Thereafter Sir Percival went to the courtyard of the castle and he bade certain attendants to prepare his horse for him, and they did so. And he bade certain others for to arm him, and they did so. Thereupon he mounted his horse and left that castle and rode away. Now after Sir Percival had left Sir Lamorack still sleeping in the castle as aforetold, he journeyed upon his way, taking great pleasure in all things that he beheld. So he travelled all that morning, and the day was very bright and warm, so that by and by he was an-hungered and athirst. So after a while he came to a certain road that appeared to him to be good for his purpose, so he took that way in great hopes that some adventure would befall him, or else that he would find food and drink. Then after a while he heard a bell ringing, and after he had followed that bell for some distance, he came to where was the dwelling-place of a hermit and where was a small chapel by the wayside. And Sir Percival beheld that the hermit, who was an old man with a long white beard, rang the bell of that chapel. [Sidenote: Sir Percival meets his fate at the forest chapel] So Sir Percival thought that here he might find food and drink; and so he rode forward to where the hermit was ringing the bell. But when Sir Percival came still more nigh he perceived that behind the chapel and to one side there was a very noble knight upon horseback; and he perceived that the knight was clad all in white armor and that his horse (which was white as milk and of very noble strength and proportions) was furnished altogether with furniture of white. This knight, when he perceived Sir Percival, immediately rode up to meet him and saluted Sir Percival very courteously. And the knight said: "Sir, will you not joust a fall with me ere you break your fast? For this is a very fair and level field of green grass and well fitted for such a friendly trial at arms if you have the time for it." Unto this Sir Percival said: "Messire, I will gladly try a fall with you, though I must tell you that I am a very young green knight, having been knighted only yesterday by King Arthur himself. But though I am unskilled in arms, yet it will pleasure me a great deal to accept so gentle and courteous a challenge as that which you give me." [Sidenote: Sir Percival is overthrown by the white knight] So with that each knight turned his horse and each took such stand as appeared to him to be best. And when they were in all ways prepared, they drave their horses together with great speed, the one against the other, meeting one another, shield against spear, in the very midst of the course. In that encounter (which was the first that he ever ran) Sir Percival bare himself very well and with great knightliness of endeavor; for he broke his spear upon the white knight into small pieces. But the spear of the white knight held so that Sir Percival was lifted out of his saddle and over the crupper of his horse, and fell upon the ground with great violence and a cloud of dust. Then the white knight returned from his course and came up to where Sir Percival was. And he inquired of him very courteously: "Sir, art thou hurt?" Thereunto Sir Percival replied: "Nay, sir! I am not hurt, only somewhat shaken by my fall.'" Then the white knight dismounted from his horse and came to where Sir Percival was. And he lifted up the umbril of his helmet, and Sir Percival perceived that that white knight was Sir Launcelot of the Lake. And Sir Launcelot said: "Percival, I well knew who you were from the first, but I thought I would see of what mettle you are, and I have found that you are of very good mettle indeed. But you are to know that it is impossible for a young knight such as you, who knoweth naught of the use of knightly weapons, to have to do with a knight well-seasoned in arms as I am, and to have any hope of success in such an encounter. Wherefore you need to be taught the craft of using your weapons perfectly." To this Sir Percival said: "Messire, tell me, how may I hope to acquire craft at arms such as may serve me in such a stead as this?" Sir Launcelot said: "I myself will teach thee, imparting to thee such skill as I have at my command. Less than half a day's journey to the southward of this is my castle of Joyous Gard. Thither I was upon my way when I met thee here. Now thou shalt go with me unto Joyous Gard, and there thou shalt abide until thou art in all ways taught the use of arms so that thou mayst uphold that knighthood which I believe God hath endowed thee withal." So after that Sir Launcelot and Sir Percival went to the dwelling-place of the hermit, and the hermit fed them with the best of that simple fare which he had at his command. [Sidenote: How Sir Percival dwelt at Joyous Gard] After that, they mounted horse again and rode away to Joyous Gard, and there Sir Percival abided for a year, training himself in all wise so as to prepare himself to uphold that knighthood which in him became so famous. For, during that year Sir Launcelot was his teacher in the art of arms. Likewise he instructed him in all the civilities and the customs of chivalry, so it befell that ere Sir Percival came forth from Joyous Gard again he was well acquainted with all the ways in which he should comport himself at any time, whether in field or in court. So when Sir Percival came forth again from Joyous Gard, there was no knight, unless it was Sir Launcelot himself, who could surpass him in skill at arms; nay, not even his own brother, Sir Lamorack; nor was there anybody, even if one were Sir Gawaine or Sir Geraint, who surpassed him in civility of courtliness or nobility of demeanor. And now I shall tell you of the great adventure that befell Sir Percival after Sir Launcelot had thus taught him at Joyous Gard. [Illustration: Sir Percival overcometh ye Enchantress Vivien] Chapter Third _How Sir Percival met two strange people in the forest, and how he succored a knight who was in very great sorrow and dole._ Now after Sir Percival had left Joyous Gard he rode for several days seeking adventure but meeting none. Then one day he came to a very dark and wonderful forest which appeared to be so silent and lonely and yet so full of beauty that Sir Percival bethought him that this must surely be some forest of magic. So he entered into that forest with intent to discover if he might find any worthy adventure therein. [Sidenote: Sir Percival enters the Forest of Arroy] (And that forest was a forest of magic; for you are to know that it was the Forest of Arroy, sometimes called the Forest of Adventure, which was several times spoken of in the book of King Arthur. For no one ever entered into that forest but some singular adventure befell him.) So Sir Percival rode through this wonderful woodland for a long time very greatly wondering, for everywhere about him was perfect silence, with not so much as a single note of a bird of the woodlands to lighten that stillness. Now, as Sir Percival rode through that silence, he presently became aware of the sound of voices talking together, and shortly thereafter he perceived a knight with a lady riding amid the thin trees that grew there. And the knight rode upon a great white horse, and the lady rode upon a red roan palfrey. [Sidenote: Sir Percival meets two strange people] These, when they beheld Sir Percival, waited for him, and as Sir Percival drew nigh to them he perceived that they were of a very singular appearance. For both of them were clad altogether in green, and both of them wore about their necks very wonderful collars of wrought gold inset with opal stones and emeralds. And the face of each was like clear wax for whiteness; and the eyes of each were very bright, like jewels set in ivory. And these two neither laughed nor frowned, but only smiled continually. And that knight whom Sir Percival beheld was Sir Pellias, and the lady was the Lady Nymue of the Lake. Now when Sir Percival beheld these two, he wist that they were fay, wherefore he dismounted very quickly, and kneeled down upon the ground and set his palms together. Then the Lady of the Lake smiled very kindly upon Sir Percival, and she said: "Sir Percival, arise, and tell me what you do in these parts?" Then Sir Percival arose and he stood before that knight and lady, and he said: "Lady, I wist not how you know who I am, but I believe you are fay and know many things. Touching my purpose in coming here, it is that I am in search of adventure. So if you know of any that I may undertake for your sake, I pray you to tell me of it." The lady said: "If so be thy desire is of that sort, I may, perchance be able to bring thee unto an adventure that is worthy for any knight to undertake. Go a little distance from this upon the way thou art following and by and by thou wilt behold a bird whose feathers shall shine like to gold for brightness. Follow that bird and it will bring thee to a place where thou shalt find a knight in sore need of thy aid." And Percival said: "I will do as thou dost advise." [Sidenote: The Lady of the Lake giveth Sir Percival a charm] Then the lady said: "Wait a little, I have something for thee." Therewith she took from her neck a small golden amulet pendant from a silken cord very fine and thin. And she said: "Wear this for it will protect thee from all evil enchantments." Therewith saying, she hung the amulet about the neck of Sir Percival, and Sir Percival gave her thanks beyond measure for it. Then the knight and the lady saluted him and he saluted them, and they each went their separate ways. [Sidenote: How Percival followed the golden bird] So Sir Percival travelled that path for some distance as the lady had advised him to do, and by and by he beheld the bird of which she had spoken. And he saw that the plumage of the bird glistered as though it was of gold so that he marvelled at it. And as he drew nigh the bird flew a little distance down the path and then lit upon the ground and he followed it. And when he had come nigh to it again it flew a distance farther and still he followed it. So it flew and he followed for a very great way until by and by the forest grew thin and Sir Percival beheld that there was an open country lying beyond the skirts thereof. And when the bird had brought him thus far it suddenly flew back into the forest again whence it had come, chirping very keenly and shrilly as it flew. [Sidenote: Sir Percival beholds a wonderful castle] So Percival came out of the forest into the open country, the like of which he had never before seen, for it was a very desolate barren waste of land. And in the midst of this desolate plain there stood a castle of a very wonderful appearance; for in some parts it was the color of ultramarine and in other parts it was of crimson; and the ultramarine and the crimson were embellished with very extraordinary devices painted in gold. So because of all those extraordinary colors, that castle shone like a bright rainbow against the sky, wherefore Sir Percival sat his horse for some while and marvelled very greatly thereat. Then, by and by Sir Percival perceived that the road that led to the castle crossed a bridge of stone, and when he looked at the bridge he saw that midway upon it was a pillar of stone and that a knight clad all in full armor stood chained with iron chains to that stone pillar, and at that sight Sir Percival was very greatly astonished. So he rode very rapidly along that way and so to the bridge and upon the bridge to where the knight was. And when Sir Percival came thus upon the bridge he perceived that the knight who was bound with chains was very noble and haughty of appearance, but that he seemed to be in great pain and suffering because of his being thus bound to that pillar. For the captive knight made continual moan so that it moved the heart of Sir Percival to hear him. So Sir Percival said: "Sir Knight, this is a sorrowful condition thou art in." And the knight said: "Yea, and I am sorrowful; for I have stood here now for three days and I am in great torment of mind and body." Sir Percival said, "Maybe I can aid thee," and thereupon he got down from off his horse's back and approached the knight. And he drew his sword so that it flashed in the sun very brightly. Upon this the knight said: "Messire, what would you be at?" And Sir Percival said: "I would cut the chains that bind thee." To this the knight said: "How could you do that? For who could cut through chains of iron such as these?" But Sir Percival said: "I will try what I may do." [Sidenote: Sir Percival sets free the captive knight] Thereupon he lifted up his sword and smote so terribly powerful a blow that the like of it had hardly ever been seen before. For that blow cut through the iron chains and smote the hauberk of the knight so smart a buffet that he fell down to the ground altogether deprived of breath. But when Sir Percival saw the knight fall down in that wise, he cried out: "Woe is me! Have I slain this good, gentle knight when I would but do him service?" Thereupon he lifted the knight up upon his knee and eased the armor about his throat. But the knight was not dead, and by and by the breath came back to him again, and he said: "By my faith, that was the most wonderful stroke that ever I beheld any man strike in all of my life." Thereafter, when the knight had sufficiently recovered, Sir Percival helped him to stand upon his feet; and when he stood thus his strength presently came back to him again in great measure. And the knight was athirst and craved very vehemently to drink. So Sir Percival helped him to descend a narrow path that led to a stream of water that flowed beneath the bridge; and there the knight stooped and slaked his thirst. And when he had drunk his fill, his strength came altogether back to him again, and he said: "Messire, I have to give thee all thanks that it is possible for me to do, for hadst thou not come unto mine aid, I would else have perished very miserably and at no very distant time from this." Then Sir Percival said: "I beseech you, Messire, to tell me how you came into that sad plight in which I found you." [Sidenote: The knight telleth his story] To this the knight said: "I will tell you; it was thus: Two days ago I came thitherward and past yonder castle, and with me were two excellent esquires--for I am a knight of royal blood. Now as we went past that castle there came forth a lady clad all in red and so exceedingly beautiful that she entirely enchanted my heart. And with this lady there came a number of esquires and pages, all of them very beautiful of face, and all clad, as she was, in red. Now when this lady had come nigh to me she spoke me very fair and tempted me with kind words so that I thought I had never fallen upon anyone so courteous as she. But when she had come real close to me, she smote me of a sudden across the shoulders with an ebony staff that she carried in her hand, and at the same time she cried out certain words that I remember not. For immediately a great darkness like to a deep swoon fell upon me and I knew nothing. And when I awakened from that swoon lo! I found myself here, chained fast to this stone pillar. And hadst thou not come hither I would else certainly have died in my torment. And as to what hath become of my esquires, I know not; but as for that lady, methinks she can be none other than a certain enchantress, hight Vivien, who hath wrought such powerful spells upon Merlin as to have removed him from the eyes of all mankind." Unto all this Sir Percival listened in great wonder, and when the knight had ended his tale he said: "What is thy name?" And the knight said: "My name is Percydes and I am the son of King Pecheur--so called because he is the king of all the fisher-folk who dwell upon the West coast. And now I prithee tell me also thy name and condition, for I find I love thee a very great deal." And Sir Percival said: "My name is Percival, but I may not at this present tell thee my condition and of whom I am born; for that I must keep secret until I have won me good credit as a knight. But now I have somewhat to do, and that is to deal with this lady Vivien as she shall deserve." Upon that Sir Percydes cried out: "Go not near to that sorceress, else she will do some great harm to thee with her potent spells as she did to me." But Sir Percival said: "I have no fear of her." So Sir Percival arose and crossed the bridge and went toward that wonderful enchanted castle; and Sir Percydes would have gone with him, but Sir Percival said: "Stay where thou art." And so Sir Percydes stayed and Sir Percival went forward alone. [Sidenote: The Lady Vivien cometh forth to Sir Percival] Now as he drew nigh to the castle the gate thereof was opened, and there came forth thence an extraordinarily beautiful lady surrounded by a court of esquires and pages all very beautiful of countenance. And this lady and all of her court were clad in red so that they shone like to several flames of fire. And the lady's hair was as red as gold, and she wore gold ornaments about her neck so that she glistered exceedingly and was very wonderful to behold. And her eyebrows were very black and fine and were joined in the middle like two fine lines drawn together with a pencil, and her eyes were narrow and black, shining like those of a snake. Then when Sir Percival beheld this lady how singularly beautiful she was he was altogether enchanted so that he could not forbear to approach her. And, lo! she stood still and smiled upon him so that his heart stirred within his bosom like as though it pulled at the strings that held it. Then she said to Sir Percival, speaking in a very sweet and gentle voice: "Sir Knight, thou art welcome to this place. It would pleasure us very greatly if thou wouldst consider this castle as though it were thine own and would abide within it with me for a while." Therewith speaking she smiled again upon Sir Percival more cunningly than before and reached out her hand toward him. Then Sir Percival came toward her with intent to take her hand, she smiling upon him all the while so that he could not do otherwise than as she willed. Now in the other hand this lady held an ebony staff of about an ell in length, and when Sir Percival had come close enough to her, she lifted this staff of a sudden and smote him with it very violently across the shoulders, crying out at the same time, in a voice terribly piercing and shrill: "Be thou a stone!" Then that charm that the Lady of the Lake had hung around the neck of Sir Percival stood him in good stead, for, excepting for it, he would that instant have been transformed into a stone. But the charm of the sorceress did not work upon him, being prevented by the greater charm of that golden amulet. [Sidenote: Sir Percival draweth sword upon the Lady Vivien] But Sir Percival knew very well what the sorceress Vivien had intended to do to him, and he was filled with a great rage of indignation against her because she had meant to transform him into a stone. Therefore he cried out with a loud voice and seized the enchantress by her long golden hair, and drew her so violently forward that she fell down upon her knees. Then he drew his shining sword with intent to sever her long neck, so slender and white like alabaster. But the lady shrieked with great vehemence of terror and besought him mercy. And at that Sir Percival's heart grew soft for pity, for he bethought him that she was a woman and he beheld how smooth and beautiful was her neck, and how her skin was like white satin for smoothness. So when he heard her voice--the voice of a woman beseeching mercy--his heart grew soft, and he could not find strength within him to strike that neck apart with his sword. So he bade her to arise--though he still held her by the hair (all warm, it was, and as soft as silk and very fragrant) and the lady stood up, trembling before him. Then Sir Percival said to her: "If thou wouldst have thy life I command thee to transform back to their own shape all those people whom thou hast bewitched as thou wouldst have bewitched me." Then the lady said: "It shall be done." Whereupon she smote her hands very violently together crying out: "All ye who have lost your proper shapes, return thereunto." [Sidenote: The Lady Vivien undoes her enchantment] Then, lo! upon the instant, a great multitude of round stones that lay scattered about became quick, like to eggs; and they moved and stirred as the life entered into them. And they melted away and, behold! there arose up a great many knights and esquires and several ladies to the number of four score and eight in all. And certain other stones became quickened in like manner, and as Percival looked, lo! there rose up the horses of those people, all caparisoned as though for travel. Now when those people who had been thus bewitched beheld the Lady Vivien, how Sir Percival held her by the hair of her head, they made great outcry against her for vengeance, saying: "Slay her! Slay her!" And therewith several made at her as though to do as they said and to slay her. But Percival waved his sword before her and said: "Not so! Not so! For this lady is my prisoner and we shall not harm her unless ye come at her through me." Thereat they fell silent in a little while, and when he had thus stilled them, he turned to the Lady Vivien and said: "This is my command that I lay upon thee: that thou shalt go into the court of King Arthur and shalt confess thyself to him and that thou shalt fulfil whatever penance he may lay upon thee to perform because of thy transgressions. Now wilt thou do this for to save thy life?" And the Lady Vivien made reply: "All shall be done according to thy command." Therewith Sir Percival released his hold upon her and she was free. Then, finding herself to be thus free, she stepped back a pace or two and looked into Sir Percival his face, and she laughed. And she said: "Thou fool, didst thou think that I would do so mad a thing as that which thou hast made me promise? For what mercy could I expect at the hands of King Arthur seeing that it was I who destroyed the Enchanter Merlin, who was the right adviser of King Arthur! Go to King Arthur thyself and deliver to him thine own messages." [Sidenote: The Lady Vivien escapes] So saying, in an instant, she vanished from the sight of all those who stood there. And with her vanished that castle of crimson and ultramarine and gold--and nothing was left but the bare rocks and the barren plain. Then when those who were there recovered from their astonishment, upon beholding that great castle so suddenly disappear, they turned to Sir Percival and gave him worship and thanks without measure, saying to him: "What shall we do in return for saving us from the enchantment of this sorceress?" And Percival said: "Ye shall do this: ye shall go to the court of King Arthur and tell him how that young knight, Percival, whom he made a knight a year ago, hath liberated you from the enchantment of this sorceress. And you shall seek out Sir Kay and shall say to him that, by and by, I shall return and repay him in full measure, twenty times over, that blow which he gave to the damosel Yelande, the Dumb Maiden because of her kindness to me." So said Sir Percival, and they said: "It shall be done as thou dost ordain." Then Sir Percydes said: "Wilt thou not come to my castle and rest thyself there for the night? For thou must be aweary with all thy toil." And Sir Percival said, "I will go with thee." So Sir Percydes and Sir Percival rode away together to the castle of Sir Percydes. [Sidenote: Sir Percydes knoweth the ring that Percival wears] Now while Sir Percival and Sir Percydes sat at supper in the castle of Sir Percydes, Sir Percival chanced to lay his hand in love upon the sleeve of Sir Percydes's arm, and that moment Sir Percydes saw the ring upon Sir Percival's finger which the young damosel of the pavilion had given unto him in exchange for his ring. When Sir Percydes saw that ring he cried out in great astonishment, "Where didst thou get that ring?" Sir Percival said, "I will tell thee"; and therewith he told Sir Percydes all that had befallen him when he first came down into the world from the wilderness where he had aforetime dwelt, and how he had entered the yellow pavilion and had discovered the damosel who was now his chosen lady. When Sir Percydes heard that story he laughed in great measure, and then he said: "But how wilt thou find that young damosel again when thou hast a mind for to go to her once more?" To the which Sir Percival made reply: "I know not how I shall find her, nevertheless, I shall assuredly do so. For though the world is much wider and greater than I had thought it to be when I first came down into it, yet I know that I shall find that lady when the fit time cometh for me to seek her." Then Sir Percydes said: "Dear friend, when thou desireth to find that damosel to whom belongeth the ring, come thou to me and I will tell thee where thou mayst find her; yet I know not why thou dost not go and find her now." Unto this Sir Percival made reply: "I do not seek her immediately because I am yet so young and so unknown to the world that I could not be of any credit to her should I find her; so first I will seek to obtain credit as a knight, and then I will seek her." Sir Percydes said: "Well, Percival, I think thou hast great promise of a very wonderful knighthood. Nor do I think thou wilt have difficulty in finding plenty of adventures to undertake. For even to-day I know of an adventure, which if thou couldst perform it successfully, would bring thee such worship that there are very few knights in all the world who will have more worship than thou." Then Sir Percival said: "I prithee, dear friend, tell me what is that adventure." Then Sir Percydes told Sir Percival what that adventure was as followeth: [Sidenote: Sir Percydes telleth Sir Percival of Beaurepaire] "Thou art to know," quoth he, "that somewhat more than a day's journey to the north of this there is a fair plain, very fertile and beautiful to the sight. In the midst of that plain is a small lake of water, and in that lake is an island, and upon the island is a tall castle of very noble size and proportions. That castle is called Beaurepaire, and the lady of that castle is thought to be one of the most beautiful damosels in the world. And the name of the lady is Lady Blanchefleur. "Now there is a very strong and powerful knight hight Sir Clamadius, otherwise known as the King of the Isles; and he is one of the most famous knights in the world. Sir Clamadius hath for a long while loved the Lady Blanchefleur with such a passion of love that I do not think that the like of that passion is to be found anywhere else in the world. But the Lady Blanchefleur hath no love for Sir Clamadius, but ever turneth away from him with a heart altogether cold of liking. "But Sir Clamadius is a wonderfully proud and haughty King, wherefore he can ill brook being scorned by any lady. Wherefore he hath now come against the castle of Beaurepaire with an array of knights of his court, and at present layeth siege to that castle aforesaid. "Now there is not at that castle any knight of sufficient worship to serve as champion thereof, wherefore all they of Beaurepaire stay within the castle walls and Sir Clamadius holds the meadows outside of the castle so that no one enters in or goeth out thereof. "If thou couldst liberate the Lady Blanchefleur from the duress which Sir Clamadius places upon her, I believe thou wouldst have as great credit in courts of chivalry as it is possible to have. For, since Sir Tristram is gone, Sir Clamadius is believed by many to be the best knight in the world, except Sir Launcelot of the Lake; unless it be that Sir Lamorack of Gales is a better knight than he." Then Sir Percival said: "What thou tellest me gives me great pleasure, for it would be a very good adventure for any young knight to undertake. For if he should lose there would be no shame in losing, and if he should win there would be great glory in winning. So to-morrow I will enter upon that adventure, with intent to discover what fortune I may have therein." So I have told you how Sir Percival performed his first adventures in the world of chivalry after he had perfected himself in the mysteries of knighthood under the teaching of Sir Launcelot of the Lake, and I have told you how he achieved that adventure with great credit to himself and with great glory to the order of knighthood to which he now truly belonged as a most worthy member. That night he abided in the castle of Sir Percydes with great comfort and rest to his body, and when the next morning had come he arose, much refreshed and strengthened in spirit. And he descended to the hall where was set a fair and generous breakfast for his further refreshment, and thereat he and Sir Percydes sat themselves down and ate with hearty appetite, discoursing with great amity of spirit as aforetold. After he had broken his fast he bade farewell to Sir Percydes and mounted his horse and rode away through the bright sunlight toward Beaurepaire and those further adventures that awaited him thereat. And, as it was with Sir Percival in that first adventure, so may you meet with a like success when you ride forth upon your first undertakings after you have entered into the glory of your knighthood, with your life lying before you and a whole world whereinto ye may freely enter to do your devoirs to the glory of God and your own honor. So now it shall be told how it fared with Sir Percival in that adventure of the Castle of Beaurepaire. [Illustration: The Demoiselle Blanchefleur] Chapter Fourth _How Sir Percival undertook the adventure of the castle of Beaurepaire and how he fared therein after several excellent adventures_. [Sidenote: Sir Percival breaks his fast at a forest cottage] Now the way that Sir Percival travelled led him by the outskirts of the forest, so that somewhiles he would be in the woodland and somewhiles he would be in the open country. And about noontide he came to a certain cottage of a neatherd that stood all alone in a very pleasant dale. That place a little brook came bickering out from the forest and ran down into the dale and spread out into a small lake, besides which daffadowndillys bloomed in such abundance that it appeared as though all that meadow land was scattered over with an incredible number of yellow stars that had fallen down from out of the sky. And, because of the pleasantness of this place, Sir Percival here dismounted from his horse and sat him down upon a little couch of moss under the shadow of an oak tree that grew nigh to the cottage, there to rest himself for a while with great pleasure. And as he sat there there came a barelegged lass from the cottage and brought him fresh milk to drink; and there came a good, comely housewife and brought him bread and cheese made of cream; and Sir Percival ate and drank with great appetite. Now whilst Sir Percival sat there resting and refreshing himself in that wise, there appeared of a sudden coming thitherward, a tall and noble knight riding upon a piebald war-horse of Norway strain. So when Sir Percival beheld that knight coming in that wise he quickly put on his helmet and mounted his horse and made him ready for defence in case the knight had a mind to assail him. [Sidenote: Sir Percival bespeaketh the strange knight] Meantime that knight came riding up with great haughtiness of bearing to where Sir Percival was, and when he had come nigh enough he bespake Sir Percival, saying: "Sir Knight, I pray you to tell me your name and whither you go, and upon what quest?" Unto this Sir Percival made reply: "Messire, I do not choose to tell you my name, for I am a young knight, very new to adventure, and I know not how I shall succeed in that quest which I have undertaken. So I will wait to try the success of that adventure before I tell my name. But though I may not tell my name I will tell you whither I go and upon what quest. I go for to find a certain castle called Beaurepaire, and I intend to endeavor to liberate the lady of that castle from the duress of a certain knight hight Sir Clamadius, who, I understand, holds her by siege within the walls thereof." Now, when Sir Percival had ceased speaking, the strange knight said: "Sir, this is a very singular thing: for that adventure of which you speak is the very adventure upon which I myself am bound. Now, as you say, you are a very young knight unused to arms, and as I am in the same degree a knight well seasoned in deeds of arms, it is more fitting that I should undertake this quest than you. For you may know how very well I am used to the service of arms when I tell you that I have had to do in four and twenty battles of various sorts; some of them friendly and some of them otherwise; and that I have had to do in more than four times that many affairs-at-arms with single knights, nearly all of them of great prowess. So now it would seem fitting that you should withdraw you from this affair and let me first essay it. Then, if I fail in my undertaking, you shall assume that adventure." "Messire," quoth Sir Percival, "I see that you are a knight of much greater experience than I; but, ne'ertheless, I cannot find it in my heart to forego this adventure. So what I have to propose is this: that you and I do combat here in this place, and that he who proveth himself to be the better of us twain shall carry out this undertaking that we are both set upon." Unto this, that strange knight lent a very willing assent, saying: "Very well, Messire, it shall be as you ask." [Sidenote: Sir Percival doeth battle with the strange knight] So with that each knight turned his horse and rode a little piece away; and each took such stand as pleased him; and each dressed his spear and shield and made him in all wise ready for the encounter. And when they had so prepared themselves, each knight shouted to his horse, and drave spur into its flank and rushed, the one against the other, with such terrible noise and violence that the sound thereof was echoed back from the woods like to a storm of thunder. So they met in the midst of the course with such a vehement impact that it was terrible to behold. And in that encounter the spear of each knight was burst all into fragments; and the horse of each fell back upon his haunches and would have been overthrown had not each knight voided his saddle with a very wonderful skill and agility. Then each knight drew sword and came the one against the other, as furiously as two rams at battle. So they fought for nigh the space of an hour, foining and striking, and tracing hither and tracing thither most furiously; and the noise of the blows they struck might have been heard several furlongs away. [Sidenote: Sir Percival overcometh the strange knight] During that battle Sir Percival received several sore wounds so that by and by a great passion of rage seized upon him. So he rushed the battle with might and main, and therewith struck so many furious blows that by and by that other knight held his shield very low for weariness. This Sir Percival perceived, and therewith he smote the other so furious a blow upon the head that the knight sank down upon his knees and could not arise. Then Sir Percival ran to him and catched him by the neck and flung him down violently upon the ground, crying out, "Yield or I slay thee!" Then that knight besought mercy in a very weak voice, saying: "Sir Knight, I beseech thee, spare my life!" Sir Percival said: "Well, I will spare thee, but tell me, what is thy name?" To this the other said: "I am Sir Lionel, and I am a knight of King Arthur's court and of the Round Table." [Sidenote: Sir Percival giveth aid to Sir Lionel] Now when Sir Percival heard this he cried out aloud, for he was very greatly grieved, and he said: "Al as, what have I done for to fight against thee in this wise! I am Sir Percival, whom thine own kinsman, Sir Launcelot of the Lake, hath trained in arms. But indeed, I did never think to use that art which he taught me against one so dear to his heart as thou art, Sir Lionel." So with that Sir Percival assisted Sir Lionel to arise to his feet, and Sir Lionel was so weak from that woeful battle that he could hardly stand. Now that stream and lake of water above spoken of was near by, so Sir Percival brought Sir Lionel thither, holding him up as he walked; and there Sir Lionel refreshed himself. Then, when he was revived a little, he turned his eyes very languidly upon Sir Percival, and he said: "Percival, thou hast done to me this day what few knights have ever done before. So all the glory that ever I have won is now thy glory because of this battle. For thou hast overcome me in a fair quarrel and I have yielded myself unto thee, wherefore it is now thy right to command me to thy will." Then Percival said: "Alas, dear Sir Knight! It is not meet that I should lay command upon such as thou art. But, if thou wilt do so, I beseech thee when thou art come to King Arthur's court that thou wilt tell the King that I, who am his young knight Percival, have borne myself not unbecomingly in my battle with thee. For this is the first battle, knight against knight, that I have undertaken in all of my life. And I beseech thee that thou wilt greet Sir Kay the Seneschal, from me, and that thou wilt say to him that by and by I shall meet him and repay him that buffet which he gave to the damsel Yelande, the Dumb Maiden, in the Queen's pavilion." Sir Lionel said: "It shall be as thou sayst, and I will do thy bidding. But, touching Sir Kay, I do not believe that he will take very much joy at thy message to him. For he will find small pleasure in the thought of the payment of that buffet that thou hast promised to give him." [Sidenote: Sir Percival goeth forward upon his adventure] Now, as the day by this time was waxing late, Sir Percival abided that night at that neatherd's hut nigh to which this battle had been fought and there had his wounds bathed and dressed; and when the next morning had come he arose early, and saddled his horse, and rode forward upon his way. And as he rode he was very well pleased at the thought of that battle he had fought with Sir Lionel, for he wist that he had obtained great credit to himself in that encounter, and he was aware, now that he had made trial of his strength against such a one as Sir Lionel, he must be one of the greatest knights of the world. So his heart was uplifted with great joy and delight at that thought; that he was now a well-approved knight-champion, worthy of his knighthood. Therefore he rode away for all that day, greatly rejoicing in spirit at the thought of what he had done the day before. About the first slant of the afternoon Sir Percival came at last out of the woodlands and into a wide-open plain, very fertile and well tilled, with fields of wheat and rye abounding on all sides. And he saw that in the midst of that plain there was a considerable lake, and that in the midst of that lake there was an island, and that upon the island there stood a fair noble castle, and he wist that that castle must be the castle of Beaurepaire. So he rode down into that valley with some speed. [Sidenote: Sir Percival perceives a red knight] Now after he had so ridden for a while, he was aware of a knight, very haughty of appearance and bearing, who rode before him upon the same way that he was going. And that knight was clad all in red armor, and he rode upon a horse so black that I believe there was not a single white hair upon him. And all the trappings and the furniture of that horse were of red, so that he presented a very noble appearance. So Sir Percival made haste to overtake that knight, and when he had come nigh he drew rein at a little distance. Thereupon that knight in red bespake Sir Percival very proudly, saying: "Sir Knight, whither ride you, and upon what mission?" "Messire," quoth Percival, "I ride toward yonder castle, which I take to be the castle of Beaurepaire, and I come hither with intent to succor the Lady Blanchefleur of that castle from a knight, hight Sir Clamadius, who keeps her there a prisoner against her will, so that it behooves any good knight to attempt her rescue." Upon this the red knight spake very fiercely, saying: "Messire, what business is that of yours? I would have you know that I am a knight of King Clamadius', wherefore I am able to say to you that you shall go no further upon that quest. For I am Sir Engeneron of Grandregarde, and I am Seneschal unto King Clamadius, and I will not have it that thou shalt go any farther upon this way unless you ride over me to go upon it." "Messire," quoth Sir Percival, "I have no quarrel with you, but if you have a mind to force a quarrel upon me, I will not seek to withdraw myself from an encounter with you. So make yourself ready, and I will make myself ready, and then we shall soon see whether or not I am to pass upon this way." [Sidenote: Sir Percival doeth battle with Sir Engeneron] So therewith each knight turned his horse away to such a place as seemed to him to be fitting; and when they were in all wise prepared they rushed together with an amazing velocity and a noise like to thunder. So they met in the midst of the course. And in that encounter the spear of Sir Engeneron broke into many pieces, but the spear of Sir Percival held, so that he flung Sir Engeneron entirely out of his saddle and over the crupper of his horse and down upon the ground so violently that Sir Engeneron lay there in a swoon. [Sidenote: Sir Engeneron yields himself to Sir Percival] Then Sir Percival dismounted from his horse with all speed, and he rushed the helmet of Sir Engeneron off of his head with intent to slay him. But with that Sir Engeneron awoke to his danger, and therewith gat upon his knees and clasped Sir Percival about the thighs, crying out: "Sir, I beseech you upon your knighthood to spare my life." "Well," said Sir Percival, "since you beseech that upon my knighthood I must needs do as you ask. But I will only do so upon two conditions. The first of these conditions is that you go to the court of King Arthur, and that you surrender yourself as captive to a damsel of that court who is known as the Lady Yelande the Dumb Maiden. And you are to tell that maiden that the young knight who slew Sir Boindegardus greets her and that he tells her that in a little while he will return to repay to Sir Kay that buffet he gave her. This is my first condition." And Sir Engeneron said: "I will perform that condition." "And my second condition," said Sir Percival, "is this: that you give me your armor for me to use upon this adventure which I have undertaken, and that you take my armor and deposit it with the hermit of a little chapel you shall after a while come to if you return upon the road which brought me hither. After a while I will return and reclaim my armor and will return your armor. This is my second condition." And Sir Engeneron said: "That condition also I shall fulfil according to your command." [Sidenote: Sir Percival and Sir Engeneron exchange armor] Then Sir Percival said: "Arise." And Sir Engeneron did so. And after that Sir Engeneron put off his armor, and Sir Percival put off his armor. And Sir Percival put on the armor of Sir Engeneron, and Sir Engeneron packed the armor of Sir Percival upon his horse and prepared to depart in obedience to those conditions of Sir Percival. So they parted company, Sir Percival riding upon his way to Beaurepaire, and Sir Engeneron betaking his way to find the chapel of that hermit of whom Sir Percival had spoken. So it was that after two adventures, Sir Percival entered upon that undertaking which he had come to perform in behalf of the Lady Blanchefleur. And now, if it please you to read what follows, you shall hear how it befell with Sir Percival at the castle of Beaurepaire. After that adventure with Sir Engeneron, Sir Percival rode onward upon his way, and by and by he came to the lake whereon stood the castle and the town of Beaurepaire. And Sir Percival beheld that a long narrow bridge crossed over that part of the lake from the mainland to the island and the town. So Sir Percival rode very boldly forth upon that bridge and across it, and no one stayed him, for all of the knights of Sir Clamadius who beheld him said: "Yonder rides Sir Engeneron." Thus Sir Percival crossed the bridge and rode very boldly forward until he came to the gate of the castle, and those who beheld him said: "Sir Engeneron haply beareth a message to the castle." For no one wist that that knight was not Sir Engeneron, but all thought that it was he because of the armor which he wore. [Sidenote: Sir Percival cometh to Beaurepaire] So Sir Percival came close to the castle, and when he was come there he called very loudly to those within, and by and by there appeared the face of a woman at an upper window and the face was very pale and woe-begone. Then Sir Percival said to the woman at the window: "Bid them open the gate and let me in; for I come to bring you succor at this place." To this the woman said: "I shall not bid them open the gate, for I know from your armor who you are, and that you are Sir Engeneron the Seneschal. And I know that you are one of our bitterest enemies; for you have already slain several of the knights of this castle, and now you seek by guile to enter into the castle itself." [Sidenote: Sir Percival entereth Beaurepaire] Then Sir Percival said: "I am not Sir Engeneron, but one who hath overthrown Sir Engeneron in battle. I have put on his armor with intent that I might come hither to help defend this place against Sir Clamadius." So said Sir Percival, and therewith he put up the umbril of his helmet, saying: "Look, see; I am not Sir Engeneron." Then the woman at the window saw his face and that it was not the face of Sir Engeneron. And she saw that the face of Sir Percival was mild and gentle, wherefore she ran and told the people of the castle that a knight who was a friend stood without. Therewith they of the castle let fall the drawbridge and opened the gates, and Sir Percival entered into the castle. Then there came several of the chief people of the castle, and they also were all pale and woe-begone from long fasting, as was the woman whom Sir Percival had first seen; for all were greatly wasted because of the toil and anxiety of that siege. These asked Sir Percival who he was and whence he came and how he came thither; and Sir Percival told them all that it was necessary for them to know. For he told them how he was a young knight trained under the care of Sir Launcelot; and he told them that he had come thither with the hope of serving the Lady Blanchefleur; and he told them what adventures had befallen him in the coming and how he had already overthrown Sir Lionel and Sir Engeneron to get there. Wherefore, from these things, they of the castle perceived that Sir Percival was a very strong, worthy knight, and they gave great joy that he should have come thither to their aid. So he who was chief of those castle people summoned several attendants, and these came and some took the horse of Sir Percival and led it to the stables, and others relieved Sir Percival of his armor; and others took him to a bath of tepid water, where he bathed himself, and was dried on soft linen towels; and others brought soft garments of gray cloth and clad Sir Percival in them and afterward brought him down into a fair large chamber where there was a table spread as though ready for meat. [Sidenote: Sir Percival beholds the Lady Blanchefleur] Now in a little after Sir Percival was come to that supper-hall the door thereof was opened and there entered several people. With these came a damsel of such extraordinary beauty and gracefulness of figure that Sir Percival stood amazed. For her face was fair beyond words; red upon white, like rose-leaves upon cream; and her eyes were bright and glancing like those of a falcon, and her nose was thin and straight, and her lips were very red, like to coral for redness, and her hair was dark and abundant and like to silk for softness. She was clad all in a dress of black, shot with stars of gold, and the dress was lined with ermine and was trimmed with sable at the collar and the cuffs and the hem thereof. So Sir Percival stood and gazed at that lady with a pleasure beyond words to express, and he wist that this must be the Lady Blanchefleur, for whose sake he had come thither. And the Lady Blanchefleur looked upon Sir Percival with great kindness, for he appeared to her like to a hero for strength and beauty; wherefore she smiled upon Sir Percival very graciously and came forward and gave him her hand. And Sir Percival took her hand and set it to his lips; and lo! her hand was as soft as silk and very warm, rosy and fragrant, and the fingers thereof glistered with bright golden rings and with gems of divers colors. Then that beautiful Lady Blanchefleur said: "Messire, this is a very knightly thing for you to do to come hither to this place. And you come in good time, for food groweth very scarce with us so that in a little while we must face starvation. For because of the watch that Sir Clamadius keepeth upon this place, no one can either enter in or go out. Yea, thou art the very first one who hath come hither since he has sat down before Beaurepaire." [Sidenote: The Lady Blanchefleur telleth her sorrows to Sir Percival] Then presently she ceased smiling and her face clouded over; then bright tears began to drop from the Lady Blanchefleur's eyes; and then she said: "I fear me greatly that Sir Clamadius will at last seize upon this castle, for he hath kept us here prisoner for a long while. Yet though he seize the castle, he shall never seize that which the castle contains. For I keep by me a little casket of silver, and therein is a dagger, very sharp and fine. Therefore the day that Sir Clamadius enters into this castle, I shall thrust that dagger into my heart. For, though Sir Clamadius may seize upon my castle, he shall never possess my soul." Then Sir Percival was very sorry for the tears he saw shining upon the Lady Blanchefleur's face, wherefore he said: "Lady, I have great hopes that this affair may never reach to that woful extremity thou speakest of." The Lady Blanchefleur said: "I hope not also." And therewith she wiped away her tears and smiled again. Then she said: "See, Sir Percival, the evening has come and it is time to sit at supper, now I beseech thee for to come to table with me, for though we have but little to eat here, yet I assure thee that thou art very welcome to the best that we have." So therewith Lady Blanchefleur led Sir Percival to the table, and they sat down to such feast as could be had at that place of starvation. For what they had was little enough, being only such fish as they could catch from the lake, and a little bread--but not much--and a very little wine. [Sidenote: The Lady sings to Sir Percival] Then after they had eaten and drunk what they had, the Lady Blanchefleur took a golden harp into her hand and played thereon, and sang in a voice so clear and high and beautiful that Percival was altogether enchanted and bewitched thereat. Thus it was that that evening passed with them very pleasantly and cheerfully, so that it was the middle of the night ere Sir Percival withdrew to that couch that had been prepared for his rest. Now word was brought to Sir Clamadius that Sir Engeneron the Seneschal had been overcome by another knight, wherefore Sir Clamadius wist that that was the knight in Sir Engeneron's armor who had entered into the castle. So Sir Clamadius said: "Certes, this must be a champion of no small prowess who hath undertaken single-handed such a dangerous quest as this, and hath thus entered into the castle, for they appear to make great rejoicings at his coming. Now if he remaineth there it may very well be that they will be encouraged to resist me a great while longer, and so all that I have thus far accomplished shall have been in vain." [Sidenote: The old counsellor giveth advice to Sir Clamadius] Now there was among the counsellors of Sir Clamadius an old knight who was very cunning and far-sighted. He said to the King: "Sire, I think we may be able to devise some plan whereby we may withdraw this knight-champion out of the castle. My plan is this: Let ten of your best knights make parade before that castle tomorrow, and let them give challenge to those within the castle to come forth to battle. Then I believe that this knight will come forth with the other knights from the castle to accept that challenge. Thereafter let it be that our knights withdraw as though in retreat, and so lead this knight and the knights of the castle into an ambushment. There let many fall upon them at once and either slay them or make them prisoners. So the castle shall be deprived of this new champion that hath come to it, and therewith may be so disheartened that it will yield to thee." This advice seemed very good to King Clamadius, wherefore, when the next morning had come, he chose him ten knights from among the foremost of all his knights, and he bade them give that challenge in that wise. These did so, and therewith Sir Percival and nine other knights issued out from the castle against them. [Sidenote: Sir Percival doeth great battle] But it did not fare as Sir Clamadius had expected; for the attack of Sir Percival and his knights was so fierce and sudden that those ten knights could not withdraw so easily as they intended. For, ere they were able to withdraw, Sir Percival had struck down six of these knights with his own hand and the other four were made prisoners. Thus Sir Percival and his knights did not come into that ambush that had been prepared for them. Then those who were in ambush perceived that their plan had failed wherefore they broke from cover with intent to do what they could. But Sir Percival and his knights beheld them coming, and so withdrew, defending themselves with great valor. So they came into the castle again in safety. Thus it was that the plans of King Clamadius and his counsellor failed of effect, whereupon Sir Clamadius was very angry at that wise old knight. So that, when that counsellor came to him again and said: "Sir, I have another plan," King Clamadius cried out very fiercely: "Away with thy plans! They are all of no avail." Then Sir Clamadius said: "When to-morrow comes, I myself will undertake this affair. For I will go and give challenge to this knight, and so I shall hope to decide this quarrel man to man. For unless yonder knight be Sir Launcelot of the Lake or Sir Lamorack of Gales, I do not think he will be my peer in an encounter of man to man." [Sidenote: Sir Clamadius arms himself for battle] So when the next morning had come, Sir Clamadius armed himself at all points and straightway betook himself to a fair, smooth meadow beneath the walls of the castle. And when he had come there he cried out: "Sir Red Knight, come forth and speak with me." So after a while Sir Percival appeared at the top of the castle wall, and he said: "Messire, here I am; what is it you would have of me?" Then Sir Clamadius said: "Messire, are you Sir Launcelot of the Lake?" And Sir Percival said: "Nay, I am not he." Sir Clamadius said: "Art thou then Sir Lamorack of Gales?" And Sir Percival said: "Nay, I am not he." Then Sir Clamadius said: "Who, then, art thou?" Sir Percival said: "I am not any great knight-champion such as those two of whom you speak, but am a young knight who have not fought more than twice or thrice in my life." At that Sir Clamadius was very glad, for he feared that Sir Percival might be some famous knight well-seasoned in arms. Wherefore when he found that Sir Percival was only a young and untried knight, he thought it would be an easy matter to deal with him. So he said: "Messire, I challenge thee to come forth to battle with me man to man so that thou and I may settle this quarrel betwixt us, for it is a pity to shed more blood than is necessary in this quarrel. So if thou wilt come forth and overthrow me, then I will withdraw my people from this place; but if I overthrow thee, then this castle shall be yielded up to me with all that it contains." To this Sir Percival said: "Sir Knight, I am very willing to fight with thee upon that issue. But first of all I must obtain the consent of the Lady Blanchefleur to stand her champion." So Sir Percival went to the Lady Blanchefleur, and he said: "Lady, will you accept me as your champion to fight the issue of this quarrel man to man with Sir Clamadius?" She said: "Percival, thou art very young to have to do with so old and well-seasoned a knight. Now I greatly fear for your life in such a battle as that." To this Sir Percival said: "Lady, I know that I am young, but indeed I feel a very big spirit stir within me, so that if thou wilt trust me, I have belief that, with the grace of God, I shall win this battle." Then the Lady Blanchefleur smiled upon Sir Percival and she said: "Percival, I will gladly entrust my life and safety into thy keeping, for I too have great dependence in thy knighthood." So straightway Sir Percival armed himself, and when he was in all wise prepared he went forth to that battle with a heart very full of great courage and hope. There he found Sir Clamadius still parading in that meadow beneath the walls, awaiting the coming of his opponent. [Sidenote: Sir Percival and Sir Clamadius do battle] Meanwhile many folk came and stood upon the walls of the castle to behold that encounter, whilst each knight took such stand as appeared good to him. Then, when they were in all wise prepared, each knight drave spurs into his horse and rushed himself against the other with most terrible and fierce violence. Therewith they met in the very midst of the course with an uproar like to thunder that echoed back from the flat walls of the castle. In that encounter the spear of Sir Percival held, but the spear of Sir Clamadius was riven into splinters. And so, Sir Percival riding forward with furious violence, Sir Clamadius was overthrown, horse and man, with such violence that he lay there upon the ground as though he were dead. Then all those upon the walls shouted aloud with a great noise of rejoicing, whilst those of the party of Sir Clamadius gave lamentation in the same degree. [Sidenote: Sir Clamadius yields himself] But Sir Percival voided his saddle in haste, and ran to where Sir Clamadius lay. And Sir Percival rushed the helmet off from the head of Sir Clamadius, and he catched him by the hair of the head, and he raised his sword on high with intent to finish the work he had begun. Therewith Sir Clamadius aroused himself unto his danger, and he cried in a very piercing voice: "Messire, I beseech thee of thy knighthood to spare my life!" "Well," said Sir Percival, "since you ask me upon my knighthood, I cannot refuse you, for so I was taught by the noble knight, Sir Launcelot, to refuse no boon asked upon my knighthood that I was able to grant. But I will only spare your life upon one condition, and that is this: That you disarm yourself in all wise, and that you go without armor to the court of King Arthur. There you shall deliver yourself as a servant unto a damsel of King Arthur's court, hight Yelande, surnamed the Dumb Maiden. Her you are to tell that the youth who slew Sir Boindegardus hath sent you unto her as a servant. And you are to say to Sir Kay, the Seneschal of King Arthur, that the young knight Percival will in a little while come to repay that buffet he gave to the damoiselle Yelande aforesaid." So said Sir Percival, and Sir Clamadius said: "It shall be done in all wise as you command, if so be you will spare my life." Then Sir Percival said: "Arise"; and Sir Clamadius arose; and Sir Percival said: "Go hence"; and therewith Sir Clamadius departed as Sir Percival commanded. So that day Sir Clamadius withdrew from the castle of Beaurepaire with all his array of knights, and after that he went to the court of King Arthur and did in all respects as Sir Percival had commanded him to do. So it was that Sir Percival fulfilled that quest, and set the Lady Blanchefleur free from duress; and may God grant that you also fulfil all your quests with as great honor and nobility as therein exhibited. [Illustration: Sir Kay interrupts ye meditations of Sir Percival] Chapter Fifth _How Sir Percival repaid Sir Kay the buffet he one time gave Yelande the Dumb Maiden, and how, thereafter, he went forth to seek his own lady of love._ Now, after these adventures aforesaid, Sir Percival remained for a long while at Beaurepaire, and during that time he was the knight-champion to the Lady Blanchefleur. And the Lady Blanchefleur loved Sir Percival every day with a greater and greater passion, but Sir Percival showed no passion of love for her in return, and thereat Lady Blanchefleur was greatly troubled. [Sidenote: Sir Percival and the Lady Blanchefleur walk together] Now one day the Lady Blanchefleur and Sir Percival were walking together on a terrace; and it was then come to be the fall of the year, so that the leaves of the trees were showering all down about them like flakes of gold. And that day the Lady Blanchefleur loved Sir Percival so much that her heart was pierced with that love as though with a great agony. But Sir Percival wist not of that. Then the Lady Blanchefleur said: "Messire, I would that thou wouldst stay here always as our knight-champion." "Lady," quoth Percival, "that may not be, for in a little while now I must leave you. For, though I shall be sad to go from such a friendly place as this is, yet I am an errant knight, and as I am errant I must fulfil many adventures besides the one I have accomplished here." "Messire," said the Lady Blanchefleur, "if you will but remain here, this castle shall be yours and all that it contains." At this Sir Percival was greatly astonished, wherefore he said: "Lady, how may that be? Lo! this castle is yours, and no one can take it away from you, nor can you give it to me for mine own." Then the Lady Blanchefleur turned away her face and bowed her head, and said in a voice as though it were stifling her for to speak: "Percival, it needs not to take the castle from me; take thou me for thine own, and then the castle and all shall be thine." [Sidenote: Sir Percival denies the Lady Blanchefleur] At that Sir Percival stood for a space very still as though without breathing. Then by and by he said: "Lady, meseems that no knight could have greater honor paid to him than that which you pay to me. Yet should I accept such a gift as you offer, then I would be doing such dishonor to my knighthood that would make it altogether unworthy of that high honor you pay it. For already I have made my vow to serve a lady, and if I should forswear that vow, I would be a dishonored and unworthy knight." Then the Lady Blanchefleur cried out in a great voice of suffering: "Say no more, for I am ashamed." Sir Percival said: "Nay, there is no shame to thee, but great honor to me." But the Lady Blanchefleur would not hear him, but brake away from him in great haste, and left him standing where he was. So Sir Percival could stay no longer at that place; but as soon as might be, he took horse and rode away. Nor did he see Blanchefleur again after they had thus talked together upon that terrace as aforesaid. And after Sir Percival had gone, the Lady Blanchefleur abandoned herself to great sorrow, for she wept a long while and a very great deal; nor would she, for a long while, take any joy in living or in the world in which she lived. [Sidenote: Of the further adventures of Sir Percival] So Sir Percival performed that adventure of setting free the duress of the castle of Beaurepaire. And after that and ere the winter came, he performed several other adventures of more or less fame. And during that time, he overthrew eleven knights in various affairs at arms and in all those adventures he met with no mishap himself. And besides such encounters at arms, he performed several very worthy works; for he slew a wild boar that was a terror to all that dwelt nigh to the forest of Umber; and he also slew a very savage wolf that infested the moors of the Dart. Wherefore, because of these several adventures, the name of Sir Percival became very famous in all courts of chivalry, and many said: "Verily, this young knight must be the peer of Sir Launcelot of the Lake himself." Now one day toward eventide (and it was a very cold winter day) Sir Percival came to the hut of a hermit in the forest of Usk; and he abode all night at that place. Now when the morning had come he went out and stood in front of the hut, and he saw that during the night a soft snow had fallen so that all the earth was covered with white. And he saw that it likewise had happened that a hawk had struck a raven in front of the hermit's habitation, and that some of the raven's feathers and some of its blood lay upon the snow. [Sidenote: Sir Percival stands in meditation] Now when Sir Percival beheld the blood and the black feathers upon that white snow, he said to himself: "Behold! that snow is not whiter than the brow and the neck of my lady; and that red is not redder than her lips; and that black is not blacker than her hair." Therewith the thought of that lady took great hold upon him and he sighed so deeply that he felt his heart lifted within him because of that sigh. So he stood and gazed upon that white and red and black, and he forgot all things else in the world than his lady-love. Now it befell at that time that there came a party riding through those parts, and that party were Sir Gawaine and Sir Geraint and Sir Kay. And when they saw Sir Percival where he stood leaning against a tree and looking down upon the ground in deep meditation, Sir Kay said: "Who is yonder knight?" (For he wist not that that knight was Sir Percival.) And Sir Kay said further: "I will go and bespeak that knight and ask him who he is." But Sir Gawaine perceived that Sir Percival was altogether sunk in deep thought, wherefore he said: "Nay, thou wilt do ill to disturb that knight; for either he hath some weighty matter upon his mind, or else he is bethinking him of his lady, and in either case it would be a pity to disturb him until he arouses himself." [Sidenote: Sir Kay shakes the arm of Sir Percival] But Sir Kay would not heed what Sir Gawaine said, but forthwith he went to where Sir Percival stood; and Sir Percival was altogether unaware of his coming, being so deeply sunk in his thoughts. Then Sir Kay said: "Sir Knight,"--but Sir Percival did not hear him. And Sir Kay said: "Sir Knight, who art thou?" But still Sir Percival did not reply. Then Sir Kay said: "Sir Knight, thou shalt answer me!" And therewith he catched Sir Percival by the arm and shook him very roughly. [Sidenote: Sir Percival smites Sir Kay a buffet] Then Sir Percival aroused himself, and he was filled with indignation that anyone should have laid rough hands upon his person. And Sir Percival did not recognize Sir Kay because he was still entangled in that network of thought, but he said very fiercely: "Ha, sirrah! wouldst thou lay hands upon me!" and therewith he raised his fist and smote Sir Kay so terrible a buffet beside the head that Sir Kay instantly fell down as though he were dead and lay without sense of motion upon the ground. Then Sir Percival perceived that there were two other knights standing not far off, and therewith his thoughts of other things came back to him again and he was aware of what he had done in his anger, and was very sorry and ashamed that he should have been so hasty as to have struck that blow. Then Sir Gawaine came to Sir Percival and spake sternly to him saying. "Sir Knight, why didst thou strike my companion so unknightly a blow as that?" [Sidenote: Sir Gawaine chides Sir Percival] To which Sir Percival said: "Messire, it grieves me sorely that I should have been so hasty, but I was bethinking me of my lady, and this knight disturbed my thoughts; wherefore I smote him in haste." To this Sir Gawaine made reply: "Sir, I perceive that thou hadst great excuse for thy blow. Ne'theless, I am displeased that thou shouldst have struck that knight. Now I make demand of thee what is thy name and condition?" And Sir Percival said: "My name is Percival, and I am a knight of King Arthur's making." [Sidenote: Sir Gawaine and Sir Geraint rejoice over Sir Percival] At that, when Sir Gawaine and Sir Geraint heard what Sir Percival said, they cried out in great amazement; and Sir Gawaine said: "Ha, Sir Percival! this is indeed well met, for my name is Gawaine and I am a nephew unto King Arthur and am of his court; and this knight is Sir Geraint, and he also is of King Arthur's court and of his Round Table. And we have been in search of thee for this long time for to bring thee unto King Arthur at Camelot. For thy renown is now spread all over this realm, so that they talk of thee in every court of chivalry." And Sir Percival said: "That is good news to me, for I wist not that I had so soon won so much credit. But, touching the matter of returning unto King Arthur's court with you; unto that I crave leave to give my excuses. For, since you tell me that I now have so much credit of knighthood, it behooves me to go immediately unto my lady and to offer my services unto her. For when I parted from her I promised her that I would come to her as soon as I had won me sufficient credit of knighthood. As for this knight whom I have struck, I cannot be sorry for that buffet, even if it was given with my fist and not with my sword as I should have given it. For I have promised Sir Kay by several mouths that I would sometime repay him with just such a buffet as that which he struck the damosel Yelande. So now I have fulfilled my promise and have given him that buffet." Then Sir Gawaine and Sir Geraint laughed, and Sir Gawaine said: "Well, Sir Percival, thou hast indeed fulfilled thy promise in very good measure. For I make my vow that no one could have been better served with his dessert than was Sir Kay." Now by this time Sir Kay had recovered from that blow, so that he rose up very ruefully, looking about as though he wist not yet just where he was. [Sidenote: Sir Percival will not return to court] Then Sir Gawaine said to Sir Percival: "As to thy coming unto the court of the King, thou dost right to fulfil thy promise unto thy lady before undertaking any other obligation. For, even though the King himself bid thee come, yet is thy obligation to thy lady superior to the command of the King. So now I bid thee go in quest of thy lady in God's name; only see to it that thou comest to the King's court as soon as thou art able." So it was that Sir Percival fulfilled the promise of that buffet unto Sir Kay. And now you shall hear how he found the Lady Yvette the Fair. * * * * * [Sidenote: Sir Percival cometh to the castle of Sir Percydes] Now after Sir Percival had parted from Sir Gawaine, and Sir Geraint and Sir Kay, he went his way in that direction he wist, and by and by, toward eventide, he came again to the castle of Sir Percydes. And Sir Percydes was at home and he welcomed Sir Percival with great joy and congratulations. For the fame of Sir Percival was now abroad in all the world, so that Sir Percydes welcomed him with great acclaim. So Sir Percival sat down with Sir Percydes and they ate and drank together, and, for the time, Sir Percival said nothing of that which was upon his heart--for he was of a very continent nature and was in no wise hasty in his speech. But after they had satisfied themselves with food and drink, then Sir Percival spake to Sir Percydes of that which was upon his mind, saying: "Dear friend, thou didst tell me that when I was ready for to come to thee with a certain intent thou wouldst tell me who is the lady whose ring I wear and where I shall find her. Now, I believe that I am a great deal more worthy for to be her knight than I was when I first saw thee; wherefore I am now come to beseech thee to redeem thy promise to me. Now tell me, I beg of thee, who is that lady and where does she dwell?" [Sidenote: Sir Percydes declares himself to Sir Percival] Then Sir Percydes said: "Friend, I will declare to thee that which thou dost ask of me. Firstly, that lady is mine own sister, hight Yvette, and she is the daughter of King Pecheur. Secondly, thou shalt find her at the castle of my father, which standeth upon the west coast of this land. Nor shalt thou have any difficulty in finding that castle, for thou mayst easily come to it by inquiring the way of those whom thou mayst meet in that region. But, indeed, it hath been two years since I have seen my father and my sister, and I know not how it is with them." Then Sir Percival came to Sir Percydes and he put his arm about him and kissed him upon either cheek, and he said: "Should I obtain the kind regard of that lady, I know nothing that would more rejoice me than to know that thou art her brother. For, indeed, I entertain a great deal of love for thee." At that Sir Percydes laughed for joy and he said: "Percival, wilt thou not tell me of what house thou art come?" Percival said: "I will tell thee what thou dost ask: my father is King Pellinore who was a very good, noble knight of the court of King Arthur and of his Round Table." Then Sir Percydes cried out with great amazement, saying: "That is very marvellous! I would that I had known this before, for thy mother and my mother were sisters of one father and one mother. So we are cousins german." Then Sir Percival said: "This is great joy to me!" And his heart was expanded with pleasure at finding that Sir Percydes was of his kindred and that he was no longer alone in that part of the world. [Sidenote: Sir Percival departs for the castle of King Pecheur] So Sir Percival abided for two days with Sir Percydes and then he betook his way to the westward in pursuance of that adventure. And he was upon the road three days, and upon the morning of the fourth day he came, through diligent inquiry, within sight of the castle of King Pecheur. This castle stood upon a high crag of rock from which it arose against the sky so that it looked to be a part of the crag. And it was a very noble and stately castle, having many tall towers and many buildings within the walls thereof. And a village of white houses of the fisher-folk gathered upon the rocks beneath the castle walls like chicks beneath the shadow of their mother's wings. And, behold! Percival saw the great sea for the first time in all his life, and was filled with wonder at the huge waves that ran toward the shore and burst upon the rocks, all white like snow. And he was amazed at the multitude of sea fowl that flew about the rocks in such prodigious numbers that they darkened the sky. Likewise he was astonished at the fisher-boats that spread their white sails against the wind, and floated upon the water like swans, for he had never seen their like before. So he sat his horse upon a high rock nigh to the sea and gazed his fill upon those things that were so wonderful to him. Then after a while Sir Percival went forward to the castle. And as he drew nigh to the castle he became aware that a very reverend man, whose hair and beard were as white as snow, sat upon a cushion of crimson velvet upon a rock that overlooked the sea. Two pages, richly clad in black and silver, stood behind him; and the old man gazed out across the sea, and Sir Percival saw that he neither spake nor moved. But when Sir Percival came near to him the old man arose and went into the castle, and the two pages took up the two crimson velvet cushions and followed him. But Percival rode up to the castle, and he saw that the gateway of the castle stood open, wherefore he rode into the courtyard of the castle. And when he had come into the courtyard, two attendants immediately appeared and took his horse and assisted him to dismount; but neither of these attendants said aught to him, but both were as silent as deaf-mutes. [Sidenote: Sir Percival finds King Pecheur] Then Percival entered the hall and there he saw the old man whom he had before seen, and the old man sat in a great carved chair beside a fire of large logs of wood. And Sir Percival saw that the eyes of the old man were all red and that his cheeks were channeled with weeping; and Percival was abashed at the sadness of his aspect. Nevertheless, he came to where the old man sat and saluted him with great reverence, and he said: "Art thou King Pecheur?" And the old man answered, "Aye, for I am both a fisher and a sinner" (for that word Pecheur meaneth both fisher and sinner). Then Sir Percival said: "Sire, I bring thee greetings from thy son, Sir Percydes, who is a very dear friend to me. And likewise I bring thee greeting from myself: for I am Percival, King Pellinore's son, and thy Queen and my mother are sisters. And likewise I come to redeem a pledge, for, behold, here is the ring of thy daughter Yvette, unto whom I am pledged for her true knight. Wherefore, having now achieved a not dishonorable renown in the world of chivalry, I am come to beseech her kindness and to redeem my ring which she hath upon her finger and to give her back her ring again." Then King Pecheur fell to weeping in great measure and he said: "Percival thy fame hath reached even to this remote place, for every one talketh of thee with great unction. But, touching my daughter Yvette, if thou wilt come with me I will bring thee to her." So King Pecheur arose and went forth and Sir Percival followed him. And King Pecheur brought Sir Percival to a certain tower; and he brought him up a long and winding stair; and at the top of the stairway was a door. And King Pecheur opened the door and Sir Percival entered the apartment. [Sidenote: Sir Percival findeth the Lady Yvette] The windows of the apartment stood open, and a cold wind came in thereat from off the sea; and there stood a couch in the middle of the room, and it was spread with black velvet; and the Lady Yvette lay reclined upon the couch, and, lo! her face was like to wax for whiteness, and she neither moved nor spake, but only lay there perfectly still; for she was dead. Seven waxen candles burned at her head, and seven others at her feet, and the flames of the candles spread and wavered as the cold wind blew upon them. And the hair of her head (as black as those raven feathers that Sir Percival had beheld lying upon the snow) moved like threads of black silk as the wind blew in through the window--but the Lady Yvette moved not nor stirred, but lay like a statue of marble all clad in white. Then at the first Sir Percival stood very still at the door-way as though he had of a sudden been turned into stone. Then he went forward and stood beside the couch and held his hands very tightly together and gazed at the Lady Yvette where she lay. So he stood for a long while, and he wist not why it was that he felt like as though he had been turned into a stone, without such grief at his heart as he had thought to feel thereat. (For indeed, his spirit was altogether broken though he knew it not.) [Sidenote: Of the grief of Sir Percival] Then he spake unto that still figure, and he said: "Dear lady, is it thus I find thee after all this long endeavor of mine? Yet from Paradise, haply, thou mayst perceive all that I have accomplished in thy behalf. So shalt thou be my lady always to the end of my life and I will have none other than thee. Wherefore I herewith give thee thy ring again and take mine own in its stead." Therewith, so speaking, he lifted that hand (all so cold like the snow) and took his ring from off her finger and put her ring back upon it again. Then King Pecheur said, "Percival, hast thou no tears?" And Percival said, "Nay, I have none." Therewith he turned and left that place, and King Pecheur went with him. After that Sir Percival abided in that place for three days, and King Pecheur and his lady Queen and their two young sons who dwelt at that place made great pity over him, and wept a great deal. But Sir Percival said but little in reply and wept not at all. * * * * * And now I shall tell you of that wonderful vision that came unto Sir Percival at this place upon Christmas day. [Sidenote: Sir Percival beholds the grail] For on the third day (which was Christmas day) it chanced that Sir Percival sat alone in the hall of the castle, and he meditated upon the great sorrow that lay upon him. And as he sat thus this very wonderful thing befell him: He suddenly beheld two youths enter that hall. And the faces of the two youths shone with exceeding brightness, and their hair shone like gold, and their raiment was very bright and glistering like to gold. One of these youths bare in his hand a spear of mighty size, and blood dropped from the point of the spear; and the other youth bare in his hand a chalice of pure gold, very wonderful to behold, and he held the chalice in a napkin of fine cambric linen. Then, at first, Sir Percival thought that that which he beheld was a vision conjured up by the deep sorrow that filled his heart, and he was afeard. But the youth who bare the chalice spake in a voice extraordinarily high and clear. And he said: "Percival! Percival! be not afraid! This which thou here beholdest is the Sangreal, and that is the Spear of Sorrow. What then may thy sorrow be in the presence of these holy things that brought with them such great sorrow and affliction of soul that they have become entirely sanctified thereby! Thus, Percival, should thy sorrow so sanctify thy life and not make it bitter to thy taste. For so did this bitter cup become sanctified by the great sorrow that tasted of it." Percival said: "Are these things real or are they a vision that I behold?" He who bare the chalice said, "They are real." And he who bare the spear said, "They are real." Then a great peace and comfort came to Sir Percival's heart and they never left him to the day of his death. Then they who bare the Sangreal and the Spear went out of the hall, and Sir Percival kneeled there for a while after they had gone and prayed with great devotion and with much comfort and satisfaction. And this was the first time that any of those knights that were of King Arthur's Round Table ever beheld that holy chalice, the which Sir Percival was one of three to achieve in after-years. So when Sir Percival came forth from that hall, all those who beheld him were astonished at the great peace and calmness that appeared to emanate from him. But he told no one of that miraculous vision which he had just beheld, and, though it appeareth in the history of these things, yet it was not then made manifest. Then Sir Percival said to King Pecheur, his uncle and to his aunt and to their sons: "Now, dear friends, the time hath come when I must leave you. For I must now presently go to the court of King Arthur in obedience to his commands and to acknowledge myself unto my brother, Sir Lamorack." [Sidenote: Sir Percival departs for court] So that day Sir Percival set forth with intent to go to Camelot, where King Arthur was then holding court in great estate of pomp. And Sir Percival reached Camelot upon the fourth day from that time and that was during the feasts of Christmas-tide. Now King Arthur sat at those feasts and there were six score of very noble company seated with him. And the King's heart was greatly uplifted and expanded with mirth and good cheer. Then, while all were feasting with great concord, there suddenly came into that hall an herald-messenger; the whom, when King Arthur beheld him, he asked: "What message hast thou brought?" Upon this the messenger said: "Lord, there hath come one asking permission to enter here whom you will be very well pleased to see." The King said, "Who is it?" And the herald-messenger said, "He saith his name is Percival." Upon this King Arthur arose from where he sat and all the others uprose with him and there was a great sound of loud voices; for the fame of Sir Percival had waxed very great since he had begun his adventures. So King Arthur and the others went down the hall for to meet Sir Percival. Then the door opened and Sir Percival came into that place, and his face shone very bright with peace and good-will; and he was exceedingly comely. [Sidenote: Sir Percival is received with joy] King Arthur said, "Art thou Percival?" And Percival said, "I am he." Thereupon King Arthur took Sir Percival's head into his hands, and he kissed him upon the brow. And Sir Percival kissed King Arthur's hand and he kissed the ring of royalty upon the King's finger, and so he became a true knight in fealty unto King Arthur. Then Sir Percival said: "Lord, have I thy leave to speak?" And King Arthur said, "Say on." Sir Percival said, "Where is Sir Lamorack?" And King Arthur said, "Yonder he is." Then Sir Percival perceived where Sir Lamorack stood among the others, and he went to Sir Lamorack and knelt down before him; and Sir Lamorack was very much astonished, and said: "Why dost thou kneel to me, Percival?" Then Sir Percival said, "Dost thou know this ring?" Then Sir Lamorack knew his father's ring and he cried out in a loud voice: "That is my father's ring; how came ye by it?" Percival said: "Our mother gave it to me, for I am thy brother." [Sidenote: Sir Percival declares himself to Sir Lamorack] Upon this Sir Lamorack cried out with great passion; and he flung his arms about Sir Percival, and he kissed him repeatedly upon the face. And so ardent was the great love and the great passion that moved him that all those who stood about could in no wise contain themselves, but wept at that which they beheld. Then, after a while, King Arthur said: "Percival, come with me, for I have somewhat to show thee." [Sidenote: Sir Percival is made Knight of the Round Table] So King Arthur and Sir Lamorack and Sir Percival and several others went unto that pavilion which was the pavilion of the Round Table, and there King Arthur showed Sir Percival a seat which was immediately upon the right hand of the Seat Perilous. And upon the back of that seat there was a name emblazoned in letters of gold; and the name was this: PERCIVAL OF GALES Then King Arthur said: "Behold, Sir Percival, this is thy seat, for four days ago that name appeared most miraculously, of a sudden, where thou seest it; wherefore that seat is thine." Then Sir Percival was aware that that name had manifested itself at the time when the Sangreal had appeared unto him in the castle of King Pecheur, and he was moved with a great passion of love and longing for the Lady Yvette; so that, because of the strength of that passion, it took upon it the semblance of a terrible joy. And he said to himself: "If my lady could but have beheld these, how proud would she have been! But, doubtless, she now looketh down from Paradise and beholdeth us and all that we do." Thereupon he lifted up his eyes as though to behold her, but she was not there, but only the roof of that pavilion. But he held his peace and said naught to anyone of those thoughts that disturbed him. With this I conclude for the present the adventures of Sir Percival with only this to say: that thereafter, as soon as might be, he and Sir Lamorack went up into the mountains where their mother dwelt and brought her down thence into the world, and that she was received at the court of King Arthur with great honor and high regard until, after a while, she entered into a nunnery and took the veil. Likewise it is to be said that Sir Percival lived, as he had vowed to do, a virgin knight for all of his life; for he never paid court to any lady from that time, but ever held within the sanctuary of his mind the image of that dear lady who waited for him in Paradise until he should come unto her in such season as God should see fit. But you must not think that this is all that there is to tell of that noble, gentle and worthy young knight whose history we have been considering. For after this he performed many glorious services to the great honor of his knighthood and achieved so many notable adventures that the world spoke of him as being second in worship only to Sir Launcelot of the Lake. Yea; there were many who doubted whether Sir Launcelot himself was really a greater knight than Sir Percival; and though I may admit that Sir Launcelot had the greater prowess, yet Sir Percival was, certes, the more pure in heart and transparent of soul of those two. So, hereafter, if God so wills, I shall tell more of Sir Percival, for I shall have much to write concerning him when I have to tell of the achievement of the Sangreal which he beheld in that vision at the Castle of King Pecheur as aforetold. So, for this time, no more of these adventures, but fare you well. CONCLUSION Thus endeth the particular history of those three worthy, noble, excellent knights-champion--Sir Launcelot of the Lake, Sir Tristram of Lyonesse, and Sir Percival of Gales. And I do hope that you may have found pleasure in considering their lives and their works as I have done. For as I wrote of their behavior and pondered upon it, meseemed they offered a very high example that anyone might follow to his betterment who lives in this world where so much that is ill needs to be amended. But though I have told so much, yet, as I have just said, there remain many other things to tell concerning Sir Launcelot and Sir Percival, which may well afford anyone pleasure to read. These I shall recount in another volume at another time, with such particularity as those histories may demand. 
21865	----	[Illustration: King Arthur and His Knights] [Illustration: _King Arthur and his Knights of the Round Table_] KING ARTHUR AND HIS KNIGHTS By Maude L. Radford Illustrated by Walter J. Enright [Illustration: The Holy Grail] Rand, M^cNally & Company CHICAGO · NEW YORK · LONDON _Copyright_, 1903, By MAUDE L. RADFORD [Illustration] TABLE OF CONTENTS PAGE _A List of Illustrations_ 8 How Arthur Became King 11 The Good Sword Excalibur 29 The Great Feast and What Followed 35 Arthur's Court and the Order of the Round Table 49 King Arthur and the Princess Guinevere 64 The Coming of Gareth 73 The Story of Sir Gareth and Lynette 85 Sir Ivaine 99 Sir Balin 120 Sir Geraint and Enid 131 Arthur and Sir Accalon 142 How Arthur Fought with a Giant 153 How Arthur Fought with Rome 160 The Knight with the Badly Made Coat 171 Sir Lancelot and Sir Brune 177 The Adventure of King Pellenore 193 Sir Lancelot and His Friends 199 How Sir Lancelot Saved the Queen 213 Sir Lancelot and Elaine 226 The Search for the Holy Grail 243 The Death of Arthur 260 [Illustration] A LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS PAGE _King Arthur and his Knights of the Round Table_ Frontispiece _"All about him old oaks stood like giant guardians"_ 10 _"He hardly more than touched the sword"_ 25 _Arthur and the Lady of the Lake_ 31 _King Bors and King Ban_ 41 _"Arthur saw Guinevere bending over the wall"_ 65 _"Gareth rode at him fiercely"_ 93 _"He dismounted and poured water into the fountain"_ 105 _"They fought till their breath failed"_ 129 _"King Arthur raising his hand for silence"_ 167 _"The king touched him lightly with his sword"_ 175 _"He pushed him until he was but a step from the edge"_ 191 _"He struck so fiercely the bottom fell out"_ 209 _"She staid near it all day long in the turret"_ 231 _"And across it slowly moved the Holy Grail"_ 253 TO DWIGHT AND ROGER [Illustration: The Holy Grail] King Arthur and His Knights [Illustration: _"All about him old oaks stood like giant guardians"_] [Illustration] HOW ARTHUR BECAME KING Once upon a time, a thousand years before Columbus discovered America, and when Rome was still the greatest city in the world, there lived a brave and beautiful youth whose name was Arthur. His home was in England, near London; and he lived with the good knight Sir Hector, whom he always called father. They dwelt in a great square castle of gray stone, with a round tower at each corner. It was built about a courtyard, and was surrounded by a moat, across which was a drawbridge that could be raised or lowered. When it was raised the castle was practically a little island and very hard for enemies to attack. On one side of the moat was a large wood, and here Arthur spent a great deal of his time. He liked to lie under the trees and gaze up at the blue of the sky. All about him old oaks stood like giant guardians watching sturdily over the soil where they had grown for centuries. Arthur could look between the trunks and see rabbits and squirrels whisking about. Sometimes a herd of brown deer with shy dark eyes would pass, holding their graceful heads high in the air; sometimes a flock of pheasants with brilliant plumage rose from the bushes. Again there was no sound except the tapping of a bright-crested woodpecker, and no motion but the fluttering of leaves and the trembling of violets half buried in green moss. At times, when it was dim and silent in the wood, Arthur would hear bursts of merry laughter, the tinkling of bells, and the jingling of spurs. Then he would know that knights and ladies were riding down the road which ran beside the trees. Soon the knights would appear on horses, brown, black, and white, with gaily ornamented saddles, and bridles from which hung silver bells. Often the saddles were made of ivory or ebony, set with rubies or emeralds. The knights wore helmets laced with slender gold chains, and coats of mail made of tiny links of steel, so fine and light that all together hardly weighed more than a coat of cloth. Usually the legs of the knights were sheathed in steel armor; and their spurs were steel, or even gold. The ladies sat on horses with long trappings of silk, purple, white, or scarlet, with ornamented saddles and swinging bells. The robes of the ladies were very beautiful, being made of velvet or silk trimmed with ermine. Arthur liked to watch them, flashing by; crimson, and gold, and blue, and rose-colored. Better still, he liked to see the pretty happy faces of the ladies, and hear their gay voices. In those troublous times, however, the roads were so insecure that such companies did not often pass. Sometimes the knights and ladies came to visit Sir Hector. Then Arthur would hurry from the forest to the castle. Sir Hector would stand on the lowered drawbridge to greet his guests, and would lead them, with many expressions of pleasure, into the courtyard. Then he would take a huge hammer hanging from a post, and beat with it on a table which stood in a corner of the courtyard. Immediately from all parts of the castle the squires and servants would come running to take the horses of the knights and ladies. Sir Hector's wife and daughters would then appear, and with their own hands remove the armor of the knights. They would offer them golden basins of water, and towels for washing, and after that put velvet mantles upon their shoulders. Then the guests would be brought to the supper table. But Arthur did not spend all his time dreaming in the woods or gazing at knights and ladies. For many hours of the day he practiced feats of arms in the courtyard. It was the custom in England to train boys of noble birth to be knights. As soon as they were old enough they were taught to ride. Later on, they lived much among the ladies and maidens, learning gentle manners. Under the care of the knights, they learned to hunt, to carry a lance properly, and to use the sword; and having gained this skill, they were made squires if they had shown themselves to be of good character. Then, day by day, the squires practiced at the quintain. This was an upright post, on the top of which turned a crosspiece, having on one end a broad board, and on the other a bag of sand. The object was to ride up at full gallop, strike the board with a long lance, and get away without being hit by the sand bag. Besides this, the squires had services to do for the knights, in order that they might learn to be useful in as many ways as possible, and to be always humble. For instance, they took care of the armor of the knights, carried letters and messages for them, accompanied them at joustings and tournaments, being ready with extra weapons or assistance; and in the castle they helped to serve the guests at table. After months of such service, they went through a beautiful ceremony and were made knights. In the country round about, Arthur, of all the squires, was the most famous for his skill in the use of the lance and the sword, for his keenness in the hunt, and for his courtesy to all people. Now, at this time there was no ruler in England. The powerful Uther of Wales, who had governed England, was dead, and all the strong lords of the country were struggling to be king in his place. This gave rise to a great deal of quarreling and bloodshed. There was in the land a wise magician named Merlin. He was so old that his beard was as white as snow, but his eyes were as clear as a little child's. He was very sorry to see all the fighting that was going on, because he feared that it would do serious harm to the kingdom. In those days the great and good men who ruled in the church had power almost equal to that of the monarch. The kings and the great lords listened to their advice, and gave them much land, and money for themselves and for the poor. So Merlin went to the Archbishop of Canterbury, the churchman who in all England was the most beloved, and said: "Sir, it is my advice that you send to all the great lords of the realm and bid them come to London by Christmas to choose a king." The archbishop did as Merlin advised, and at Christmas all the great lords came to London. The largest church in the city stood not far from the north bank of the Thames. A churchyard surrounded it, filled with yew trees, the trunks of which were knotted with age. The powerful lords rode up in their clanking armor to the gate, where they dismounted, and giving their horses into the care of their squires, reverently entered the church. There were so many of them that they quite filled the nave and side-aisles of the building. The good archbishop, from where he stood in the chancel, looked down on them all. Just behind him was the altar covered with a cloth of crimson and gold, and surmounted by a golden crucifix and ten burning candles. In front of him, kneeling under the gray arches which spanned the church, were the greatest men in the kingdom. He looked at their stern bronzed faces, their heavy beards, their broad shoulders, and their glittering armor, and prayed God to make the best man in the land king. Then began the service. At the close of the first prayer some of the knights looked out of the window, and there in the churchyard they saw a great square stone. In the middle of it was an anvil of steel a foot high, and fixed therein was a beautiful sword. On the sword was some writing set in with gold which said: "Whosoever pulls this sword out of this stone and anvil is the real king of all England." The knights who read this told the archbishop, but he said: "I command you all to keep within the church and still pray to God. No man is to touch the sword until all the prayers are said." After the service was over, the lords went into the churchyard. They each pulled at the sword, but none could stir it. "The king is not here," said the archbishop, "but God will make him known. Meantime, let ten good knights keep watch over this sword." The knights were soon chosen, and then the archbishop said that on a fixed day every man in the kingdom should try to pull the sword out of the anvil. He ordered that on New Year's day all the people should be brought together for a great tournament to be held on the south bank of the Thames, near London bridge. After a few days spent in jousting among the knights, each man should make the trial to find out whether or not he was to be king. The brave youth Arthur did not know of the contest that was to be made for the sword. Sir Hector told him that he was to go to a tournament, but he did not tell him the reason for holding the tournament. So Arthur rode to London with Sir Hector; and Sir Kay, who was Sir Hector's oldest son, was with them. Sir Hector and Sir Kay rode soberly in front. They were tall, stalwart men and rode black horses, their dark figures making shadows on the light snow that had fallen. Arthur, riding behind them, felt exhilarated by the crisp winter air which caused the blood to dance in his veins. Sometimes he stood up in his saddle and flicked with his sword the dead leaves on the oaks. Again he made his horse crush the thin crust of ice that had formed in tiny pools on the road. He was so happy in the thought of the tournament he was to see, that he could have sung for joy. The road was not very wide, for few carts passed upon it, but it had been well worn by riders. Sometimes it wound through a bit of thick woods; again it rose up over a gently rolling hill. From the hilltops the riders could see London far in the distance. It looked at first like a gray haze; then, as the three came nearer, the buildings, large and small, grew plain to the sight. The castles and huts, barns and sheds, smithies, shops and mills, stood out in the keen sunlight. A high wall surrounded them, while on one side flowed the river Thames. After they had entered the city, and had passed the churchyard, and had almost reached London bridge, Sir Kay discovered that he had left his sword at home. "Will you go back for it?" he asked Arthur. "That I will," said Arthur, glad of the chance to ride longer in the delightful air. But when he reached their dwelling, he could not get in. The drawbridge was raised, and he could not make the warden hear his calling. Then Arthur was disturbed and said to himself: "I will hasten to the churchyard we passed, and take the beautiful sword which I saw in the stone. It does not seem to belong to anyone, and my brother Kay must have a weapon." So he rode on till he reached the churchyard, dismounted, and tied his horse to a sapling. The ten knights who guarded the sword had gone away to see the combats in the tournament. Arthur ran up and pulled lightly but eagerly at the sword. It came at once from the anvil. He hurried to Sir Kay, who was waiting for him on London bridge. Sir Kay knew that the weapon was the one that had been fixed fast in the stone, but he said nothing to Arthur, and the two soon overtook Sir Hector, who had ridden slowly to the field where the tournament was taking place. Sir Kay immediately told his father what had happened. The good knight at once spoke with great respect to Arthur. "Sir," he said, "you must be the king of this land." "What mean you, sir?" asked Arthur. Sir Hector told the wondering youth the reason why he was destined to be king. Then he said: "Can you put this sword back in its place and pull it out again?" "Easily," replied Arthur. The three returned to the great stone, and Arthur put back the sword. Sir Hector tried to take it out, but failed. "Now, you try," he said to Sir Kay. But Sir Kay, in spite of great efforts, also failed. Then Arthur, at Sir Hector's bidding, tried, and at once pulled forth the sword. At that Sir Hector and Sir Kay knelt before Arthur. "Alas," said Arthur, raising them from the ground, "my own dear father and my brother, why do you kneel to me?" "Nay, my lord Arthur," said Sir Hector, "I am not your father. You are of higher blood than I am. Long ago, when you were a little baby, Merlin brought you to me to take care of, telling me that you were to be the king." "Then whose son am I?" cried Arthur. "There are two stories: the one that Merlin tells, and the one that old Bleys, the master of Merlin, tells. Merlin brought you to me, saying that you were the son of King Uther and Yguerne his wife. But because the king was dead and the lords powerful and jealous, he told me to guard you in secrecy lest your life be taken. I did not know whether the story was true or false then, but you were a helpless child, and Merlin was a wise sage, and so I took you and brought you up as my own." Arthur was so astonished that he did not ask to hear the tale that Bleys told. He stood gazing at Sir Hector, who said: "And now, my gracious lord, will you be good to me and mine when you are king?" "I will, indeed," replied Arthur, "for I am more beholden to you than to any one else in the world, and also to my good lady and foster mother, your wife, who has reared me as if I were her own child. If it be God's will that I shall sometime become king, ask of me then what you will." "Sir," said Sir Hector, "I ask that you make my son Sir Kay, your foster brother, the steward of all your lands." "That shall be done," said Arthur, "and more. He shall have that office as long as I live." Then the three went to the Archbishop of Canterbury and related to him the story of Merlin and all that had occurred. At his request they told no one else. At the command of the archbishop on Twelfth day, which is the sixth of January, all the great lords assembled in the churchyard. Each tried to draw forth the sword, and each failed. Then the untitled people came and tried. Everyone failed until at last Arthur stepped forward. He hardly more than touched the sword when it came away in his hand. At this many of the great lords were angry. [Illustration: _"He hardly more than touched the sword"_] "He is but a boy," they said, "and not of high blood." They refused to believe the story of his birth told by Merlin and Sir Hector. And because of all the quarreling, it was decided to have another trial at Candlemas, which fell in the month of February. Again Arthur was victorious. Then the great lords decreed that there should be another trial at Easter, and again Arthur succeeded. Next they decided to have a final trial at the feast of the Pentecost, which fell in May. Meanwhile, Merlin advised the archbishop to see that Arthur had a bodyguard. So the archbishop selected several knights whom the former king, Uther, had trusted. These were Sir Ulfius and Sir Brastias and Sir Bedivere; Sir Geraint and Sir Hector and Sir Kay were also chosen. These brave men formed a bodyguard for Arthur until the feast of the Pentecost. At this time Arthur again drew out the sword from the anvil. Then the common people, who had so far let the lords have their will, cried out: "We will have Arthur for our king, and we will have no more delay, for we see that it is God's will that he shall be our ruler." Then all the people knelt down, high and low, rich and poor, and begged Arthur's pardon for the delay he had undergone. Arthur forgave them, and taking his sword, reverently placed it on the great altar beside which the archbishop stood. This was a sign that he meant to dedicate himself and his sword to God. Afterward the crowning was held, and all the brave men and fair ladies in the land were present. The lords wore beautiful robes of velvet and ermine, with gold and jewels on their breast-plates. The ladies' robes were of purple and white and scarlet and gold and blue, and they wore many pearls and rubies and diamonds, so that all the place where they were assembled was glowing with light and color. But Arthur, who wore a plain white robe, did not think of the beauty and richness. He was very grave, knowing that he was about to take a solemn oath. He bowed his head, while the archbishop set upon it the golden crown, which gleamed with jewels. Then he stood up before his people, and vowed that he would be a good king and always do justice. All the people uncovered their heads and vowed to serve and obey him; and when he smiled kindly on them as he rode slowly through the throng, they threw up their caps and shouted joyfully: "Long live King Arthur! Long live the King!" King Arthur chose worthy men for his officers, making Sir Kay steward as he had promised; Sir Ulfius he made chamberlain, and Sir Brastias warden. Arthur gave offices also to Sir Hector and Sir Bedivere and Sir Geraint. After his crowning the king set about righting all the wrongs that had been done since the death of King Uther. He gave back the lands and money that had been taken from widows and orphans, and would permit no unkindness to any of his subjects. Thus, at the very beginning of his reign, his people began to call him ="Good King Arthur"= [Illustration] THE GOOD SWORD EXCALIBUR Soon after the crowning of King Arthur, he was journeying through the land with Merlin, the wise old magician, when they met a knight who challenged Arthur to a combat. The two fought, and at last the knight wounded Arthur severely. In the end the king was victorious, but he had lost so much blood that he could go no farther. Merlin took him to a good hermit who healed his wound in three days. Then the king departed with Merlin, and as they were slowly riding along he said: "I am still weak from the blood I have lost, and my sword is broken." "Do not fear," said Merlin. "You shall lose no more blood and you shall have a good sword. Ride on trustfully with me." They rode in silence until they came to a lake, large and quiet, and as beautiful in color as a pearl. While Arthur was looking at its beauty, he became suddenly aware of three tall women, with fair, sweet faces, standing on the bank. "Who are they?" the king asked. "Three queens who shall help you at your worst need," answered Merlin. "Now look out upon the lake again." Arthur turned his eyes upon the lake and saw that in the distance a slight mist had arisen. Through it the figure of a lady glided over the surface of the water. Her robe appeared to be made of waves which streamed away in flowing curves from her body. Her head and shoulders seemed wrapped in foam tinted with the colors of the rainbow, and her arms glittered with sparkles which came from bubbles of water. She was so wonderful that Arthur looked at her for some time before he asked softly: "Who is she?" [Illustration: _Arthur and the Lady of the Lake_] "She is the Lady of the Lake," said Merlin. "She lives in a rock in the middle of the lake. See, she is coming toward us. Look at what is beyond her in the water." Arthur looked and saw rising above the surface of the water an arm clothed in pure white. This arm held a huge cross-hilted sword, so brilliant that Arthur's eyes were dazzled. When the Lady of the Lake approached nearer, he said: "Damsel, what sword is that? I wish it were mine, for I have none." The lady smiled, saying: "Step into yonder boat, row to the sword, and take it, together with the scabbard." So Arthur entered a little boat that was tied to the shore, and rowed out to the sword. As he took it and the scabbard, all gleaming with jewels, the hand and arm vanished into the water. And when Arthur looked about, the three queens and the Lady of the Lake were also gone. As Arthur, still gazing at the sword, rowed to shore, Merlin said to him: "My lord Arthur, which pleases you more, sword or scabbard?" "In truth, the sword," replied the king. "Let me assure you," said Merlin, smiling gravely, "that the scabbard is worth ten of the sword. While you have it with you you shall never lose blood, no, no matter how sorely you are wounded. So see that you guard it well." The king, who was looking at the sword, sighed. "There is writing on the sword," he said. "True, my lord, written in the oldest tongue in the world." "_Take me_ on one side," said Arthur, "and _Cast me away_ on the other. I am glad to take the sword, but it saddens me to think of casting it away." Merlin's face grew sad, too. He was so wise that he knew what was going to happen in the future, and he was well aware that when the time came to cast the sword away, much evil would have befallen the good King Arthur. But he knew that the time was yet very far off; so he said: "You have taken the sword. Now use it to make justice and right prevail in all the land. Do not think of casting it away until you must." Arthur grew joyful again as he felt the strength of the good sword in his hand, and the two rode cheerfully forward through the country. [Illustration: The Shield] [Illustration] THE GREAT FEAST & WHAT FOLLOWED Although Arthur had been crowned king, he was by no means sure that all the nobles of the land would accept him as ruler. In accordance with the custom of the time, he gave a feast in order to find out who were his friends and who his enemies. All who came to the feast would, he supposed, consent to be his followers. He chose the largest hall in London, and had the walls hung with rich cloths. Upon the floor, strewn with rushes, were placed trestles, and across these, boards were laid. Upon them fine white linen was spread, and golden saltcellars, wine-bowls, and water-jugs set about. When the guests assembled there were so many that Arthur was delighted, for he thought they were all his friends. He sat at the head of one table, and Sir Hector sat at the head of the other. Arthur wore a gold crown on his head, but it was no brighter than his hair, and the blue turquoises with which it was set were no bluer than his eyes. From his shoulders to the ground hung a magnificent red robe with gold dragons embroidered upon it. The cooks and squires came in from the kitchen carrying food, their ruddy faces beaming from the heat of the fires. First of all, sixty boars' heads were borne in on silver platters. Then followed, on golden dishes, peacocks and plovers which had been so skillfully cooked that their bright colors were preserved. After the guests had eaten all they cared for of this food, tiny roasted pigs were brought in, and set on all fours upon the tables. By this time, all the gold and silver goblets which had been filled with wine needed refilling. Then the squires carried in beautiful white swans on silver platters, and roasted cranes and curlews on plates that glowed like the sun. After that came rabbits stewed in sweet sauce, and hams and curries. The last course consisted of tarts and preserves, dates and figs and pomegranates. The supper began about five o'clock, and the guests ate and drank into the night. Although it was past Easter time, the weather was a little cold, and so upon the stone flagging between the two long tables the king ordered fires to be lighted. The bright flames darted up, flashing on the gold threads woven in the hangings of the walls, and on the steel armor of the lords, and gleaming on the jewels set in the gold and silver goblets which the squires were carrying about. At one side sat a band of musicians singing of the glories of King Arthur, and of the folk-tales of his ancestors and people, accompanying themselves on their harps. After the guests had risen from the tables and gone to their camps, Arthur sent messengers to them with rich gifts of horses and furs and gold. But most of the lords received the messengers scornfully. "Take back these gifts to the beardless boy who has come of low blood," they said; "we do not want them. We have come here to give him gifts of hard blows with our hard swords." The messengers were astonished to hear these things spoken of their good king. Nevertheless, they told Arthur all that had been said to them. He sent no answer back, but he called together all the lords whom he was sure were loyal to him, and asked their advice. They said to him: "We cannot give you advice, but we can fight." "You speak well, my lords," answered Arthur, "and I thank you for your courage. Will you take the advice of Merlin? You know that he has done much for me, and he is very wise." The lords and barons answered that they would do whatever Merlin advised. When Merlin came to the council hall he said: "I warn you that your enemies are very strong. They have added to their numbers so that now you have against you eleven mighty kings." At this the lords looked dismayed. "Unless our lord Arthur has more men than he can find in his own realm," said Merlin, "he will be overcome and slain. Therefore I give you this counsel. There are two brothers across the sea; both are monarchs and both very strong. One is King Ban of Benwick, and the other is King Bors of Gaul. Now these two have an enemy, also a powerful ruler. Therefore, send to the brothers, King Bors and King Ban who are now both in Benwick, and say to them that if they will help Arthur in his war against the eleven kings, Arthur will help them against their common enemy." "That is very good counsel," said the king and the lords. So they chose Sir Ulfius and Sir Brastias as messengers, and these two hurried away, hopeful of success. When they reached the town in Benwick where King Bors and King Ban were, knights came forth to receive them and to hear their message. As soon as it was learned from whom they had come they were led into the presence of the brothers. Both were very large men. King Bors was dark, and was dressed in black armor. King Ban was dark, too; the colors that he wore on his shield were green and gold. He was the father of Sir Lancelot, the knight who afterwards became the most powerful of the followers of Arthur. The two kings received Sir Ulfius and Sir Brastias with much favor. "Tell King Arthur," they said, "that we will come to him as quickly as we can." Then they gave splendid gifts to Sir Ulfius and Sir Brastias, who hurried back to Arthur with the message. In a short time King Bors and King Ban arrived with ten thousand of their soldiers, and as Arthur had ten thousand, they felt certain of victory. They went into Wales, a country which Arthur's followers knew well, and waited confidently for the enemy. The eleven kings collected a great host of sixty thousand men, fifty thousand on horseback and ten thousand on foot. They marched towards the place where Arthur was, and set up their camp near a wood about a mile distant. When Merlin knew this, he said to Arthur and the two kings: [Illustration: _King Bors and King Ban_] "This is my advice: Set upon your enemies at midnight when they are unprepared, and then you will have the advantage." So Arthur and the two royal brothers and the twenty thousand soldiers crept up to where the eleven kings and their men lay. They took a road circling round the wood. Moving with great caution, they drew nearer and nearer until they could see first the camp fires in a circle around the white tents; and then, against the flashing flames, the dark figures of the men who were keeping guard. Sometimes they were afraid that the noise they made would alarm their enemies, but on account of a heavy windstorm, they were unheard. When his men were quite near, Arthur gave the word of command. The whole army uttered a great shout, and ran forward in companies upon their enemies. In a few minutes they had knocked down most of the tents, and killed many soldiers. It was a dreadful thing to be attacked in the dark without warning. But the eleven kings were brave men, even though they were so unjust to Arthur in trying to take his kingdom from him, and made a good fight. Perhaps they would have made a better one if they had known how few the men were under Arthur. Before day dawned, Merlin told Arthur to draw back his troops. This he did, leaving about ten thousand of the enemy dead behind him. He, however, had not lost very many men. At daybreak Arthur and his followers saw that the lay of the land could be used to their advantage. Between them and the enemy was a narrow road, bounded on one side by a lake, and on the other side by a dense wood. One part of this wood, however, was thin enough to allow men to hide in it. "Now," said Merlin, "let King Bors and King Ban take their soldiers and hide in the wood for a long time. Then, my lord Arthur, stand up before the enemy with your men." "Why shall we do this?" asked Arthur. "Because," said the wise old man, "when the eleven kings see how few in number your troops are, they will let you proceed down the passage. They will think that if you march close to them they can overcome you. But you can fill up this narrow road with more and more men from the wood. Then the enemy cannot surround you." "That seems very good," said Arthur. "And at last," continued Merlin, "when the eleven kings are weary, let King Bors and King Ban come forth. Then surely the courage of our enemies will fail." The plan was carried out. Arthur's men marched down the passage. The green wood was on one side, and on the other was the lake, the water of which was so clear that it reflected the bodies of the soldiers with their shields and helmets. The sun shone on their armor. The little birds in the woods sang as they passed. But the men were thinking of nothing but the expected battle. When they had come close to the enemy, they saw the eleven kings all in a row, mounted on big handsome horses. Their fifty thousand men were behind them. Suddenly these rode forward and the battle began. It was a fierce fight. In a very short time the field was covered with overthrown men and horses. Broken shields and helmets lay on the ground, and many of the knights who had been fighting on horseback were unhorsed, and were fighting on foot. Arthur galloped here and there among his enemies, conquering with his trusty sword all with whom he fought. The woods and the water rang with his sword strokes. The noise drowned the sweet songs of the birds, but still they sang, and flew about gaily, all unaware of the grim death-struggle going on beneath them. Finally the time arrived for bringing forward King Bors and his men. The great dark king went thundering down upon his enemies. When the King of Orkney saw him coming, he cried: "Oh, we are in great danger! I see King Bors, one of the best and bravest kings in the world, and he is helping our enemy." Then the other kings were astonished, for they did not know that Arthur had sent outside his country for help. "But we will fight on," they said, "no matter how powerful he is." While they were still fighting, but with great loss of courage, they heard the loud sounds made by the hoofs of other tramping horses, and King Ban rode down on them, followed by his men. His black brows were frowning, and his green and gold colors glittered in the sun. "Alas, alas!" cried the King of Orkney, "now in truth are we lost, for here is another king, no less great than his brother Bors. But we must neither flee nor yield." The eleven kings, being agreed to this, continued the battle, though so many of their men were killed that the King of Orkney wept. When he saw some of his men running away, he wept still more, for he thought it was better to die than to be a coward. Though they did not intend to run away, the eleven kings thought it would be wise to retreat to a little copse near by. It was late and they were tired and wished to rest before fighting again. King Bors and King Ban could not help admiring these rulers. "In truth," said King Ban, "they are the bravest men I ever saw. I would they were your friends." "Indeed, so would I," replied Arthur; "but I have no hope of that, for they are determined to destroy me, and so we must fight on." At this moment Merlin rode up on his great black horse. "Have you not done enough?" he cried to Arthur. "Of their sixty thousand men there are left but fifteen thousand. It is time to stop, I say. If you fight on, they will win the day. The tide will turn against you." Arthur hesitated and Merlin said: "The eleven kings have a great trouble coming of which they are ignorant. The Saracens have landed in their countries to the number of over forty thousand. So your enemies will have so much fighting to do that they will not attack you again for three years." Then Arthur was glad, for it had grieved him deeply to fight so long and to lose his good soldiers. "We will fight no more," he said. "That is well," replied Merlin. "Now give presents to your soldiers, for to-day they have proved themselves equal to the best fighters in the world." "True, indeed!" exclaimed King Bors and King Ban. So Arthur gave gifts to his own men; and a great deal of gold to the brother kings, both for themselves and for their soldiers. And the two kings went home rejoicing. [Illustration: The Two Horses] [Illustration] ARTHUR'S COURT & THE ORDER OF THE ROUND TABLE After Arthur had proved his prowess in his contest with the eleven kings, he decided to establish his Court and the Order of the Round Table. The place he chose was the city of Camelot in Wales, which had a good situation, being built upon a hill. He called the wise Merlin and ordered him to make a great palace on the summit of the hill. Through his powers of enchantment, Merlin was able to do this very quickly, and within a week the king and his personal attendants were settled in the palace. The main part consisted of a great Assembly Hall built of white marble, the roof of which seemed to be upheld by pillars of green and red porphyry, and was surmounted by magnificent towers. The outside walls of the hall were covered with beautiful rows of sculpture. The lowest row represented wild beasts slaying men. The second row represented men slaying wild beasts. The third represented warriors who were peaceful, good men. The fourth showed men with growing wings. Over all was a winged statue with the face of Arthur. Merlin meant to show by means of the first row that formerly evil in men was greater than good; by the second that men began to conquer the evil in themselves, which in time caused them to become really good, noble, and peace-loving men, as in the third row. And finally, through the refining influence of Good King Arthur and his wise helpers, men would grow to be almost as perfect as the angels. The main doorway was in the shape of an arch, upheld by pillars of dark yellow marble. The hall was lighted by fourteen great windows, through which the light streamed in soft colors upon the marble floors. Between these windows, and along the cornices, were beautiful decorations. There were carvings in white marble of birds and beasts and twining vines. There was mosaic work of black and yellow and pink marble and of lapis lazuli, as blue as a lake when the clear sun shines full upon its surface. Under the windows were many stone shields, beneath each of which was the name of a knight. Some shields were blazoned with gold, some were carved, and some were blank. The walls were hung with beautiful tapestries which had been woven by the ladies of the land for Arthur's new palace. On each had been pictured some episode from the life of King Arthur; the drawing of the magic sword from the anvil, the finding of the good sword Excalibur, his deeds of justice and acts of kindness, and his many battles and wars. The two wings of the palace contained the dining hall and kitchen and the living apartments of all the members of the court who made their home with the king. The dining hall was only a little less beautiful than Arthur's great Assembly Hall. The walls were hung with cloths of scarlet and gold. The deep fireplace was supported by four bronze pillars. In the middle of the room were long tables made of oak boards set on ivory trestles. At a banquet the walls were hung with garlands of flowers or festoons of branches. The great kitchen had stone walls and stone flagging. The fireplace was so large that there was room for a whole ox to be roasted, and above hung cranes from which half a dozen kettles could be suspended, and pots of such a size that pigs could be boiled whole in them. All about the walls were cupboards. Some were full of plates of wood, iron, steel, silver, and gold, and flagons, cups, bowls, and saltcellars of gold and silver. Others were used for the storing of cold meats and fruits. There were several tables on which the cooked food was cut, and benches upon which the cooks rested when they were tired of serving the hungry eaters. Well might they have grown tired. Supper, the most important meal of the day, lasted from three until six, and often longer. But the cooks, and the little scullion boys who washed the pots and pans, and the attendants who carried in the food to the dining hall, all wore contentment and happiness on their faces as they hurried about with their long blouses tucked out of harm's way; for to serve King Arthur and his guests was considered a real privilege. The sleeping rooms were furnished with chests, and chairs, and beds spread with fine linen and with ermine-lined covers. Hangings of various colors were upon the walls. On the floors were strewn rushes, and among them was thrown mint which gave forth an agreeable odor. After Arthur, his officers, and his servants had been in the palace a few days, the king formally established his Court. He invited all the knights who cared to do so to come with their families and retinues and live with him. Some preferred to remain in their own castles, but others gladly went to live with the king. Soon all were comfortably settled. The king's officers were very important members of Arthur's court. First of these came the Archbishop of Canterbury, who held the highest place in the king's regard. It was his duty to conduct the church services for Arthur and his followers, and to christen, marry, and bury the people of Camelot. Next, Sir Ulfius as chamberlain superintended the care of the king's rooms. Sir Brastias, who was warden, superintended the servants. Sir Kay, who was steward, had charge of all the food and the kitchen. Sir Hector, as treasurer, took care of the king's gold and rendered the accounts. Sir Geraint managed all the tournaments and outdoor sports of the knights and squires. There were other officers to help these, and all did their work faithfully and lovingly. The knights whom Arthur chose to be members of his Round Table were mostly selected from these officers. As members of this order there were one hundred and fifty of the knights who had shown themselves especially brave in battle and who were devoted followers of the king. Next to being king, the greatest honor which could fall to a warrior was to be made a member of the Round Table, for all who belonged to the order were dedicated to the service of God and mankind. There is no glory greater than such a dedication. In his great hall Arthur had placed a huge table, made round in shape so that there should be neither head nor foot, a higher place nor a lower place. Arthur wished all who sat there to be equals. These chosen knights were to give him council in times of peace and of war. It was a solemn hour when the knights took their places. The Archbishop of Canterbury blessed them and their seats. Then each one came to Arthur, who stood at the top of the Assembly Hall, and did him homage. Next they took their vows. They promised to be brave and good, never false, or mean, or cruel. If anyone with whom they fought begged for mercy, they would show him mercy. And they vowed never to fight for a wrong cause or for money. Each year at the feast of the Pentecost they were to repeat these vows. Other members of Arthur's Court were old, brave knights who could no longer fight, but who liked to be near the king and his warriors, and gave the wisdom of age and experience to his councils; young, ambitious, and promising knights who had had but little real experience in battle; and faithful squires who had had no real experience at all. Boys from six to fourteen years were pages. There were others who transformed Arthur's Court to a place of grace and beauty,--the mothers, wives, sisters, and daughters of the warriors. Although they did not help in the councils of war, these ladies were of great assistance in training the knights to be tender and courteous. They taught the little pages good manners and unselfishness. They assisted the knights in removing their armor when they came in tired from riding or fighting. They sat with Arthur and the knights in the evening in the dining-hall, singing or playing upon harps, or listening to the tales that were told. When the knights were away the ladies stayed in their own chambers, hearing wise readings from the Archbishop of Canterbury, or other learned men, listening to Merlin's words of wisdom, and embroidering the beautiful hangings and cushions which were to adorn the palace. It was a month before Arthur's Court was established, and during that time the city of Camelot was a scene of continual merriment. The people of the place were glad that the king had come, for that meant much gain for them. Those of them who did not live in the palace had their houses or shops on the streets which wound about the foot of the hill. Many of the shops belonged to armorers, who had armor of all sorts for any one who would buy. They were glad in their turn to buy the swords of famous knights which had been used in great battles, for such weapons they could always sell again at a good price. These shopkeepers and the servants and the squires and the warriors all united to make the city of Camelot a beautiful one, for the sake of their king. The streets were kept strewn with rushes and flowers. Rich awnings and silken draperies were hung from the houses. All day long processions passed, made up of the followers of all those lords who gave allegiance to the king. They carried the banners of their masters, crimson, white, or scarlet, gold, silver, or azure, making the streets glow with color. The marching squires wore ornamented blouses, drawn in at the waist, long silk stockings, and shoes of embroidered leather. The bowmen were dressed in green kirtles, rather shorter than those of the squires, and wore dark woolen hose; they carried their bows and arrows slung across their shoulders. The servants were dressed in much the same way, except that their blouses were longer and of various colors. Many knights rode in the processions, their long plumes waving in the wind, their armor shining, and their falcons perched upon their wrists. All day long, too, bands of musicians played on flutes and timbrels and tabors and harps; bands of young men and women sang songs in praise of the king; story-tellers went about relating old tales of famous heroes. The young men showed their strength by tumbling and wrestling, and their grace by dancing; the young women also danced. The wise Merlin often passed along the streets, walking silently among the merry throngs of people. Sometimes the little Dagonet danced at his side, Dagonet the king's jester, a tiny man who made merriment for the Court with his witty sayings. He always wore a tight-fitting red blouse and a peaked cap ornamented with bells, and he carried a mock scepter in the shape of a carved ivory stick. Whenever Arthur appeared before his people, church-bells were joyously rung and trumpets were sounded. The king, as he rode, distributed presents to the poor people:--capes, coats, and mantles of serge, and bushels of pence. In a dining-hall at the palace, feasts were held on those days for them, and they were also open for all the people who might come. When the weather was beautiful, tables were placed on the sward outside the palace, and those who cared to, ate under the shade of the trees, listening to the music of the blackbirds, whose singing was almost as loud as that of the chorus of damsels who sang in the palace. Every hour the servants carried in and out great quarters of venison, roasted pheasants and herons, and young hawks, ducks, and geese, all on silver platters. Curries and stews and tarts were innumerable. In the midst of the sward a silver fountain had been set from which flowed sweet wine. Even the great feasts of the year, which were held at Christmas, upon the day of the Passover, at Pentecost, upon Ascension day, and upon St. John's day, were not as wonderful as these feasts, when the king held holiday with his people. On these days of merriment, when the people were not eating or drinking or marching in processions, they were at the tournament field, watching the combats. Here the best of Arthur's knights, mounted on strong horses and wearing heavy armor, were ranged on two sides of the field. Behind each row was a pavilion filled with ladies. Four heralds stood ready to blow the trumpets which gave the signal for the combats. Each herald wore crimson silk stockings and crimson velvet kirtles, tight at the waist, and reaching half-way to the knee. When it was time to begin the heralds blew the trumpets, the ladies bent over eagerly, and the knights spurred their horses forward, riding with their lances in rest. In a moment clouds of dust arose, circling up as high as the plumes on the knights' helmets, and their lances crashed against each other's shields. Many of the lances broke. Sometimes the shock of contact overthrew a knight. But no one was hurt, for the good King Arthur had ordered that the combats should be friendly. When the jousting had lasted for several hours, those knights who had shown themselves the stronger, received prizes from the ladies. The prizes were suits of armor ornamented with gold, and swords with jeweled hilts. The knight who, of all, was the strongest, chose the lady whom he considered most beautiful, and crowned her "The Queen of Love and Beauty." During the month of feasting, Arthur made knights of some of the squires. A young squire was first obliged to show his skill in tilting at the quintain. Then his father presented him with falcons and sparrowhawks for hunting, and arms and robes. He also gave robes and arms to his son's companions, and, to their mothers and sisters, furs and embroidered robes, and belts of gold. Finally he gave money to the singers and players, and servants, and to the poor people of Camelot. At about sunset the young squire went into the church, where the Archbishop of Canterbury held a solemn service. The youth took the armor which he had chosen, and placed it on the floor in front of the altar. He was then left alone, and all night long he prayed fervently to God to give him strength to be a noble and true knight. In the morning the king came to the church, attended by his nobles and by the archbishop. The squire laid his sword on the altar, thus signifying his devotion to Christ and his determination to lead a holy life. King Arthur bound the sword and spurs on the young man, and, taking Excalibur, he smote him lightly on the shoulder with it, saying, "Be thou a true and faithful knight." Then the squire took a solemn oath to protect all who were in distress, to do right, to be a pure knight, and to have faith in God. After that the Archbishop of Canterbury preached a solemn sermon. When the month of feasting and holiday was ended, the members of the Court returned to their usual habits of life. The Knights of the Round Table went forth to right wrongs and to enforce the law. All who were in distress came to the king for help. And to the whole country Arthur's Court was famous as a place where unkindness was never done, and where truth, justice, and love reigned. [Illustration: The Shield and the Sword] [Illustration] KING ARTHUR & THE PRINCESS GUINEVERE After Arthur had been established in his Court for some time, his neighbor, Leodogran, the king of Cameliard, asked him for help in a battle. To this Arthur cheerfully consented, and gathered his warrior men about him. It chanced, as he and his men were marching past the castle of Leodogran to meet the enemy, the king's daughter, Guinevere, who was the most beautiful lady in all that land, stood on the castle wall to watch her father's allies pass. Now she did not know, of all the knights who rode by, which was Arthur. Many wore gold and jewels on their armor, while the king's armor was plain. [Illustration: _"Arthur saw Guinevere bending over the wall"_] But Arthur saw her bending over the wall. She was slender and graceful; her black hair fell in two long heavy braids over each shoulder; her eyes were large and black. And Arthur felt a warm love spring from his heart for her, and said to himself: "If I win this battle for Leodogran, I shall ask him to give me the princess Guinevere for wife." His love for Guinevere made him fight even more bravely than usual, and he soon won the battle. After he had returned to Camelot, he told his knights that he wished to marry the princess. They were very glad, because they, too, had seen her and thought her the most beautiful lady they had ever beheld. Then Arthur said: "I will send my three good knights, Sir Ulfius and Sir Brastias and Sir Bedivere, to King Leodogran to ask for Guinevere." The three knights set forth gayly, feeling certain that King Leodogran would be glad to marry his daughter to their great Arthur. When, however, they came to the castle of Leodogran with their request, the king hesitated. He bade them wait for a little while in the room adjoining his large hall. Then he said to himself: "Arthur has helped me, indeed. I know, too, that he is powerful. But I hear strange stories of his birth. There are people who say that he is not a king's son. However great he is, I cannot give him my only daughter unless he is really a true king, born of royal blood." He called the oldest knight in his kingdom and said to him: "Do you know anything about Arthur's birth?" The old man looked very wise and said: "There are two men who do know; the younger of them is twice as old as I am. They are Merlin, and Bleys, the master of Merlin. Bleys has written down the secret of Arthur's birth in a book." Then King Leodogran laughed a little and said: "My friend, your words have not helped me much. If Arthur had not helped me in my time of need more than you have helped me now, I should have been lost indeed. Go and call Sir Ulfius and Sir Brastias and Sir Bedivere." So the old man brought in the three knights, and Leodogran said to them: "I hear strange tales of your king's birth. Some say that he is indeed the son of the late King Uther, but others say that he is the son of Sir Hector. Do you believe that he is Uther's son?" They said "Yes," and then told King Leodogran that Sir Hector had brought up King Arthur as his son, for fear that those who wanted the throne would kill the child; and that Arthur was undoubtedly Uther's son. Still King Leodogran could not make up his mind. He bade the three lords remain with him for a few days. Meanwhile the beautiful Queen Bellicent came to the Court, and Leodogran asked her advice. "Do you think Arthur is a great king?" he asked. "Will he always be great?" "He is very great," said the queen. "And all his people love him. Perhaps he has not many lords, but their deep love makes up for their small number." "That may be true," replied the king. "Besides that," added the queen, "they are good men. As you know, the Knights of the Round Table are bound by vows to be kind and true and merciful and helpful." "I have heard it," said the king. "Moreover," went on Queen Bellicent, "Arthur has powerful friends: Merlin, the magician, and the Lady of the Lake, who gave him his sword Excalibur, and the three fair queens, who will help him when he needs help most." "Yes, yes," said King Leodogran, "if all this is true, Arthur must prevail over his enemies. But is he the son of King Uther and Queen Yguerne? You are the daughter of Queen Yguerne by an earlier marriage, and, therefore, Arthur's half-sister if Arthur is really Uther's son. You ought surely to know the truth." Bellicent waited a little while, and then said: "King Leodogran, I do not know what the truth is. There are two stories: the story Merlin tells and the story Bleys tells. Merlin says that Arthur is Uther's son, and indeed I should like to believe it." "But you are not sure?" asked the king. "I am not sure. For my mother Yguerne was dark, and King Uther was dark. Their hair and eyes were black like mine. Yet Arthur's hair is as bright as gold. Besides, there is the story of old Bleys." "What is his story?" "He says that Uther died, weeping because he had no heir. Then Bleys and Merlin, who were present at his death, passed together out of the castle. It was a stormy night, and as they walked along by the lake they were forced by the roar of the tempest to look out upon the waves, whipped by the wind. "Suddenly they saw a ship on the water. It had the shape of a winged dragon. All over its decks stood a multitude of people shining like gold. Then the ship vanished, and a number of great waves began to roll in towards shore. The ninth of these waves seemed as large as half the sea. It was murmuring with strange voices and rippling with flames. In the midst of the flames was a little fair-haired baby who was borne to Merlin's feet. Merlin stooped and picked it up, and cried, 'The King! Here is an heir for Uther!' This, King Leodogran, is the story Bleys told me before he died." King Leodogran wondered very much. Then he said: "But did you not question Merlin about this?" "Yes," answered Queen Bellicent. "I asked him if this story of Bleys was true. He would only answer me with a riddle." As King Leodogran was still silent, she said: "Do not fear to give your daughter to Arthur, for he will be the greatest king the world has ever seen." Leodogran felt less doubtful. While he was thinking, he fell asleep and had a dream. He saw in his dream a field covered with mist and smoke, and a phantom king standing in the cloud. He heard a voice which said, "This is not our king; this is not the son of Uther." But suddenly the mist disappeared and the king stood out in heaven, crowned. King Leodogran took this dream for a good sign. He called the three knights, Sir Ulfius and Sir Brastias and Sir Bedivere, and said to them: "Say to your king that I will give him Guinevere for his wife." So the three hastily returned to King Arthur, who was overjoyed with their message. In the month of May he sent Sir Lancelot, the son of King Ban, for Guinevere. When she came, the Archbishop of Canterbury married them. And he blessed them and said that they, with the help of the Knights of the Round Table, must do much good for the land. [Illustration: The Knight with the Sword] [Illustration] THE COMING of GARETH The beautiful Queen Bellicent had many sons, all of whom had gone out in the world except the youngest. His name was Gareth. His two brothers, Gawain and Modred, were with the good King Arthur, and Gareth longed to join them. His mother, however, would not let him go. "You are not yet a man," she said. "You are only a child. Stay a little longer with me." So Gareth stayed. One day he came to his mother and said: "Mother, may I tell you a story?" "Gladly," she replied. "Then, mother, once there was a golden egg which a royal eagle had laid, away up in a tree. It was so high up that it could hardly be seen. But a youth, who though poor was brave, saw it, and longed for it. He knew that if he could get it, it would bring wealth and prosperity to him. So he tried to climb. One who loved him stopped him, saying, 'You will fall and be killed if you try to reach that height.' Therefore the poor boy did not climb, and so did not fall; but he pined away with longing till his heart broke and he died." Queen Bellicent answered: "If the person who held him back had loved him, that person would have climbed, and found the egg, and given it to the youth." "That could not be," said Gareth. "Mother, suppose the egg were not gold, but steel, the same steel that Arthur's sword Excalibur is made of." The queen grew pale, for she now understood his meaning. But Gareth spoke on: "Dear mother, the gold egg is the glory to be won at Arthur's Court; I am the poor youth, and you are the one who holds me back. Mother, let me go!" Then Bellicent wept, and she said: "Oh, my son, do not leave me. You love me more than Gawain and Modred. You are all I have left in the world." But Gareth replied: "Mother, I waste my strength here." "No, no," she said. "You shall hunt; you shall follow the deer and the fox, and so grow strong. Then I will find you a beautiful wife, and we shall all live together till I die." Gareth shook his head. "No, mother. I do not want a wife until I have proved myself to be a worthy and brave knight. I wish to follow Arthur, my good king and uncle." "Perhaps he is not the true king and your uncle," Bellicent said. "At least wait a little till he has shown himself to be the greatest king in the world. Stay with me." "Nay, mother," he said. "I must go." Then the queen thought of a plan which she hoped would soon make him willing to stay home. "If I let you go, my son, you must make me a promise. The promise will prove your love to me." "I will make a hundred promises," cried young Gareth, "if you will only let me go." "Then," she said, "you must go in disguise to the court of Arthur. You must hire yourself out as a kitchen boy. You shall wash the pots and pans for a whole year and tell no one that you are the son of a queen." Queen Bellicent was sure that Gareth would not wish to make such a promise. He was silent a long, long time. He had hoped to take part at once with the Knights of the Round Table in great deeds. At last he said: "I may be a kitchen boy and still be noble in heart and mind. Besides, I can look on at the tournaments. I shall see King Arthur and Sir Lancelot and Sir Kay. Yes, mother, I will go." Queen Bellicent was very sad. All the days before Gareth's departure her eyes followed him until he felt that he could not bear to see her grieve longer. So in the middle of the night he rose quietly and woke two of his faithful servants. They dressed themselves like plowmen and started towards Camelot. It was Easter time and the young grass was a bright green. The birds were beginning their chirping, although it was not yet light. As the dawn came, they saw the early morning mist sweeping over the mountain and forest near Arthur's city of Camelot. Sometimes the mist drew away and showed in the distance the towers gleaming like silver. One of the servants said: "Let us go no farther, my lord Gareth. I am afraid. That is a fairy city." The second said: "Yes, lord, let us turn back. I have heard that Arthur is not the real king, but a changeling brought from fairyland in a great wave all flame. He has done all his deeds with the help of Merlin's enchantment." The first one spoke again: "Lord Gareth, that is no real city. It is a vision." But Gareth laughed and said: "Arthur is real flesh and blood, a brave man, and a just king. Come with me to the gate of his city, and do not be afraid." When they reached the gate of the city, they stared in amazement. It was made of silver and mother-of-pearl. In the center was carved the figure of the Lady of the Lake, with her arms outstretched in the form of a cross. In one hand she held a sword, and in the other a censer. On both sides of her figure was carved the story of the wars of King Arthur. Above all were the figures of the three queens who were to help Arthur in time of need. The three looked till their eyes were dazzled. Then they heard a peal of music, and the gate slowly opened. An old man with a long gray beard came out to greet them, and returning led them up past the gardens and groves and roofs and towers of Camelot to Arthur's great palace on the summit of the hill. Gareth hardly thought of the splendors of the palace. He approached the arched doorway of the Assembly Hall, thinking only as his heart beat quickly, that at last he was to see the good King Arthur. Even before he entered he heard the voice of the king. For it was one of the days when Arthur was giving judgment to his people. The king sat on a throne made of gold and ivory and ebony. On its arms and back were carved great dragons. Arthur wore a gold crown which was not brighter than his own beautiful hair and beard. His blue eyes were as calm and clear as the sky in summer time. His trusty knights stood about him on each side of the throne. The tallest of these, who had a worn, browned face, and piercing dark eyes, under frowning brows, must be, Gareth knew, the famous knight, Sir Lancelot. As Gareth entered, a widow came forward and cried to Arthur: "Hear me, oh, King! Your father, King Uther, took away a field from my husband, who is now dead. The king promised us gold, but he gave us no gold, nor would he return our field." Then Arthur said: "Which would you rather have, the gold or the field?" The woman wept, saying: "Oh, King, my dead husband loved the field. Give it back to me." "You shall have your field again," said Arthur, "and besides I will give you three times the amount of gold it is worth to pay you for the years King Uther had it." Gareth thought that Arthur was indeed a just king. And while this was passing through his mind, another widow came forward and cried: "Hear me, oh, King! Heretofore you have been my enemy. You killed my husband with your own hands. It is hard for me to ask justice or favor of you. Yet I must. My husband's brother took my son and had him slain, and has now stolen his land. So I ask you for a knight who will do battle and get my son's land for me, and revenge me for his death." Then a good knight stepped forward and said: "Sir King, I am her kinsman. Let me do battle for her and right her wrongs." But Sir Kay, Arthur's foster brother, said: "Lord Arthur, do not help a woman who has called you her enemy in your own hall." "Sir Kay," replied Arthur, "I am here to help all those who need help in my land. This woman loved her lord, and I killed him because he rebelled against me. Let her kinsman go and do battle against the man who has wronged her. Bring him here, and I shall judge him. If he is guilty he shall suffer." While Gareth was still listening to the king's words, a messenger entered from Mark, the king of Cornwall. He carried a wonderful gold cloth which he laid at Arthur's feet, saying: "My lord, King Mark sends you this as a sign that he is your true friend." But Arthur said: "Take back the cloth. When I fight with kings who are worthy men, after I have conquered them I give them back their lands, and make them my subject-kings and Knights of the Round Table. But Mark is not fit to be a king. He is cruel and false. I will not call him friend." The messenger stepped back in alarm. Arthur said to him kindly: "It is not your fault that Mark is unworthy. Stay in this city until you are refreshed and then go back home in safety." While the king judged other cases, Gareth looked around the great hall. Underneath the fourteen windows he saw three rows of stone shields, and under each shield was the name of a knight. If a knight had done one great deed, there was carving on his shield; if he had done two or more, there were gold markings. If he had done none, the shield was blank. Gareth saw that Sir Lancelot's shield and Sir Kay's glittered with gold. He looked for the shields of his brothers, Sir Gawain and Sir Modred. Sir Gawain's was marked with gold, but Sir Modred's was blank. Meanwhile, Arthur had judged all the cases. Then Gareth came forward timidly and said: "Lord King, you see my poor clothes; give me leave to serve for twelve months in your kitchen without telling my name. After that I will fight." "You are a fair youth," Arthur replied, "and you deserve a better gift. However, since this is all you ask, I will put you under the care of Sir Kay, who is master of the kitchen." Sir Kay looked at Gareth with scorn. "This youth has come from some place where he did not get enough to eat," he said, "and so he thinks of nothing but food. Yet if he wants food, he shall have it, provided he does his work well." Sir Lancelot, who stood near by, said: "Sir Kay, you understand dogs and horses well, but not men. Look at this youth's face; see his broad forehead and honest eyes, and beautiful hands. I believe he is of noble birth, and you should treat him well." "Perhaps he is a traitor," Sir Kay said. "Perhaps he will poison King Arthur's food. Yet I believe he is too stupid to be a traitor. If he were not stupid, or if he were noble, he would have asked for a different gift. He would have asked for a horse and armor. Let him go to my kitchen." So Gareth went to the kitchen. And there he worked faithfully at hard tasks, such as cutting wood and drawing water. Sir Lancelot spoke to him kindly whenever he passed him, but Sir Kay was always very strict and severe. Sometimes Gareth grew discouraged and wished his mother had not exacted such a promise of him. Whenever there was a tournament he was happy. He liked to watch the horses prancing, and the brave knights riding, with the sun shining on their helmets and lances. And he would say to himself: "Only wait till the twelve months have passed, and then I shall ask King Arthur to let me do some brave deed. Perhaps some one will come to the hall and demand to have a wrong righted. Then I will beg the king to let me do that act of justice." Such thoughts kept him cheerful. And indeed, before many weeks, his chance came for doing a great deed. [Illustration] THE STORY OF SIR GARETH & LYNETTE Gareth served in the kitchen of the king only one month, for his mother became sorry for the promise she had asked of him, and sent armor for him to Arthur's Court, with a letter to the king telling who the youth was. With great joy Gareth then went to Arthur and said: "My lord, I can fight as well as my brother Gawain. At home we have proved it. Then make me a knight,--in secret, for I do not want the other knights to know my name. Make me a knight, and give me permission to right the first wrong that we hear of." The king said gravely: "You know all that my knights must promise?" "Yes, my lord Arthur. I am willing to promise all." "I will make you my knight in secret, since you wish it," Arthur said, "except that I must tell Sir Lancelot. He is my dearest knight, and I keep no secrets from him." Gareth said that he would be glad to have Sir Lancelot know. Accordingly the king spoke to Sir Lancelot about Gareth. "I have promised him that he may right the first wrong we hear of," said Arthur, "but as he has not yet proved what he can do, I want you to take a horse and follow him when he sets forth. Cover up the great lions on your shield so that he will not know who you are." Sir Lancelot agreed. Then Gareth was secretly made a knight. That same day a beautiful young damsel came into Arthur's hall. She had cheeks as pink as apple blossoms, and very sharp eyes. "Who are you, damsel?" asked the king, "and what do you need?" "My name is Lynette," she said, "and I am of noble blood. I need a knight to fight for my sister Lyonors, a lady, also noble, rich, and most beautiful." "Why must she have a knight?" questioned Arthur. "My Lord King, she lives in Castle Perilous. Around this castle a river circles three times, and there are three passing-places, one over each circle of the river. Three knights, who are brothers, keep a constant guard over these passing-places. A fourth knight, also a brother, clad in black armor, stands guard in front of my sister's castle. We have never seen this knight's face or heard his voice, but his brothers tell us he is the most powerful and daring knight in the world. All these four keep my sister a prisoner." "And why?" "Because they want her to marry one of them so that they can have her great wealth. She refuses, but they say that they will have their way. In the meantime, they demand that you send Sir Lancelot to fight with them. They hope to overthrow Sir Lancelot, thus proving themselves the greatest warriors in the land. But I believe that Sir Lancelot could overthrow them; therefore, I have come for him." Arthur remembered his promise to Sir Gareth, and did not speak of Sir Lancelot, but asked: "Tell me what these four knights, your enemies, are like." "The three I have talked to are vain and foolish knights, my lord," answered the damsel. "They have no law, and they acknowledge no king. Yet they are very strong, and therefore am I come for Sir Lancelot." Then Sir Gareth rose up, crying: "Sir King, give me this adventure." At this, Sir Kay started up in anger, but Gareth continued: "My king, you know that I am but your kitchen boy, yet I have grown so strong on your meat and drink that I can overthrow an hundred such knights." The king looked at him a moment, and said: "Go, then." At this all the knights were amazed. The damsel's face flushed with anger. "Shame, King!" she cried. "I asked you for your chief knight, and you give me a kitchen boy!" Then, before any one could prevent, she ran from the hall, mounted her horse, and rode out of the city gate. Gareth followed, and at the doorway found a noble war horse which the king had ordered to be given him. Near by were the two faithful servants who had followed him from his mother's home. They held his armor. Gareth put it on, seized his lance and shield, jumped upon his horse, and rode off joyfully. Sir Kay, who was watching, said to Sir Lancelot: "Why does the king send my kitchen lad to fight? I will go after the boy and put him to his pots and pans again." "Sir Kay, do not attempt to do that," said Sir Lancelot. "Remember that the king commanded him to go." But Sir Kay leaped on his horse and followed Gareth. Meanwhile, Sir Gareth overtook the damsel and said: "Lady, I am to right your wrong. Lead and I follow." But she cried: "Go back! I smell kitchen grease when you are near. Go back! your master has come for you." Gareth looked behind and saw that Sir Kay was riding up to him. When Sir Kay was within hearing distance, he shouted: "Come back with me to the kitchen." "I will not," said Gareth. Then Sir Kay rode fiercely at the youth. Gareth, however, struck him from his horse, and then turned to the damsel, saying: "Lead on; I follow." She rode for a long time in silence, with Gareth a few paces behind her. At last she stopped and said: "You have overthrown your master, you kitchen boy, but I do not like you any better for it. I still smell the kitchen grease." Sir Gareth said, very gently: "You may speak to me as you will, but I shall not leave you till I have righted your wrong." "Ah!" she said, scornfully, "you talk like a noble knight, but you are not one," and she again galloped in front of him. Presently, as they passed a thick wood, a man broke out of it and spoke to them: "Help! help! they are drowning my lord!" "Follow! I lead!" shouted Gareth to the damsel, and rushed into the wood. There he found six men trying to drown a seventh. Gareth attacked them with such vigor that they fled. When the rescued man had recovered, he thanked Gareth warmly. "I am the lord of the castle yonder," he said, "and these are my enemies. You came in time." Then he begged Gareth and the lady to stay all night in his castle. They agreed, and he led the way. He took them into his large hall and was about to seat them side by side at a dining table. But the damsel said in scorn: "This is a kitchen boy, and I will not sit by him." The lord looked surprised. He took Gareth to another table and sat beside him. After they had eaten, he said: "You may be a kitchen boy, or the damsel may be out of her mind, but whichever is the case, you are a good fighter and you have saved my life." The next morning Gareth and the damsel set forth. They rode for a while in silence, and then she said: "Sir Kitchen Boy, although you are so low, I would like to save your life. Soon we are coming to one who will overthrow you; so turn back." But Gareth refused. In a little while they came to the first circle of the river. The passing-place was spanned by a bridge. On the farther side of the bridge was a beautiful pavilion, draped in silk of gold and crimson colors. In front of it passed a warrior without armor. "Damsel," he cried, "is this the knight you have brought from Arthur's Court to fight with me?" "Ah!" she said, "the king scorns you so much that he has sent a kitchen boy to fight with you. Take care that he does not fall on you before you are armed, for he is a knave." [Illustration: _"Gareth rode at him fiercely"_] The warrior went inside his tent for his armor, and the damsel said to Gareth: "Are you afraid?" "Damsel," he said, "I am not afraid. I would rather fight twenty times than hear you speak so unkindly of me. Yet your cruel words have put strength into my arm. I shall fight well." Then the knight came forth all in armor, and he said: "Youth, you are a kitchen boy. Go back to your king; you are not fit to fight with me." Gareth rode at him fiercely, saying: "I am of nobler blood than you." He fought so well that soon his enemy was overcome. Then Gareth said: "Go to Arthur's Court and say that his kitchen boy sent you." When the knight had departed, Gareth rode on, with the damsel in advance. After a little while she stopped her horse, and when he had caught up with her, she said: "Youth, I do not smell the kitchen grease so much as I did." Then she galloped off, laughing over her shoulder, while Gareth followed her, a little more slowly. When they reached the second circle of the river, the damsel said: "Here is the brother of the knight you overthrew. He is stronger than the first. You had better go home, kitchen boy." Gareth answered nothing. Out of the tent by the bridge which crossed the second circle of water, came a knight, clad in armor which glowed like the sun. Lynette shouted to him: "I bring a kitchen boy who has overthrown your brother." "Ah!" shouted the knight, and rode fiercely at Sir Gareth. The two fought for a long time. The warrior was strong, but Sir Gareth was stronger, and at last overthrew him, and sent him back to Arthur's Court. The damsel Lynette had ridden far ahead of him. When he came near her, she said: "The knight's horse slipped, and that is why you overcame him. And now are you ready to fight with the third knight, for there he stands?" At the third and innermost circle of the river stood the third knight, clad not in armor, but in hardened skins. Sir Gareth saw that he was more powerful than his brothers. The two at once began to fight on the bridge, but Sir Gareth's sword could not pierce the hard skins. Again and again he tried and failed. He grew tired, and began to fear that he should be conquered. But all at once, when his strokes were becoming feeble, Lynette cried out to him: "Well done, good knight! You are no kitchen boy, but a brave lord. Strike for me! Do not lose. You are worthy to be a Knight of the Round Table." When Sir Gareth heard this, he was so encouraged that he made a final great effort and threw his enemy over the bridge into the water. Then he turned to Lynette, saying: "Lead; I follow." But Lynette, proud now of her valiant escort, and humbled and ashamed at her misjudging of him, said: "No, we shall ride side by side. I am very sorry I called you a kitchen boy, for I know that you are a noble knight." They rode happily side by side till dusk, when they came in sight of Castle Perilous. Just as they were about to cross the moat, a knight overtook them. It was Sir Lancelot, who had been delayed because he had stopped to help Sir Kay after Sir Gareth had thrown him from his horse. The great knight, as he rode up to the two in the twilight, seeing only the shields which Sir Gareth had taken from the three knights, thought the young man was an enemy, and attacked him. Sir Lancelot was so strong that he soon overcame the youth. As he fell, Lynette cried out in shame and sorrow, and Sir Gareth said: "Oh, I am thrown." Sir Lancelot knew Sir Gareth's voice, and raised him up, saying: "I am Lancelot, and I am sorry to have overthrown you, my friend." Sir Gareth said that it was no dishonor to be beaten by Sir Lancelot. Then the three rode into the castle, and there they met the fourth knight, who was all covered with black armor. Sir Lancelot wished to fight with him, but Sir Gareth would not permit it. "This must be my adventure," he said. Sir Gareth rode at the knight, expecting to meet a very strong man, but he easily unhorsed him. His enemy cried: "Oh spare my life; I am not a knight." Then he took off his helmet and showed the face of a young boy. "My three brothers made me pretend to be a fierce knight," he explained. "They thought it would make people more afraid if they believed we were four strong knights." Sir Lancelot and Sir Gareth laughed heartily, and so did Lynette. They took the boy into the castle, where Lynette's sister, Lyonors, who was now freed from her money-loving captors, greeted them with much joy. She put before them a great feast, and this time Sir Gareth and Lynette sat side by side. Afterwards a marriage was made between them, and they went to live with King Arthur in Camelot. [Illustration] SIR IVAINE Among Arthur's Knights of the Round Table was one who was a mixture of good and bad, as indeed most people are. His name was Sir Ivaine; brave, kind-hearted, and merry; but at the same time fickle, sometimes forgetful of his promises, and inclined to make light of serious things. One night, in the early spring, the knights and ladies of Arthur's Court were sitting in the dining-hall. The king and Guinevere had withdrawn, but were expected to return. Supper had been served, and the last course, consisting of pomegranate seeds and dates, had just been carried off. A fire had been built in the deep hearth, and the four bronze pillars in front were lighted by the flames. Four little pages in blue and white velvet kirtles sat on stools watching the fire, and perhaps dreaming of the days when they, too, should be warriors and have adventures. Sir Ivaine was telling of his experience with the Black Knight. "It was when I was very young," he said; "indeed, I had just been made a knight. Some one told me of the wicked Black Knight who lived, and still lives, in a wood a long way from here. Knowing that he did much evil, I determined to kill him. I rode to the wood where he lived, and in which I found a marble platform. In the middle of it was a sunken space holding a fountain. I walked to this, and following the directions of some writing which was on the stone, picked up a cup that lay at hand, and filling it with water, poured it into the fountain. "Then a great storm of wind and rain arose, and when it was at its height the Black Knight rode up and began to attack me. We fought for a little while, but he easily overthrew me. Thinking me dead, he rode back, leaving me on the ground. But after a time I was able to mount my horse, and went back to my mother's castle." At this moment the king and the queen entered, unperceived by any one except Sir Ivaine. The young man, who was always polite, sprang to his feet; then the other knights rose. Sir Kay, who was not always sweet-tempered, said to Sir Ivaine: "We all know that you are very polite, but you have more courtesy than bravery." At that Sir Ivaine said: "I was almost a boy when the Black Knight overthrew me, but I could conquer him now." "It is very easy to say that after you have eaten," said Sir Kay. "Almost any knight feels brave and self-satisfied when he has had a good supper of venison." The king asked what the conversation was about, and Sir Ivaine repeated the story of his adventure, adding: "And, Sir King, I crave your permission to set forth to-morrow to slay this Black Knight who is a pest in the land." "I have heard of this man," said the king, "and have often thought of sending some one to punish him. But he lives far away, and it has been necessary heretofore to right first the wrongs nearest home. Yet now his evil deeds and persecutions must cease. To-morrow a company of us will set forth and conquer him and all his people." The king named some half-dozen of his knights, Sir Ivaine among them, who were to undertake this adventure. Sir Ivaine was displeased; he thought that the adventure should be his alone. So he rose in the middle of the night and stole away unattended, determined to go in advance of the others and kill the Black Knight. It did not occur to him that in proving himself brave, he was also proving himself disobedient. He rode forth in the darkness, humming merrily to himself. At daybreak he reached a valley, and as he went through it, saw a great serpent fighting with a lion. Sir Ivaine stopped to watch this curious combat. At first the two fighters seemed evenly matched, but soon the huge serpent wrapped all its folds about the lion and began squeezing it to death. When Sir Ivaine saw this, he drew his sword and killed the serpent. When the lion was free, it bounded up to Sir Ivaine, and he was afraid that it meant to kill him; but it fawned at his feet like a spaniel. He stroked it, and put his arms about its neck. When he mounted his horse, the beast followed him, refusing to go away. Then Sir Ivaine made up his mind that they were to be companions. For many days the two kept close together, and at night Sir Ivaine would go to sleep with his head on the lion's neck. One day, as they came to a square castle set in a meadow, some people who stood on the castle walls began to shoot arrows at the lion, but Sir Ivaine stopped them, telling them that the animal was tame. Then they told him that it was their rule that no one should pass by that castle without doing battle with their lord. Sir Ivaine told them that he was quite willing to obey their rule; so they opened the castle gate. They said he must make his lion stay outside, but Sir Ivaine refused to do this. He promised, however, to make the lion lie down quietly; then the two were allowed to enter. The courtyard was a large paved place, in which there were a score of armed men. Presently the lord of the castle came forward. This lord was much larger than Sir Ivaine, and the lion, on seeing him, began to lash its tail. But Sir Ivaine ordered it to be still, and it at once obeyed. Then Sir Ivaine and the knight battled together. The knight was powerful, but Sir Ivaine was very agile and skillful. He was not able to strike so hard as could his enemy, but he was better able to avoid blows. Therefore it was not long before he got the advantage and overthrew the lord. When this happened, the lord called for help, and ordered his armed men to kill Sir Ivaine. The whole twenty began to obey this treacherous order, but just as they were about to fall upon Sir Ivaine, the lion bounded among them, roaring savagely. With a few strokes of its powerful paws it disabled the men. Sir Ivaine told the lord of the castle that he must ride to Camelot and give himself up to Arthur to be judged for his treachery. Then Sir Ivaine rode away from the castle; and now that the lion had saved his life, he became very fond of the animal. [Illustration: _"He dismounted and poured water into the fountain"_] After many days of travel, Sir Ivaine reached the forest in the midst of which was the castle of the Black Knight. He rode to the platform of stone, dismounted and poured water into the fountain. As before, a storm arose, and at its height the Black Knight appeared. He recognized the armor of Sir Ivaine, and said: "Aha! I see I did not kill you before, but you shall not escape me this time." "The best man shall win," said Sir Ivaine, cheerfully. Then the two began a great combat. Their swords clashed so that the noise of the fountain was drowned; they fought so eagerly that they were not even aware of the storm. It was not long before the Black Knight began to grow weak from the many powerful and death-dealing strokes from Sir Ivaine's sword. At last, seeing that he was mortally wounded, the Black Knight turned his horse and galloped in the direction of his castle. Ordering the lion to stay where it had lain during the combat, Sir Ivaine followed. But he could not quite catch up with the Black Knight, although gaining on him inch by inch. By the time the castle moat was reached, Sir Ivaine was only five feet behind. The horses thundered one after the other over the bridge. The Black Knight rode under the portcullis, or sharp iron gate, which was raised. The instant he was inside, the portcullis fell, in order to shut out Sir Ivaine. But Sir Ivaine had already passed beneath it, and as it fell his horse was cut in two. Even the long plume in Sir Ivaine's helmet was shorn off, and lay outside the gate. Sir Ivaine sprang to his feet and drew his sword to renew his attack upon the Black Knight, but he was already dead, and lay across his panting horse's neck. Then Sir Ivaine realized what his recklessness had cost him. There he was, alone in a strange castle, the lord of which he had killed. Soon the people of the castle would come and capture him, for he could not escape, since the portcullis was down. He ran into the castle, and up the stairs leading to the turret. He was fast growing weak from the wounds he had received, and his armor was heavy. Moreover, in spite of his care, it clashed at every step, and he was afraid some one would soon hear him. He had all but reached the top of the stairs when the door of the turret room opened, and a little maiden looked down upon him. He begged her not to cry out, and telling her who he was and what he had done, asked her to hide him. "I will," she said, "because you are brave and you are wounded, and because you have killed that wicked tyrant, the Black Knight. He does not own this castle at all; it belongs to a beautiful lady, his cousin, who is my mistress. He keeps her here a prisoner because she will not marry him." Then the little maiden led him into the turret room. She concealed his armor in a hole in the side of the wall, and told him to hide himself between the two mattresses of the bed. Before he had time to do so, however, they heard a great noise in the courtyard, and looking down, saw that the body of the Black Knight had been discovered. Near it stood a beautiful lady, more beautiful than any Sir Ivaine had ever seen, except Queen Guinevere. She was dark like the queen, and her eyes were as bright as stars. He would have looked at her a long time, but the little maiden begged him to hide without delay. "Quick!" she cried. "The men have seen that there is the front part of a horse inside the gate, and know that the person who has killed our lord must be here. Even now they have begun the search, for they all love the Black Knight, although my mistress does not, and they will hang you if they find you." So Sir Ivaine crept between the mattresses, and the little maiden hurried down the stairs and went to her beautiful mistress. Presently Sir Ivaine heard men tramping up the turret steps. They often stopped, trying all the doors they came to, and at last entered the room in which he lay. One of them, peering into the hole in the wall where his armor was, said: "Here is armor." But another replied: "That is some that once was used by our master; there is no need to drag it into the light." Then they searched among all the furnishings of the room, but found no one. At last, as they were leaving, one of the men thrust his sword twice through the mattress. The second thrust cut deeply into Sir Ivaine's arm; but as the knight was brave, he did not utter a cry. When the men had gone, he crept out, and found that the cut in his arm and his other wounds were bleeding badly. Just then the little maiden came in with food. She cried out in alarm when she saw the blood, and quickly tore a piece of linen from her robe for bandages. When all the wounds had been carefully attended to, she gave him a plentiful supper and promised to take care of him until there was a good opportunity for him to escape. She visited him every morning, and told him the day's news in the castle. He learned that a lion kept roaring about the walls, and that the bowmen had tried to kill it, but could not. Sir Ivaine was sure that it was his lion, and longed to have it, but knew that this was impossible. And she told him how the people of the castle had been angry at their lady because she would not marry the Black Knight; but now that he was dead, acknowledged her as mistress and obeyed her in everything. The little maiden said she thought that if the lady were told that Sir Ivaine was hidden she would probably see that he had a safe conduct out of the castle. "I want never to leave this castle," said Sir Ivaine; "for I love your lady." This pleased the little maiden, for she had learned to respect Sir Ivaine. So she went to the lady of the castle and told her all about the stranger. The lady had Sir Ivaine moved to a rich apartment where she could visit him often and help the little maid in her care of him. She did not tell her people, however, that this stranger knight had killed their lord. As Sir Ivaine recovered, he soon found courage to tell her how beautiful she was, and that he loved her more than anything in the world. He said that if she would marry him, he would stay with her forever, and never seek for more adventures. All he asked was that she would let in his lion, which still continued to roar outside the castle walls. When the lady heard the story of the lion, it seemed to her that if Sir Ivaine were so kind to an animal, he would probably be much kinder to her. So she said that she would marry him. The people of the castle saw and liked him, and agreed to obey him as their lord. When they were told that the lion they had tried to kill belonged to him and must be admitted to the castle, they showed some fear. Sir Ivaine told them that there was no need of this, for the beast was very gentle, and was making noise only because of its desire for its master. He went outside the castle walls and called. Soon there was heard a loud roaring; a big yellow body bounded out of the forest, and the lion came leaping to its master's feet. It frisked about him, and rubbed its head on his arm, just as a favorite dog might do. When the people saw how tame it was, they were no longer afraid. Sir Ivaine and the beautiful lady were soon married, and for a long time everyone was very happy. Sir Ivaine sent a letter to King Arthur telling the result of his adventure. Soon the messenger returned bearing rich gifts from the king and Guinevere, and an invitation to come to Camelot whenever they wished to. The lady, however, persuaded Sir Ivaine to promise to remain with her in her castle. One day a party of the Knights of the Round Table rode into the courtyard. They were going on a great adventure, and stopped by the way to see how Sir Ivaine and his beautiful wife fared. When Sir Ivaine saw them, all his old-time love of fighting came back, and he went to his lady and begged her to let him go with the knights. "Ah, my Ivaine," she said, "you told me that you would never leave me." "A knight ought to seek adventures," he said. "And I will return to you." She paused for a while and then said: "I will let you go if you will promise to come back in a year and a day; that is, next Whitsuntide." He gladly promised, and she said: "If you break this promise, I will never see you again." But Sir Ivaine was sure he would not break the promise, because he loved her too much for that. So off he rode with the knights, followed by his faithful lion. The lady and the little maiden waved farewells to Sir Ivaine from the tower until they could no longer see him; then they again took up the life they had lived before he came to the castle. Sir Ivaine rode with the knights for many months, and had many adventures. At last, just as the year was drawing to a close, he started homeward. On the way, however, he stopped at Arthur's Court to pay his respects to the king and the queen. They both remembered him and greeted him kindly. A great tournament was being held at that time in Camelot, and the king asked Sir Ivaine if he would like to take part. Sir Ivaine was pleased, for he loved the display of such combats. During the three days of the tournament he distinguished himself greatly. On the evening of the third day, as the knights were sitting in the great hall of the Round Table, a little maiden entered. She went up to King Arthur and gave him a ring. "This ring," she said, "is one Sir Ivaine gave my lady. She returns it, and has vowed never to see him again because he has broken his promise to her." Then, before any one could stop her, she left the hall, mounted her horse, and rode away. Sir Ivaine sprang to his feet, staring wildly. Whitsuntide had fallen on the first day of the tournament, his year and a day had more than passed, and he had forgotten his promise! He rushed from the hall and down the hill through the streets of Camelot, out of the city gate, and into the forest. He ran on and on until he fell exhausted. The next day he awoke in a fever, and would have died but for his faithful lion. The poor animal tried to make Sir Ivaine rise, but seeing that he could not, dragged him to the edge of a brook, where he could drink when he was thirsty. The lion also brought him game. At first Sir Ivaine would not touch it, but finally began to eat it raw. After a time he became better, physically, but his senses were gone. In his madness he wandered all through the woods, fighting with the trees and bushes. The lion always followed him, protecting him from other animals and from men. One day when the lion was absent finding food, Sir Ivaine lay asleep. A good hermit came up to him, and pitying his condition, lifted him in his arms and carried him to his hut. He bathed the poor knight, cut his hair, and put a robe upon him. He was laying him upon a bed when the lion came roaring to the door and dashed it open. When it saw the hermit tending its master, it fawned at his feet. After that Sir Ivaine spent much of his time in the hut. The lion supplied him with food, bringing meat to the hermit, who always divided it into four parts: three parts he gave to the lion, and one he cooked for Sir Ivaine and himself. Sometimes Sir Ivaine would run away from the hermit and wander for days in the forest. The lion took care of him, and always led him back to the hermit's hut. Once, however, Sir Ivaine set forth in the direction of his wife's castle. At night the lion tried to take him to the hut, but in vain. For days he wandered, always in the same direction, until at last he reached the wood where the stone platform was. He laid himself down upon it and slept. Soon a lady and a maid appeared. The lion sprang at them, but when it reached their feet, it licked the lady's hand, for she was its mistress. It took her robe in its teeth and pulled her gently to the spot where Sir Ivaine lay. At first she would not look at him, because she had not forgiven him for breaking his promise. But the little maiden said: "Dear mistress, look at him. The story which the knights of Arthur's Court told us about his madness must be true. If you will but look at his face you will see that it is the face of a man who has lost his senses." Then the lady knelt beside him. When she saw his worn features and his tattered garments, she began to believe that he really had lost his senses from grief. She sent the little maiden to the castle for an ointment she had. It was so powerful that if it were rubbed over a person who was ill, it would cure him, no matter what his disease was. When the little maid brought it, the lady put it upon Sir Ivaine, but so gently as not to rouse him. After several hours, Sir Ivaine awoke. At first he hardly knew where he was, but soon he recollected all that had happened, and seeing his lady near, begged her to forgive him. This she did, and they were reconciled. Sir Ivaine was sure that he would never again forget to keep a promise. For some months they lived very happily in the castle. Then they went to Camelot in order to be near to Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table. [Illustration: The Holy Grail] [Illustration] SIR BALIN In Arthur's Court there dwelt a poor knight named Balin, who had accidentally killed the cousin of King Arthur, and had been taken to the court of the king for trial. He had lived there almost as a prisoner for six months, until it was decided that he had not meant to do wrong. All his money was gone, and his clothes and armor were poor. He was sorry for this, but he was still more sorry that he was not doing brave deeds like the other knights. One day when he sat in the great hall at Camelot, looking at the shields which were carved or covered with gold, a damsel entered who wore a rich mantle, trimmed with fur. As Arthur and the knights looked at her, she let it fall to the floor, and they saw that she wore a heavy sword. "Damsel," said Arthur, "why do you, a maiden, wear a sword?" "Alas!" said the maiden, "I should be glad if I did not wear it. It is very heavy, and causes me pain. But I am forced to wear it until I meet a knight who can take it from me." "Surely many knights could do that, and gladly," the lords said. "No," said the lady. "It seems that there is but one knight in all the world who is to take the sword. I heard that there were brave knights at the Court of King Rience, the enemy of King Arthur, and I went there. Yet no one could unfasten the sword. Now am I come here on the same errand." "In truth, damsel," said the king, "you are right welcome. My knights shall try to take your weapon." Then, at a sign from Arthur, a knight stepped forward. But, even though he exerted all his strength, the sword could not be unfastened. "Sir, you need not pull so hard," said the damsel. "The one who is to take the sword will do so easily." All the knights tried except Sir Balin, who stood back because of his poor clothes. Yet he wanted very much to see if he was the chosen knight, and just as the damsel was going away, he said: "Damsel, will you let me try? I am poorly clothed, but my heart tells me that I may succeed." The damsel saw that he had a good face. But his clothes were so poor she doubted if he were really a knight. "I am afraid you will fail," she said. "Ah, maiden," he returned, "poor clothes are but the outside. Good deeds are just as worthy, whether done by a rich person or a poor one. Many a man who is badly clothed has real valor and kindness." "That is very true," she said; "so try, good sir." Then Sir Balin seized the hilt of the sword, and the weapon came away easily. All the lords wondered, and the lady said: "You are a good knight, the best I have met. You shall do many brave deeds. And now, give me my sword again." "No," said Sir Balin, "I should like to keep this sword, for I have no other." "Alas!" said the maiden, "I am sorry to hear these words, for now I must give you the sword." "Surely he deserves it," said Arthur, "for it weighed heavily on you." "Yes," she replied, "but it is a misfortune for him to keep it. He shall slay with it the best friend he has in the world. It is going to prove his destruction." Sir Balin would not believe her. "I could not slay my best friend," he said. "Besides, I am willing to meet whatever happens, and I wish to keep the sword." Then the maiden departed in great sorrow, while Balin said to the king: "My lord, give me permission to leave your court." "I do not like to lose you," said the king. "Perhaps you are angry because you were in prison so long. You must know that it takes time to find out who is innocent and who is guilty." "My lord," answered Sir Balin, "I know it is not wise to make a judgment hastily, and I do not blame you for keeping me in prison. I love you, and wish to leave your court that I may do some deed worthy of the Round Table." Then Arthur said that he might go. Soon a servant brought to Balin a fine horse and good armor which were the gifts of the king. Balin at once took leave of Arthur and the knights, and rode away, singing as he rode, for he was very happy. Sometimes he stopped to lift up his shield and admire it. It had a blue emblem upon it, and to Sir Balin's eyes its beauty was that of the sky, the soft blue of heaven. Sir Balin rode until he was tired. At last, from the crest of a hill, he saw a gloomy stone castle, and galloped towards it joyfully, hoping to rest there. At a turn of the road, he saw a cross with gold letters upon it. He stopped to read the words, which were: "Let no knight go to the castle, for great danger is there." "Oh," said Sir Balin, "I am used to danger. I fear nothing," and he went on. Presently an old man started up beside the road. He had a long gray beard, and was dressed in a long gray robe that sparkled with little specks of frost. The old man said to Sir Balin: "Did you not read the letters on the cross?" "Yes," replied Sir Balin, "but I am not afraid." "Oh, Sir Balin, you of all men should fear to go to that castle," the old man said. "Why?" he asked in amazement. "Nevertheless, I shall go." "Sir Balin, Sir Balin!" cried the old man after him, "you are too self-willed. You will be very sorry for what you have done before you die." But Sir Balin rode on without fear, and soon reached the gate of the castle. A hundred beautiful ladies and many knights welcomed him. They took off his armor and put a rich crimson cloak upon his shoulders. Then they led him into a banquet hall where there was music and dancing. They set food before him, and he ate, thankfully. He was very happy, feeling sure that he could rest here for many days. Just as he was thinking this, the lady who was mistress of the castle said: "Sir knight, it is the rule of this castle that every lord who comes here as a guest must fight." "That is a hard custom," said Sir Balin. "Yet you need fight but once," answered the lady. "We have here the knight who entered just before you came." "Alas!" said Sir Balin, "I would rather not fight, for I wish to rest. Since such is the custom of the castle, however, I must do my part. Let some one bring my armor." A servant at once came up to him with a suit of black armor. "This is not my armor," said Sir Balin. "My armor is not painted black. It is honest gray steel, decorated with blue." "It is the custom of the castle to wear black," they told him. "This armor is as good as your own." Sir Balin felt sad, he could hardly tell why; and was very sorry that he had ever come to the castle. Putting on the armor, however, he went into the courtyard and mounted his horse. No sooner was he ready than another knight, clad all in black, entered the courtyard. The two knights rode together so fiercely that the shock threw them both off their horses in a swoon. After a time they recovered and began to fight on foot, pressing each other near the walls of the castle. Sir Balin was fighting with the sword that he had taken from the damsel in King Arthur's Court. It was a strong sword, and whenever it struck, the armor of his opponent cracked. They fought till their breath failed, and then they rested. Each knew that never before had he dealt with such a strong enemy. Then they fought again, and gave each other seven deep wounds, the least of which would prove fatal. All the ground was red with blood, but Sir Balin fought on still, for the people of the castle were watching from the walls, and he wished to be thought a great warrior. So at last he used all his remaining strength and gave the other knight such a hard blow that he fell to the ground. Sir Balin knew that it was a death stroke. He felt that he, too, was about to die, and said: "Who are you? I never fought with such a strong knight before." The other answered faintly: "I am Sir Balan, the brother to the good knight Sir Balin." Then Sir Balin cried out: "Alas, alas! that I should live to see this day!" and he fell backward in a swoon. Sir Balan was dying, but he crawled on his hands and knees to where Sir Balin lay, and took off his helmet only to discover the face of his brother. Then he wept bitterly till Sir Balin recovered from his swoon. "Alas!" said Sir Balan, "if we had but worn our own armor we should have known each other. And now we must die; we have killed each other." [Illustration: _"They fought till their breath failed"_] Sir Balin was too full of remorse to weep. "All this is my fault," he said. "As the old man on the road told me, I have been too self-willed. First, I would have the damsel's sword, although she told me that I should slay with it the best friend I had. That is you, Balan. And then I would enter this castle in spite of warnings. I deserve to die, but it is a hard punishment that I should have killed you, my brother." Soon some ladies came from the wall into the courtyard, and to them Sir Balin said: "We are two dear brothers who have killed each other. I pray you, promise to bury us in the same grave." The ladies wept as they made the promise. The two brothers put their arms about each other and waited for death. They hoped to die together, but Sir Balan died first. Soon after, when Sir Balin had also died, the ladies buried them together, and put a stone above the grave, telling the sad story of their combat and death. [Illustration] SIR GERAINT AND ENID One of the bravest knights in King Arthur's Court was Sir Geraint. Once he was in the forest with Queen Guinevere and one of her maidens, when a lady, a knight, and a dwarf rode by. The queen told the maiden to go to the dwarf and ask who his master was. As the maiden approached them, she saw that the knight had a very proud face. She asked the dwarf his master's name, but he said, roughly: "I do not know." "If you do not know," answered the maiden, "I will ask him myself." She started to ride up to the knight, but the dwarf struck at her with his whip. Upon this, she went back and told the queen and Sir Geraint what had passed. Sir Geraint was very angry, and he said to the queen: "Fair queen, I will ride after this knight and his dwarf and avenge the insult done to your maiden. If I succeed, I shall return in three days." "Do so," said the queen, "and I trust you will succeed, not only in this, but in all things which you attempt. Some day you will love some fair lady. Before you marry her, bring her to me, and no matter how poor or how rich she may be, I will clothe her for her wedding in the most beautiful garments in the world. They shall shine like the sun." So off rode Sir Geraint, keeping at some distance behind the lady, the knight, and the dwarf. At last, after passing through many woods, he lost sight of them as they disappeared beyond the top of a hill. Sir Geraint rode up, and saw below him, in a valley, the one street of a little town. On one side was a fortress, so new that the stone of which it was built was still white; while on the other side stood a gray old castle, fast falling into decay. He saw the three people he was following enter the fortress. In the little town there was a great deal of noise and bustle. At first Sir Geraint could not find any place to stay, for the houses were all full. He stopped before a servant who was scouring his master's armor, and asked what all the noise meant. The servant said: "The Sparrow-hawk," and went on working. Then he met an old man carrying a sack of corn, and asked him the same question. The old man made the same reply. Next Sir Geraint approached one who was making armor, and questioned him. Without looking up the man replied: "Friend, he who works for the Sparrow-hawk has little time for answering questions." Sir Geraint was vexed, and said: "I am weary of hearing of your Sparrow-hawk. I do not understand what you mean. Will you not tell me where I can find a place to stay for to-night? And will you not sell me some armor? I have but my sword." Then the man looked up, and said: "Your pardon, sir. We are all very busy here, for to-morrow we hold a tournament, and our work is not half done. I cannot give you armor, for we need all that we have in the town. As to lodging, all the room is taken. However, perhaps Earl Iniol in the castle will receive you." Sir Geraint rode over to the gray old castle, and as the gate was open, entered the ruined courtyard. Dismounting, he went into the hall. Here he found the earl, an elderly man dressed in clothes which had once been handsome, but were now old and worn. To him Sir Geraint said: "Good sir, I seek lodging for the night." The old Earl Iniol answered: "Sir, I was once rich and am now poor; nevertheless, I will gladly give you the best I have." As he spoke, some one in the castle began to sing. The voice was very sweet. Sir Geraint thought he had never heard anyone sing so wonderfully. "That is my daughter Enid," said the earl. Then he took Sir Geraint into a room in which sat an old lady in a faded velvet gown. She was the earl's wife. By her side stood Enid in a faded silk gown. She was as beautiful as her voice was sweet, and after watching her, Sir Geraint said to himself: "I already love this maiden." He said nothing out loud, only looked at her. Earl Iniol spoke to her: "Enid, this good knight will stay with us. His horse is in the courtyard; take it to the stall and give it corn. Then go into the town and buy us some food." Sir Geraint wished to put away his horse himself, but the old earl said: "Sir, we are very poor, but we cannot permit our guest to do any work. I pray you, stay here." So Enid took the horse to the stall. After that, she went into the town and soon returned with meat and sweet cakes. Then, because most of the rooms in the old castle were in ruins, she cooked the meat in the same hall in which they were to eat. When the meal was ready, she waited on her father and her mother and Sir Geraint. The knight watched her and loved her more and more. When they had risen from the table, he said to the earl: "My lord, pray tell me what the people of this town mean when they speak of the Sparrow-hawk." The earl's face grew sad, as he said: "That is the name given to the young knight who rules in this town." "Does he live in the fortress?" asked Sir Geraint. "And do a lady and a dwarf ride with him?" "Yes," said the earl. "Ah, then he is the man I am in search of," said Sir Geraint. "I must fight with him before three days are over. I am Geraint of King Arthur's Court." "I know your name well," said the earl. "We often hear of your great deeds at Camelot. Many times have I related to my Enid the story of your brave deeds." "I am bound to do my duty with the other knights," answered Sir Geraint. "And now tell me more of this Sparrow-hawk." "Alas! he is my nephew," said the earl. "At one time I ruled this town. My nephew, the Sparrow-hawk, was powerful, too, and he asked to unite our power by marrying Enid, but neither she nor I wished it. Then he collected a body of men and attacked me, and took all my wealth, leaving me nothing but this old castle." "To-morrow," said Sir Geraint, "I will fight in the tournament with this Sparrow-hawk, and conquer him, and give you back your lands. But I lack armor." "I can give you armor, although it is old and rusty," said the earl. "But no one is allowed to fight in this tournament unless there is some lady he loves best in all the world. Then he fights for the sake of this lady, and if he wins, receives the prize, which he in turn gives to her." "What is the prize?" asked Sir Geraint. "A hawk, a sparrow-hawk made of gold. This nephew of mine is very strong and has always overcome every knight who has opposed him in these tournaments, which are held yearly. It is because he has won the prize so often that he is called the Sparrow-hawk. But tell me, is there some lady whom you love?" Then Sir Geraint said: "I love this child of yours, my lord, and will gladly make her my wife if you will permit it." The earl was very glad, but Enid was afraid, for she thought she was not worthy of such a great knight. Yet, she knew she loved him, and said so, and soon promised to go with him to Arthur's Court within three days. The next morning, the earl and Sir Geraint and Enid went to the field where the tournament was to take place. Many knights and ladies were there. The ladies sat under a pavilion which was draped in purple velvet ornamented with gold, while the knights were on horseback. A herald blew a trumpet, and the knight who was called the Sparrow-hawk galloped into the field. He rode around it three times, and then went up to the pavilion and said to his lady: "I give you the gold sparrow-hawk again, because no one dares to fight with me for it." Then Sir Geraint rode forward in his rusty armor and said: "I will fight with you." The knight looked upon him, and gave a very scornful laugh as he rode at Sir Geraint. The two clashed together and began to fight fiercely, while all the people watched. Twice they had to stop and rest. For a long time they seemed evenly matched, and no one could decide which would win. But when Sir Geraint looked to where Enid sat in her faded silk gown among the richly dressed ladies in the pavilion, he grew very strong and struck his enemy such a blow that he fell to the earth. "Now, Sparrow-hawk," said Sir Geraint, "I have overthrown you. You must do two things: you must ride with your lady and your dwarf to Arthur's Court and ask pardon of Queen Guinevere because your dwarf struck her maiden; and you must restore all the riches you have taken from your good uncle, Earl Iniol." This the knight promised to do. And afterwards, in Arthur's Court, he grew very sorry for his evil deeds, and became a good man. Meanwhile, Enid was making ready to go to Arthur's Court with Sir Geraint. She was sorry that she had only her robe of faded silk. She remembered a robe her mother had given her before the Sparrow-hawk took their riches. It was of velvet, the color of mother-of-pearl, with gold leaves and flowers and birds embroidered upon it. While she was thinking of this beautiful robe, her mother entered the room, carrying it. Enid gave a cry of joy, and her mother told her that the Sparrow-hawk had just given it back, together with other robes and gold and jewels. "Put it on, Enid," she said, and helped her daughter to array herself in the handsome gown, exclaiming: "How beautiful you look, my dear child! Sir Geraint may well be proud to fetch such a fair lady to King Arthur's Court." Just then the earl entered to tell them that the knight wanted Enid to ride with him to Camelot in the faded silk dress in which he had first seen her. Enid, although she was deeply disappointed, at once put on again her faded gown. When Sir Geraint came in he saw that the earl's wife was also disappointed, so he told them that the queen had promised to dress his bride in the most beautiful robes in the world for her wedding. At this both the ladies were much pleased. So after bidding farewell to her parents, Enid rode with Sir Geraint to Camelot, where the queen welcomed her, and gave her a robe that was as bright as the sun. Then the good Archbishop of Canterbury married Sir Geraint and Enid amid great rejoicings. [Illustration: Two Crossed Swords and a Shield] [Illustration] ARTHUR AND SIR ACCALON There was a woman in Arthur's Court named Morgan le Fay, who had learned a great deal about magic. She was a wicked woman, and hated the king because he was more powerful than she, and because he was so good. However, she pretended to be a true friend to him, and the king believed in her. One day when they were talking together, she asked him if he would not let her take charge of his wonderful sword Excalibur, and its scabbard. She said that she would guard them so carefully that they would never be stolen. As she was very eager, Arthur granted her request. One day in time of peace, King Arthur went out hunting with a certain knight named Sir Accalon, who was the lover of Morgan le Fay. They rode for a long time, and when they were tired, stopped to rest beside a great lake. As they looked over its shining waters, they saw a beautiful little ship, which sailed straight towards them, and ran up to the sands at their feet. It was all covered with golden silks, which waved in the gentle wind. King Arthur and Sir Accalon climbed into it and examined it thoroughly, but they found no one on board. They rested on two couches which were on the deck, until it grew dark. Then they were about to return home, when all at once, a hundred torches, set on the sides of the ship were lighted, and suddenly there appeared twelve beautiful damsels who told the two that they were welcome, and that they should be served with a banquet. Presently the maidens led the king and the knight into a room which had a table covered with a white cloth embroidered in purple. It bore many golden dishes, and each dish had a beautiful design carved upon it. Some dishes had vine-leaves, others ivy-leaves; some had angels with long robes sweeping back in graceful lines; and all these dishes held choice food. The king and Sir Accalon ate to their hearts' content. Then the damsels led them into two separate chambers. King Arthur was tired and so sleepy that he gave but one glance at his bedroom. He saw that it was hung in red silk embroidered with gold dragons and griffins. Then he threw himself on his bed and slept very soundly. When he awoke, he found himself not in the pretty bed-chamber, but in a dark place. He could see nothing, but all about him he heard the sound of complaining and weeping. He was much bewildered, but in a moment he cried: "What is this? Where am I?" Then a voice answered: "You are in prison, as we are." "Who are you?" asked Arthur. The voice replied: "We are twenty knights, prisoners, and some of us have been here as long as seven years. We are in the dungeons of a wicked lord named Sir Damas. He has a younger brother, and the two brothers are enemies, quarreling about their inheritance. Now the younger brother, Sir Ontzlake, is very strong, but Sir Damas is not strong, and moreover, he is a coward. So he tries to find a knight who will fight for him against Sir Ontzlake. "But Sir Damas is so much hated that no one will fight for him. So he goes about the country with a body of rough men, and whenever he sees a knight, he captures him. Then he asks him to fight with Sir Ontzlake. So far, all the knights have refused, and have been thrown into prison. We do not have food enough, but we would rather die here than fight for Sir Damas, who is so wicked." At that moment a damsel entered the prison with a torch, which faintly lighted the dismal place, and advanced to the king. "Sir," she said, "will you fight for my lord, Sir Damas? If you will, you shall be taken from this prison. If you will not, you shall die here." Arthur considered for some time, and then said: "I would rather fight than die in prison. If I fight, will you deliver also all these prisoners?" The damsel promised, and Arthur consented to fight. While she went to tell Sir Damas, Arthur said to the other prisoners: "My friends, I do not know Sir Damas, and I do not know Sir Ontzlake. I do not know whether they are bad or good. But I will fight, and then, when I have conquered, I shall judge between them, and do justice to both." "That is a good plan," said the knights, "but why are you so sure that you will conquer?" "I am Arthur, the King," he replied. At that the knights set up a great cry of joy, and the king continued: "I shall send for my good sword Excalibur and the scabbard, and with these I shall surely win." So when Arthur and the knights were led out of prison, the king sent the damsel who had visited them to Morgan le Fay for his sword and scabbard. Meantime, the knight who had accompanied Arthur on the little ship, Sir Accalon, also awoke. He found himself in the palace of Morgan le Fay, and he wondered very much where Arthur was. He went to the lady, who said to him: "My dear lord, the day has come when you can have great power if you want it. Should you like to be king of this land, instead of Arthur?" Now Sir Accalon was a traitor at heart. He wanted very much to be king, even if the good Arthur was to be killed; so he said: "Yes, truly." Then she said: "You shall be king, and I shall be your queen. All you need to do is to fight a great battle, which you shall win. I have been using my magic. It was I who sent the ship of silk to you and Arthur. I had him put into prison, and I had you brought here." Sir Accalon wondered very much. Then she told him of the fight King Arthur was to make against Sir Ontzlake. "But I have caused Sir Ontzlake to fall sick," she said, "and he cannot fight. I shall go with you to his castle and you can offer to fight for him." "I to fight with the king!" cried Sir Accalon. "He would surely overthrow me." "He cannot," said Morgan le Fay, "because you are to fight with his sword. A little while ago he sent to me for Excalibur and the scabbard, but I returned him a false sword which looks like Excalibur, and a false scabbard. You shall take the true ones, and then you shall surely overcome him and rule this land." Then Sir Accalon was glad, and he hastened with the lady to the castle of Sir Ontzlake. They found him groaning because he was ill and because Sir Damas had sent him a challenge to fight with a knight, and he could not accept it. He was much relieved when Morgan le Fay told him that Sir Accalon would fight in his place. Early in the afternoon, King Arthur and Sir Accalon rode into the field where the combat was to be held. Arthur did not know who Sir Accalon was, nor did any one else, except Morgan le Fay. Two sides of the field were full of people who came to watch, half of whom were friends of Sir Damas, and the other half were friends of Sir Ontzlake. Arthur and Sir Accalon rode at each other so furiously that at the shock of the meeting both fell off their horses. Then they began to fight fiercely with their swords. The king could make no headway with his false steel, but whenever Sir Accalon struck at Arthur he drew blood. The king was much amazed. He grew weaker and weaker, but still he kept on his feet. Those who watched him were sorry for him; they thought they had never seen a man fight so bravely. At last Arthur's sword broke, and fell in two pieces on the ground. When Sir Accalon saw this, he cried: "Now, yield to me." "I will never yield," said the king, "and if you do not get me another sword, you will be shamed before all men, for it is an unknightly thing to fight with a defenseless man." "I do not care," said Sir Accalon. "If you will not yield, defend yourself with your shield as best you can." He rushed at the king. Arthur was so weak that he could hardly stand, but he guarded himself as well as he could with his shield. Soon he could do no more, and fell to the ground. At this moment the Lady of the Lake, who had given Arthur his sword, came upon the field. She was invisible, but anyone who had listened intently could have heard a sound like the ripple of water as she walked. She caused Excalibur to fall out of the hand of Sir Accalon and drop near Arthur. When it fell, Arthur saw that it was his own Excalibur. He grasped its handle and some of his strength came back. He struggled to his feet, and rushing up to Sir Accalon, seized the scabbard of Excalibur and threw it far over the field. "Now," he said, "send for a second sword and fight with me." Then Sir Accalon was afraid. Yet he thought that Arthur was so weak that he could still be overcome. So he sent for a second sword, and they began to fight again. Arthur's strength, however, had largely returned, and in a short time he gave Sir Accalon a mortal stroke. Sir Accalon fell to the ground, and the king, leaning over him, cried: "Tell me who you are." Then Sir Accalon was filled with remorse, and he said: "Oh, my king, I have been a traitor to you, but now I am dying, and I am sorry for what I have done. I deserve my death." He told the king his name, and all about his treachery, and that of Morgan le Fay. King Arthur was sad. "It is very hard to be deceived in a friend," he said, "but I forgive you freely. I will try to cure your wound, and sometime I shall trust you again." "You cannot cure me," said Sir Accalon. "I am dying. Let them carry me off the field." So he was taken to a neighboring abbey, while the people crowded about the king to congratulate him, but Arthur said: "I am sad at heart. My victory is no comfort to me, for to-day I have lost a friend whom I believed true." Then he called the two brothers, Sir Damas and Sir Ontzlake, and judged their cause. He decided that their property must be divided equally between them, and that they must be friends. They promised never to quarrel again. Arthur told them that they must be kind to other knights and to all people. He said that if he heard that they were not, he would come and punish them. After this, Sir Damas gave back to the twenty knights all their money, and they went on their way rejoicing. King Arthur mounted his horse and rode over to the abbey, where he sat by the bed of Sir Accalon till the poor knight died. Then the king went back alone to his Court at Camelot. [Illustration: The Holy Grail] [Illustration] HOW ARTHUR FOUGHT WITH A GIANT Once upon a time King Arthur and some of his knights were sailing in a ship. The king, being tired, went to sleep in his cabin, and began to dream. It seemed to him that he was sailing with his people when a great dragon flew out of the west. This dragon had a blue head and a gold back. Underneath he shone like a rainbow. Flames of fire rushed out of his mouth and covered land and sea. As he flew, there came out of the east a great bear, very rough, and as black as coal, and with wings that flapped like windmills. The bear and the dragon roared loudly, and they began to fight and struggle till the sea was all red with blood. At last the dragon conquered. When the king awoke from this dream he sent for Merlin and told him of it, and asked for an explanation. "My lord," Merlin replied, "the dragon betokens yourself; the colors on its body are signs of your glory. The bear betokens some tyrant who torments the people and whom you will slay." Soon after this, the ship in which the company was, came in sight of land. When they had anchored, the knights noticed on the beach a crowd of people who were weeping. Descending from the ship, Arthur asked one of the men what troubled them, and what was the name of their country. "Good sir," returned the man, "this is the country of Brittany, and we weep because our county is desolated by a giant. He makes us bring him food. First, he ate up all the oxen we had, and then our horses. Next he demanded our children, and now there are no little ones in the land. To-day he took our good duchess of Brittany, and carried her off to his mountain." "Alas!" said the king. "It grieves me to hear this, not only because a cruel deed has been done, but because the duchess of Brittany is my cousin's wife. I must save this lady. I will fight with the giant." "Good sir," cried the people in amazement, "it is not possible! A whole company of us dare not attack him, and yet we account ourselves brave men." "That may well be," replied Arthur, "and yet with my good sword and scabbard, I have no fear." Then the men said: "If you will go, my lord, yonder is the great mountain where the giant lives. At the top, two huge fires burn continually in front of a cave, and in that cave are greater treasures than you can dream of. They are all yours if you will but slay this monster." Arthur replied nothing to them, but called Sir Kay and Sir Bedivere, and rode with them to the foot of the mountain. From that point he ascended alone. When he was nearly to the top he came upon a woman, clad all in black, who sat weeping by the side of a newly-made grave. "Good woman, why do you weep?" asked Arthur. "Hush, hush!" she cried, "or the giant will hear you and come and kill you. He can hear me, but the sound of weeping delights him, and therefore I need not restrain my grief." "Why do you grieve?" the king asked. "Alas! Because my good mistress, the duchess of Brittany, is dead. The giant has killed her." At that Arthur gripped tightly the handle of his sword and said: "I will kill this wretch before I am an hour older." "Ah, my lord," said the woman, "the greatest kings in the country are afraid of him. He has a coat embroidered with the beards of fifteen of them. He demanded these beards as a sign that they acknowledged him as lord." "There is at least one king who does not acknowledge him as lord," shouted Arthur, as he strode hastily forward. When he reached the top he saw the giant asleep in front of the two great fires before the cave. He was taller than the tallest pine that ever grew. His arms were as big as the trunk of an oak tree. His mouth was as large as a cave, and from it and his nostrils came forth fire and flame like that from the mountain of Vesuvius. Although his huge eyes were closed, flashes of lightning seemed to shoot from beneath the lids. At his side was an iron club as large as a steeple. About him stood trembling old women fanning him as he slept. King Arthur approached the monster, and said to him: "Wretch, awake and fight, for your hour has come." The giant, starting up, looked down scornfully upon the king and, laughing, threw his great club at Arthur. But the king leapt aside and the club fell harmlessly on the ground, making a hollow where it struck. Then Arthur rushed toward the giant, waving his good sword Excalibur. The giant caught him in his arms, in order to squeeze him to death. The king's armor pressed closer and closer about him, and he began to lose his strength. But he kept his hand upon his scabbard, and so did not die. In a few minutes the monster, making sure that Arthur was dead, dropped him to the ground. After the king had recovered himself, he sprang to his feet, and taking his sword, threw it at the giant. The good steel pierced his neck, and he sank to the ground, shouting so loudly that Sir Kay and Sir Bedivere at the foot of the mountain heard, and trembled for their master's safety. Then the giant again seized Arthur in his arms, and the two began to roll down the mountain side. Whenever Arthur was able to, he struck at the giant with his dagger, wounding him sorely. At last, still struggling and rolling, they came to the spot where Sir Kay and Sir Bedivere were. These two loosed the giant's arms from the king, who then gave one last blow to the monster, killing him. Then he sent Sir Kay and Sir Bedivere for his sword Excalibur. When the people on the seashore heard what Arthur had done, they fell on their knees and thanked him, offering him all the giant's treasure. He said, however, that he would leave it with them to divide among the poor people of the country. For himself, all he wanted was the giant's iron club. The people sent fifty men to the top of the mountain to get it for him. As they had no horses, it was a long time before they could drag the club to the seashore. There they put it on a barge. It was so heavy that it pressed the barge down till the water came almost to the edge of the vessel. Then King Arthur bade the people good-by, and took ship with his knights. The grateful men of Brittany stood on the shore, and shouted and waved until the ship could no longer be seen. [Illustration: The Shield] [Illustration] HOW ARTHUR FOUGHT WITH ROME In the time of the great Roman, Julius Cæsar, about five hundred years before King Arthur was born, the people of Rome conquered Britain. They made many improvements in the land, building roads and walls, the remains of which may be seen to this day. But they also forced the Britons to pay them much money. All the kings did this up to the time of Arthur. He, however, considered that England was his own. He had conquered the lesser kings, and made one realm of all the land, over which he ruled with wise government. So he refused to send any money to Rome. Once King Arthur's knights were all together in the great hall. It was a time of peace, and they spent the days in riding and hunting. On this day, while the king was sitting on his throne, twelve old men entered, each bearing a branch of olive, as a sign that they came in peace. They were the messengers of the emperor of Rome, and, after bowing to the king, they said: "Sir, our mighty emperor sends you greeting, and commands you to acknowledge him as lord, and to send him the money due him from your realm. Your father and his predecessors did this, and so must you. If you refuse, the emperor will make such war against you that it will be an example to all the world." At this the young knights laid their hands to their swords, but the older knights, who had self-control enough to hide their feelings, waited to see what the king would do. Arthur bowed courteously to the messengers, and told them that he would soon give them an answer. He commanded a knight to take them to a lodging, and to see that they had all they needed, and he ordered that no harm should be done them. Then he called a council of his great lords and asked their advice. Sir Lancelot, Arthur's favorite lord, spoke first, saying: "My lord, we have rested for many weeks, and can make sharp war now. In days gone by, we should not have dared attack the Romans, and indeed, our attempt will make the world wonder. But of a truth, we ought to fight." Then spoke King Angus of Scotland: "My lord Arthur, you are the greatest lord on earth. You have made all of us lesser kings your subjects, and bound the kingdom together, and stopped our civil wars. We love you and we will help you. We pray you to make war on these Romans. When they ruled our elders, they demanded much gold and made our people very poor. If you will fight, I will furnish you with twenty thousand men, and will bear all the cost of them myself." Then all the other lords promised to furnish men and arms. When Arthur heard this, he was glad of their courage and good will. He called in the messengers and said to them: "Return to your emperor. Tell him that I refuse his command, for I owe him nothing. I have won this kingdom by my own strength. Tell him that I shall come with all my army to Rome and make him acknowledge me as lord." Then Arthur told his treasurer to give the messengers gifts, and to take them safely out of the country. Sir Lancelot conducted them to the sea, where they took ship and sailed to France. On they journeyed over the Alps and into Italy. When they told the emperor of Rome their message, he said: "I had thought Arthur would yield." But the messengers said: "Sir, his face would have told you, if you had seen it, that he would never yield. In truth, there is need of fear, for he is a great king and surrounded by great knights." "This is foolish talk," the emperor said. "Remember that we are Romans. We have ruled the world for centuries, and a little king of little England shall not make us fear. You say that he is coming to fight with us. We will take a few troops and go forthwith to France to meet him." The messengers begged the emperor to take many troops. "My lord emperor," they said, "these men of Arthur are very numerous and very brave." So at last the emperor brought all his men to France, and there, whenever he found people who were loyal to Arthur, he killed and laid waste. Meanwhile, Arthur had gathered together all his troops. He bade farewell to Queen Guinevere, who was so grieved that she fell in a swoon. Then he rode off at the head of his men till they came to the sea, and there they embarked in ten thousand boats and sailed to France. They marched till they came near to the troops of the emperor of Rome, where they rested for the night. In the morning they rose at dawn and looked at the Roman legions. These were encamped in a green field which glittered with the gold on their tents and armor. The emperor's tent was of purple silk and bore on the top a golden eagle, the emblem of Rome. Two of Arthur's knights, Sir Lancelot and Sir Gawain, rode out to the emperor, and told him that their king had come. "That I see," said the emperor laughing, "and he shall soon return." The two knights made no answer, but rode back to Arthur. Soon all the soldiers on each side made ready for fighting. The preparation was careful, for they knew that the contest was to be a great one. The emperor of Rome addressed his soldiers: "Romans, remember that Rome is the chief city of the world. I do not say fight as men; I say to you, fight as Romans. Then you will surely conquer these Britains." King Arthur galloped up and down before the front rank of his men, looking at them carefully. He was on a beautiful white horse whose mane rose and fell in the wind like a wave of the sea. His soldiers cheered lustily for their beloved commander. Then King Arthur raised his hand for silence, and spoke in a loud, clear voice: "My knights and men whom I love, remember that you are fighting to-day for your rights and for the independence of Britain. Strike well, and do not forget that great courage is as powerful as great numbers." With that, he gave the signal for attack. The Romans stood in full battle array with their emperor in front. Beside him were sixteen kings with gold helmets and silver armor. The English approached, shouting a battle-cry. Then the Romans, at the call of the trumpet, rushed forward, and in a moment the two great armies clashed together. Clouds of dust arose through which could be seen at intervals the heads of horses and the helmets of men. The few poor shepherds and women who stood on the outside did not know that the greatest battle of the time was going on under that cloud of dust. [Illustration: _"King Arthur raising his hand for silence"_] Inside the cloud there was great confusion. Britains and Romans were fighting side by side, so closely packed that sometimes it was hard to strike. All fought bravely, but no one did so well as Arthur and Sir Lancelot. The battle did not cease until it was dark. Each side had lost many men. King Arthur wept as he rode over the field and counted his dead knights, and even his beautiful horse drooped its head as if it, also, understood. But the next day the two armies began to fight again, and when the emperor finally saw that his men were losing and that most of the kings who were helping him were dead, he said: "This Arthur is a demon and not a man. I will fight with him myself and end this battle." And before any one could stop him, he spurred up to King Arthur and said: "You on the white horse who refuse to pay me tribute, come out that I may kill you." Then Arthur rode quickly towards the emperor. The two men began to fight, and Arthur soon saw that he was contending with a powerful man. He gave the emperor many a stroke with Excalibur, but he himself received deep blows. At last the emperor pierced Arthur's helmet, and wounded him deeply in the cheek. King Arthur raised his good Excalibur with a last effort and struck his enemy with it so fiercely on the head that the blow cleft the helmet and pierced to the emperor's chin. He fell from his horse without a moan. When the Romans near by saw that their ruler was dead, they gave a great cry of grief and rushed upon Arthur, but his good knights protected him. At last, seeing themselves conquered, the Romans surrendered. Arthur found among his prisoners three senators, and among the dead, sixty senators, the sixteen kings, and the emperor. He was sorrowful, for he knew that they were great men. So he had them embalmed and laid in chests of lead. Around each chest flags were wound, and the shields of the dead warriors placed on top. Then he said to the three surviving senators: "Take these noble dead bodies back to Rome. When the Romans see them they will never again dare ask tax or tribute of me. I will not go to Rome and take the city from you, but if ever you send to me for gold, I shall invade your land and never rest till all Italy is mine." The senators bowed their heads. Then they laid the body of the emperor on a car, all alone, with the gold eagle above him. They laid the bodies of the kings and the senators two by two on chariots, and so went slowly towards Rome. And never again did the kings of Britain have to pay a tax to the Romans. [Illustration: The Holy Grail] [Illustration] THE KNIGHT WITH the BADLY MADE COAT One day when Arthur and his knights were in the hall of the Round Table, a young man entered. He was so large that his shoulders were as wide as the doorway, and he could hardly squeeze through. The knights looked at him in amazement, for he was almost a giant. When he came closer to them, they saw that he had on a coat which was far too large for him. It hung in wrinkles and folds all over his back, and the sleeves were so long that he had to turn them up almost to the elbow. The coat was of rich material, gold cloth, but it was old and blood-stained. The young man strode up to the king and said: "My lord, my name is Brune. I can tell you no more than that. I beg you to make me a knight." At this Sir Kay laughed and said: "He must be called The Knight with the Badly Made Coat." "Call me what you will," said the young man. "Yes, I take that name, for I will not tell my real one." Then Arthur spoke to him gently: "Young man, you ask a great thing. All those in my Court who are made knights must serve for a long time as squires. If they prove themselves loyal and brave, I make them knights. But I must always know whence they come, and who their fathers are." "My lord," said the young man, "I do indeed ask a great thing. I would gladly tell you more of myself, but I am under a vow to reveal no more than you already know. Yet I will tell you this, further. I am the son of a noble who was as big as a giant. My good father was very peaceable and did not care to fight; so he never came to your Court, and you did not hear of him. He lived at home with my mother and me, and the simple people who plowed the land about our castle. "Every one ought to have loved him; but he had one enemy. One day, six years ago, when I was only a boy, my father and I were in the forest. My father was sleeping at the foot of a tree, and I was bathing in a brook near by. This enemy, who wanted my father's lands, came up and drove his sword into my father's heart. Then he rode away. I ran up to my dead father and took off the coat which he wore and put it on. I swore never to take it off, and never to tell my father's name or where I came from, till I had avenged his death. "Then I rode home to our castle, but our enemy had taken possession of it, and had made my mother prisoner. As I was not yet grown up I vowed that I would stay with the good shepherds near by till I was strong enough to pull up a young tree by the roots. Then I would go to King Arthur's Court and ask to be made a knight. So every month I have tried to uproot a young tree. This morning I succeeded, and here, my lords, I am." The knights were much moved and prayed the king to make him a knight. They said that they would teach him to use arms. The king said that he would wait to see what sort of man Brune was. A few days after this all the knights rode off to a tournament and Brune was left at home with a few soldiers. He was in the castle yard practicing some of the lessons in warfare which the knights had been teaching him. While he was hard at work, Queen Guinevere with twelve soldiers who were her bodyguard passed by. As she was speaking kindly to Brune, they heard a terrible noise, and looking in the direction from which it came, saw a dreadful sight. A fierce lion which had been confined in a tower of stone had broken out of its prison and was rushing towards them. The twelve soldiers fled, leaving the queen and Brune alone. "Ah," said Brune, "not all the cowards in the world are dead." [Illustration: _"The king touched him lightly with his sword"_] He stood still while the lion bounded towards him. He had dropped his sword, and as the beast leaped upon him, he seized its head in his hands. Then he slowly, slowly, bent its head back. It was a strong lion, and with the effort the muscles on Brune's neck stood out like great ropes. Presently, the queen and Brune heard a loud crack and they knew that the lion's neck was broken. Brune loosed his hold, and the huge tawny body dropped to the ground, quivered a moment, and was still. While this was going on, the king and his knights returned. They saw at a glance what Brune had done, and cheered him loudly. The king rode up to him. "Kneel down," he said. Brune knelt down by the body of the lion, and the king touched him lightly with his sword, saying: "Sir Brune, I make you a knight of my Round Table. Be always loyal, brave, and merciful." Then all the knights were glad, but Sir Brune was gladdest of all. [Illustration: The Two Horses] [Illustration] SIR LANCELOT & SIR BRUNE After Sir Brune, the Knight with the Badly Made Coat, had been at Arthur's Court for some months, he became eager to seek for the enemy of his father. Sir Lancelot, who took an interest in the big young knight, advised him to wait and try his strength at some smaller adventure first. One day, when Sir Lancelot was away hunting, a damsel entered Arthur's hall. She carried a black shield which had painted on it a white hand holding a sword. She bowed to the king and said: "My lord, I come for a knight to undertake the adventure of the black shield." "And what is that adventure, fair damsel?" asked the king. "That I may not tell you," answered the damsel, "except that it will cause much fighting and bloodshed to the knight who chooses it." Some of the knights were eager to go, and Sir Kay pressed forward to finger the shield. "Do not touch it, good Sir Kay," said the maiden, "for this adventure is not for you. I am to choose the knight." She passed up and down the hall, looking into the face of each one. When she had seen them all she came back to Sir Brune and said: "Young Knight with the Ugly Coat, will you take this shield?" "Gladly, if my king allows," said the knight. Then Arthur gave his permission, and Sir Brune followed the damsel out of the hall. Her horse was black, and wore white trappings. Sir Brune's horse was as brown as an autumn leaf. The two mounted and rode away. Sir Brune began to talk to the damsel, whose name was Elinor. At first she was agreeable, but after they had ridden many miles she became scornful, and told him she was sorry she had chosen him. Sir Brune felt sad, because he had begun to love the damsel. He was afraid she did not like him because his coat was poor. He did not speak to her any more, but rode on sorrowfully beside her. After a long time they came to a castle enclosed by high walls. The gate stood open, and the damsel Elinor pointed to it and said, sighing: "Since you have not left me as I hoped you would, go in there. You will find your first adventure. I may not tell you what it is." Sir Brune galloped inside the gate. There he saw a hundred knights on horseback, armed and waiting for him. He had to think and act quickly. So he decided to rush in between the knights and put his back against the castle wall. Then he could fight with his back protected. He did this, though not without receiving some spear-wounds. Then he began to fight. The lady of the castle, whom the knights were keeping prisoner, watched the fight out of the window, and grieved for the brave young man who had so many against him. She began to speak to him in a low voice: "Young knight, if you can only get to the left side of the castle wall, there is a secret door through which you can escape. If you look, you will see that one portion of the wall is made of black stones. Strike the stones with the hilt of your sword, and a door will open through which you can ride out." The other knights did not hear what the lady said, for they were farther away from her than Sir Brune was. Even he could hardly catch her words. He took a quick glance to the left and saw that there was indeed a portion of the wall marked with black stones. Then he began to work his way carefully towards the secret gate. He was obliged to move slowly for fear the knights would guess what he was doing. Moreover, it was becoming very hard to fight, because of his many wounds. However, he at last came near the door; then he backed his brown horse up against it, struck the black stones with the handle of his sword, and the door opened. The knights shouted with rage, but they were unable to reach him in time. Sir Brune escaped, leaving behind him twelve men dead. He was very weak, and he made his way painfully to the side of the wall where the maiden Elinor waited for him. She ran to meet him, and led him gently to a brook in a forest near by. There she took off his armor and bathed his wounds, anointing them with a precious salve she carried. Sir Brune thought that she was sorry because she had been scornful of him, and he began to talk to her. But she said: "Do not talk to me. If you want to please me, go back to Arthur's Court." Sir Brune did not know why she spoke so, but he was too tired to think. So he lay down on the grass by the brook and went to sleep. Meantime, at Arthur's Court Sir Lancelot had returned from his hunting expedition, and was told how Sir Brune had gone out with a damsel on the adventure of the shield. "Oh!" cried Sir Lancelot, "what have you done! He will surely be killed. Merlin has told me what this adventure of the shield is. Many and many a knight has taken it up and each has been killed. A knight who vows to follow this adventure has to meet dangers of all sorts. This young untried Sir Brune will certainly be killed." He called for his horse and arms, and said to the king: "My lord, I will ride after this poor young man and give him what help I can. Perhaps I shall be too late; but if not, I shall ask him to give me this adventure of the shield." Then Sir Lancelot mounted his horse and rode after Sir Brune. When he came near the brook where Sir Brune and the damsel had rested, he heard the sound of a great combat. Spurring forward he saw Sir Brune, fighting single-handed against six knights. Sir Lancelot rushed to the rescue and quickly overthrew the enemy. He found that they belonged to the company of the hundred knights whom Sir Brune had attacked. He ordered them, first of all, to free the lady of the castle, and then to go to Arthur's Court and surrender themselves to the mercy of the king. Poor Sir Brune was almost dead, but Sir Lancelot revived him, and in a feeble voice he thanked Sir Lancelot for his help. But the damsel begged: "Take him back to the Court of your king. I do not want him to follow this quest any longer." "This is surely ungrateful of you," said Sir Lancelot. "He has fought bravely and well." "The maiden scorns me, though I love her," bitterly said Sir Brune. Then the damsel Elinor cried out: "I will tell the truth. I love you and I am afraid you will be killed. Therefore, I wish you to return to Camelot." Sir Brune was very glad, and he said: "I have pledged my word and must follow this quest. When I have succeeded we shall go together back to Arthur's Court." "Give this adventure to me," said Sir Lancelot, "and go back now with the damsel." But Sir Brune refused. Then Sir Lancelot said that they must undertake the adventure together, and Sir Brune consenting, they rode slowly forward. Soon they came to an abbey, where they rested for some days until Sir Brune was well. Then they traveled as the damsel gave directions. She always knew what they had to do. At times they passed through woods full of wild beasts, some of which attacked them. Again they passed over enchanted meadows where wicked magicians tried to cast spells over them. They also fought with many knights. However, they escaped all dangers, although it is certain that Sir Brune would never have succeeded without the help of Sir Lancelot. At length the damsel Elinor told them that they were nearing the last adventure. She pointed to a castle on a hill; a square structure built of black stones, with a turret on top. The damsel told them that at the gate of the castle were two huge dragons. These they must slay. "Whose is the castle?" asked Sir Brune. "It belongs now to the wicked Lord Brian of the Isles," answered the damsel. At this Sir Brune gave such a loud shout that the dragons on top of the hill heard him and roared in reply. "Ah!" cried he, "that is the name of my enemy, who killed my dear father. At last I shall slay him." He rode off so quickly that Sir Lancelot had much trouble to keep up with him. It seemed scarcely five minutes before they came to the dragons; terrible creatures, all of green, with eyes and tongues of flame. And their wings were as large as the sails of a ship. Sir Brune had never before seen a dragon, but he was not afraid. He fought very bravely, and even when the teeth of the dragons crunched on his helmet, he did not lose courage. After a fierce fight of half an hour, the two knights had killed the dragons. They hoped to rest, but at that moment the castle gate opened and a porter appeared. "Enter and fight," he said. Both spurred forward, but the porter said: "One only may enter." "Let me go," said Sir Brune to Sir Lancelot. "Remember I am to avenge my father's death. It may be that Lord Brian of the Isles is waiting just inside the gate." Sir Lancelot consented, and the porter led in Sir Brune and locked the gate. Inside were two great knights, the brothers of Lord Brian of the Isles. They were almost as large as Sir Brune. Together they set upon him. He was already tired from his fight with the dragons, but his desire to avenge his father strengthened his arm. One brother was soon overthrown. When the other saw that, he yielded. Then Sir Brune sent them both to Sir Lancelot outside the gate. While Sir Brune was looking about him, a third knight appeared at the end of the courtyard. He was quite as large as Sir Brune, and as he came spurring up, the noise of his horse's hoofs was deafening. Sir Brune recognized him as Sir Plenorius, the cousin of Lord Brian. "Ah!" cried he, "where is that wretch, Lord Brian? Am I to fight with all his family before I meet with him?" Sir Plenorius wasted no words. He rushed upon Sir Brune and struck him with his long spear. The blow broke Sir Brune's helmet, and he had much trouble to guard his head with his shield. He fought courageously, but he became weaker and weaker. Then Sir Plenorius stopped fighting. "I know you will never yield," he said. "You are the bravest knight I have yet seen. In truth, I loved your good father, and grieved because my cousin slew him. I have no love for my cousin, Lord Brian of the Isles, but I am vowed to fight for him as long as he lives, or until I am overcome." Sir Brune was about to answer, but he fell back in a swoon. Sir Plenorius lifted him gently in his arms and bore him into the castle. He carried him up the winding stairs to the turret room, and gently laid him on a bed. Then he went back to the courtyard. Meantime, Sir Lancelot, hearing the porter shout that Sir Brune was killed, beat on the gate, but nobody would let him in. Then with great difficulty he climbed the castle wall and leaped down. Sir Plenorius was just about to care for the horse of Sir Brune. "Give me back my friend!" cried Sir Lancelot, fiercely. "Where is my friend?" Then he began to fight with Sir Plenorius. Sir Plenorius was so much larger than Sir Lancelot that he thought he could easily overcome him. As the fight went on, however, he found himself all but defeated. "Yield now to me," said Sir Lancelot. "I am Sir Lancelot of the Lake." Then Sir Plenorius said: "Ah, my good lord, I know of your fame. If we go on fighting, you will certainly kill me. Yet I do not want to yield, so I ask you to treat me as I have treated Sir Brune." When Sir Lancelot heard how Sir Plenorius had spared Sir Brune, he said: "You are a gentle knight. I am sorry you are vowed to the service of Lord Brian of the Isles. He shall surely die." Sir Plenorius answered: "When he is dead, I will come to Arthur's Court as one of his followers." All this time Sir Brune was lying in a swoon on the bed in the turret room. But at last he came to himself and looked about him. He saw near him his sword and shield; so he lifted them up beside him. As he lay still, trying to recover his strength, he heard stealthy footsteps coming up the turret stairs. They came nearer and nearer. Suddenly, in rushed Lord Brian of the Isles. He knew that Sir Brune was there, alone and wounded, and he intended to kill him as he lay defenseless. Sir Brune understood this and he cried: "Ah, wretch, you were ever a coward. You come to kill me as I lie wounded here, just as you killed my poor father while he slept. But the sight of you makes me forget my wounds." At these words, and at the fierce rage which shone in Sir Brune's eyes, Lord Brian, who was indeed a coward, tried to retreat. But Sir Brune sprang to the doorway. "You shall never go down by these stairs, villain," he said, "for I will kill you!" Lord Brian rushed to the window and sprang out upon the battlements. Sir Brune followed him, though with difficulty. The two began to fight, and Sir Brune soon saw that his enemy was trying to push him close to the edge of the battlements, that he might fall down into the courtyard below. Sir Brune, at this, put himself behind Lord Brian, determined to cast him off instead. Slowly he pushed him, until Lord Brian was but a step from the edge. Then Sir Brune lifted his shield and struck his enemy with it. The wicked lord lost his footing, and was dashed to pieces at the feet of Sir Lancelot and Sir Plenorius in the courtyard below. They ordered his soldiers to bury him, and while Sir Lancelot went to care for Sir Brune, Sir Plenorius went down the hill to find the damsel Elinor. She came back with tears of joy to Sir Brune. [Illustration: _"He pushed him until he was but a step from the edge"_] When Sir Brune was well enough to travel, he visited all the castles of Lord Brian, in search of his lost mother. He was very much afraid that she was dead, but at last he found her alive, in the very castle which had belonged to his father. There was great joy at their meeting. He took her to Arthur's Court, whither Sir Lancelot had already conducted the damsel Elinor. A few days afterward Sir Brune and the damsel were married amid great festivities. [Illustration: The Shield and the Sword] [Illustration] THE ADVENTURE OF KING PELLENORE In Arthur's Court, every knight or lady who was found unworthy was banished; yet it often took some time to discover one's real character. One of the ladies of Arthur's Court was named Vivien. She was very pretty, and as graceful as a willow wand, and so bright and attractive in her ways that no one suspected her of being very wicked. Among Arthur's bravest warriors was King Pellenore. He had once had a great fight with Arthur, but after that they had become friends, and King Pellenore had been made a Knight of the Round Table. He was not often at court, for he spent much of his time seeking for adventures. Now and then he would return and put away his armor. Then he rode with the ladies or talked to the other knights. The lady Vivien admired King Pellenore for his valor and his mighty deeds, and whenever she could she talked with him about his adventures. One afternoon she begged him to go for a long ride with her through the forest. So their horses were brought and they set forth. Just as they were passing a thick part of the wood, a beautiful golden-haired lady stepped out. "Good sir knight," she cried to King Pellenore, "I ask your help. I am here in the wood with the dear lord who is to be my husband. He is sore wounded, for an enemy crept up behind him as we were riding to Arthur's Court, and thrust a sword in his back." Then King Pellenore turned his horse's head toward the maiden. "Gladly will I help," he said; "lead me, maiden." But Vivien called him back. "Do not go with her," she said. "She may be a witch. Ride on with me." "She is no witch, but a good maiden," said King Pellenore. Then the golden-haired lady spoke again. "Oh, sir knight, help me! I must go to Arthur's Court to see my father. My dear lover is going to ask permission to marry me. Help us or he will die." "Assuredly I will help you, damsel," said King Pellenore. Vivien held his arm, but he put her gently aside. When the wicked woman saw that he was going to leave her, she made her horse plunge and throw her to the ground. There she lay as if in a faint. King Pellenore did not know what to do. He felt as if he must help the beautiful lady, and yet he could not leave Vivien. So he said: "Fair damsel, you shall have my help. I have never wanted to aid anyone so much as I do you. I must save your lover and bring you both to Arthur's Court. But let me first ride back with this lady who has swooned. Then I will return here to you." "Alas, alas, I fear it will be too late," cried the damsel, turning back into the forest. Then King Pellenore lifted Vivien on her horse, and tied her to its back by her long green scarf. At this she opened her eyes and groaned, and said that she was very sick. She made him ride very slowly to the court. King Pellenore did not talk to her. He was thinking all the time of the golden-haired maiden. As soon as he reached the city gate he gave Vivien over into the care of a knight who was passing, and galloped back to the woods. When he reached the spot where the beautiful damsel had spoken to him, he turned into the thick part of the wood and followed a narrow path. It was so narrow that the branches of the trees on both sides struck his shoulders, but still he hurried on. The path ended in a glade, and there he saw the lady and her lover lying on the grass. "Alas, alas!" the lady said, "my dear lord is dead and I am dying." Then King Pellenore saw that the fair young knight who lay on the ground was very pale and quiet, and that all the grass about was blood-stained. "Ah, good knight," said the lady, "after you left me, a lion ran out of the wood and slew my lover with one stroke of his paw. He has wounded me so sorely that I too shall die." Then King Pellenore wept. "I wish that I had made Vivien wait here," he said, "and had helped you. I fear I have done wrong." He sat down and took her golden head on his knee, and spoke to her gently till she died. Then he put her body and her lover's body on his horse, and walked beside them sorrowfully until he reached Arthur's Court. Near the great hall he met Arthur and Merlin and several knights. "I am a miserable man," he said. Then the wise Merlin said: "You are more miserable than you know. This beautiful lady was your own daughter who was stolen from you as a child. Only lately she learned who her father was. She was coming here to seek you." Then King Pellenore wept loudly. "This is my punishment," he cried, "for not aiding the maiden. The one who needs help most should be given it first, and she needed it more than Vivien. I am indeed punished." "And you shall be punished yet more," said Merlin; "and in good time, Vivien also for the part she took. Some day the friend whom you most trust shall deceive you, and you shall be betrayed to death." King Pellenore bowed his head meekly. "I have deserved it," he said. "And now I must bury my dear child and her lover." The beautiful golden-haired lady and her lover were buried with great mourning, and it was many a day before King Pellenore cared to seek for adventures. [Illustration: The Shield] [Illustration] SIR LANCELOT & HIS FRIENDS Sir Lancelot was acknowledged by all the knights of the Round Table to be the bravest of their number, and the one whom the king loved most. He was not often at court, because he was nearly always engaged in adventures which took him away from the town of Camelot. The knights were always sorry when he went away, yet they were sure he would return safely and with much to tell them. One day Sir Lancelot called his nephew Sir Lionel, and told him to mount his horse, for they must go to seek adventures. Sir Lionel was very glad, for it was a great honor to be chosen as a companion by Sir Lancelot. They rode off through a deep forest, and then across a wide, treeless plain. The sun was shining hot and bright, and when they reached a clump of trees, Sir Lancelot bade Sir Lionel dismount. Then the two sat in the shade to rest. It was not long before Sir Lancelot fell asleep. While Sir Lionel kept guard, he saw three knights furiously pursued by another knight, who was very large. This knight overtook the three knights, one after another, and overthrew them, and bound them by the reins of their bridles. Sir Lionel, who was young and self-confident, thought that he would like to fight with this knight. So he mounted his horse very quietly without waking his uncle, and rode into the plain. When the big knight saw him coming, he laughed and rode up quickly. At the very first stroke, young Sir Lionel fell to the earth. The strong knight bound him fast to the other three knights and drove them all to his castle. There he took off their armor and clothes, and beat them with thorny sticks. After that he threw them into a deep dungeon where there were many other knights. Meanwhile Sir Hector, the foster father of King Arthur, hearing that Sir Lancelot and Sir Lionel had gone in search of adventures, determined to join them; so he rode hastily in pursuit. When he had gone some distance through the forest, he met a wood-cutter, and asked him if he had seen Sir Lancelot and Sir Lionel. The man replied that he had not. "Then do you know of any adventure which I can seek?" asked Sir Hector. The man answered: "Sir, a mile from here is a strong castle. On one side of it is a large stream, and by that stream a large tree. At the foot of the tree is a basin of copper. Go and strike on that three times with your spear and you will meet with an adventure." "Thank you heartily," said Sir Hector. He rode on and soon came to the tree. Hanging on it were a great many shields, and among them Sir Lionel's. There were also shields which belonged to other knights of the Round Table. Sir Hector knew that the knights must be prisoners, and he grew very angry. He struck sharply on the copper basin, and at once a huge knight appeared. "Come forward and fight!" cried the knight. "That I will," said Sir Hector. "But I shall win," said the knight, "for I am the great Sir Turquaine." Sir Hector had heard of this powerful knight whom so many of Arthur's lords had tried in vain to overthrow. But he was a brave old man, and so he began to fight fearlessly. He wounded the big knight once, but the knight wounded him many times, and at last overcame him. He picked Sir Hector up and carried him under his right arm into the castle. "You are very brave," he said, when they had reached the great hall. "You are the first knight who has wounded me these twelve years. Now I shall give you your freedom if you will swear to be a follower of mine." "I shall never swear that," said Sir Hector; "I am a follower of King Arthur." "I am sorry for that," said Sir Turquaine, "for now I must treat you as I do all my other prisoners." Then he took off Sir Hector's armor and clothes, and beat him with the thorny stick, and threw him into the dungeon. There the old man found Sir Lionel and many other knights. "Is Sir Lancelot here?" asked Sir Hector, feebly. "No," said Sir Lionel, and told how he had left Sir Lancelot sleeping. Then Sir Hector became cheerful. "Sir Lancelot will surely find us," he said, "and give us our freedom." But Sir Lancelot still slept on under the tree. Soon four beautiful ladies rode by, and, seeing a sleeping knight, dismounted to look at him. They at once recognized him as Sir Lancelot, the bravest knight in the land. One of these ladies was Morgan le Fay, whom Arthur had forgiven for her treachery to him. She said to her companions: "I will cast a spell over him, and we will carry him to my castle. Then, when he wakes, we will make him choose one of us as his wife." The other three agreed, and Morgan le Fay cast her spell. Then the four women lifted the knight upon his horse and went with him to the castle of Morgan le Fay. They put the knight in a richly decorated chamber and left him. In the morning he awoke and wondered where he was. Soon a fair damsel entered with food, and he asked her to explain how he came to be in that place. "Sir, I cannot," she said. "But I can tell you this much: you are under a spell. In twelve hours the spell will break, and perhaps I can help you then." After the damsel had gone out, the four ladies entered. They were clad in most beautiful robes. One had on silk that looked like the foam of the sea. Another had on velvet that seemed like moss from the forest. The third wore satin that was the color of maple leaves in autumn. Morgan le Fay wore a robe that looked like a storm-cloud, and her diamonds were like stars. "Choose one of us for your wife," she said, "and you shall be very happy." But Sir Lancelot said: "Fair ladies, I have no wish to marry. I would rather fight for my good King Arthur who needs me." At this the ladies were angry. "You shall stay here till you choose," they said. "And if you will not choose, then you shall die in prison." They went out, and Sir Lancelot remained alone all day. At dusk the fair damsel came to him. "My lord," she said, "the spell is broken now, and I can help you. These ladies are not kind to me, and I am going to run away. I will take you with me on one condition." "Name it, damsel," he said. "I am a king's daughter," she said. "My father is King Bagdemagus." "He is a good man," Sir Lancelot said. "I know him well." "My father has been fighting in a tournament," said the maiden, "and has been overcome, with all his knights. He feels very sad. Now, in two days there will be another tournament at which he must fight. If you help him, he will surely win and be happy again." "I will gladly help him," said Sir Lancelot. Then the damsel bade him walk softly with her. She opened twelve great doors one after another. Each had a lock with a key so heavy that the maiden had to use both hands to turn it. At last they reached the courtyard, and there she gave Sir Lancelot his horse and armor. She also mounted a horse, and the two rode away. After riding all night, they came to the court of King Bagdemagus. He was overjoyed to welcome Sir Lancelot, for well he knew that none could overcome that good knight in combat. All day there was music and dancing and feasting. Sir Lancelot, however, could not be merry. He kept thinking of his nephew, Sir Lionel, and wondering where he was. On the morning of the tournament Sir Lancelot asked King Bagdemagus to furnish him with a white shield, because he did not want to be known. The king did so, and also gave each of the three knights who rode with him a shield of the same color. Sir Lancelot went with the knights into a little leafy wood near the field where the tournament was to be held. Meanwhile King Bagdemagus rode to the tournament with sixty men, and met there the king of Northgalis with eighty men. They began to fight, and soon those on the side of King Bagdemagus began to be worsted. Then Sir Lancelot, with the three knights, dashed out of the little wood and into the thick of the fight. No one could stand against Sir Lancelot. One of King Arthur's knights, Sir Modred, the brother of Sir Gawain and Sir Gareth, was fighting against King Bagdemagus. Not knowing who Sir Lancelot was, he rushed upon him. Sir Lancelot unhorsed him, but would not hurt him, because he was a Knight of the Round Table. Years afterward he was sorry he had not killed him, for Sir Modred proved to be a traitor to King Arthur. Sir Lancelot fought so well that, for his sake, all the prizes of the tournament were given to King Bagdemagus, who was greatly rejoiced, and offered large gifts to Sir Lancelot, and begged him to be his guest for a time. But Sir Lancelot was so anxious to find out what had become of Sir Lionel that he could not remain. So the next day he set forth. He rode back towards the clump of trees where he had fallen asleep while Sir Lionel kept watch. On the highway he met a damsel riding on a white palfrey. "Fair damsel," said Sir Lancelot, "can you tell me of any adventures hereabouts? I am Sir Lancelot of the Lake." "Oh, Sir Lancelot," said she, "it is indeed fortunate that you have come, for there is here a knight named Sir Turquaine who has put in prison many of the knights of the Round Table. You shall fight with him for the freedom of your friends." Then she turned her horse, and Sir Lancelot gladly followed her. She brought him to the tree on which hung the shields of his brother knights. Sir Lancelot let his horse drink a little water, and then he struck on the iron basin at the foot of the tree so fiercely that the bottom fell out. [Illustration: _"He struck so fiercely the bottom fell out"_] No one appeared, however. Then he rode up to the castle of Sir Turquaine. Near the gate he met the big knight. He was on foot, driving his horse before him. On the horse lay a knight, securely bound. Sir Lancelot recognized him as Sir Gaheris, the brother of Sir Gawain and Sir Gareth. "Put down the knight," said Sir Lancelot. "Mount and fight." "Gladly," said Sir Turquaine. "Before long you will be sorry for your challenge." Then the two rode at each other. Their horses' feet beat the dust into clouds, and they used their swords so fiercely that their armor rang continually like the clanging of heavy bells. They fought until they were breathless, each bleeding from many wounds. Then Sir Turquaine, leaning on his sword, said: "By my faith, never have I fought with such a strong man before. I admire you, and I would be your friend. You fight as they say that knight does whom I hate most in all this world. If you are not that knight, I give you my friendship, and shall free all my prisoners for your sake." "That is well said," replied Sir Lancelot. "Tell me who this knight is whom you hate so much." "He is Sir Lancelot of the Lake. For hatred of him, I kill or imprison all the knights of the Round Table whom I can find." "Then let us begin to fight again," said Sir Lancelot, "for I am Sir Lancelot of the Lake." Then they struck at each other furiously, and soon gave each other so many wounds that the ground was covered with blood. Sir Turquaine was a brave man, but he was not so strong as Sir Lancelot. After a long conflict he fell, mortally wounded, to the ground. Then Sir Lancelot unlaced his helmet and eased him as well as he could till he died. Afterwards he left Sir Turquaine, and went to the porter who held the keys of the castle. Sir Lancelot took the keys and unlocked the doors of the prison. He led the poor knights out into the daylight and struck off their chains. Sir Lionel and Sir Hector were overjoyed to see that their deliverer was indeed Sir Lancelot. Each knight found his own armor in the armory, and his own horse in the stables. After that a servant came with four horses laden down with venison, and the poor knights, who for a long time had had nothing but bread and water, enjoyed a good meal. Then Sir Lancelot rode away in search of new adventures. [Illustration: The Holy Grail] [Illustration] HOW SIR LANCELOT SAVED THE QUEEN One day in May Queen Guinevere invited ten ladies and ten knights to ride a-Maying with her the next morning in the woods. So at the appointed time they assembled, all dressed in green silk and green velvet, the color of young grass. The knights wore white plumes in their helmets, and the ladies wore white May-blossoms in their hair. They rode off very happily, telling the king that they would return before noon. Now the good King Bagdemagus, for whom Sir Lancelot had fought, had a bad son named Sir Malgrace. For a long time he had wanted to capture the queen and carry her off to his castle. He had been afraid to try, however, because of her large bodyguard. All the young knights of the Round Table liked to ride with her and protect her. They took good care of all the ladies of the Court, but they loved the queen most. When Sir Malgrace heard that the queen was out a-Maying with only a few knights, and these not fully armed, he determined to take her prisoner. So he called together eighty men-at-arms and a hundred archers, and set out. Soon he came upon her and her attendants. They were sitting on a little hill, with wreaths of flowers and leaves on their arms and necks. Before they could rise to their feet, Sir Malgrace and his men dashed upon them. "Traitor!" cried the queen. "What would you do?" "I will carry you to my castle, fair queen," he said. "And never again shall you go free." "I will not go with you," said the queen. Then the ten knights drew their swords and set on the hundred and eighty men of Sir Malgrace. They fought so well that they overthrew forty. Still, they could do little against such numbers, and soon all were wounded. When the queen saw this, she cried out: "Sir Malgrace, do not slay my noble knights, and I will go with you. I would rather die than cause them further harm." The knights said that they would rather perish than be prisoners to Sir Malgrace. However, upon an order from their lord, the archers tied up the wounds of the queen's followers, and put them on horseback. Then the whole company rode slowly towards the castle of Sir Malgrace. Sir Malgrace kept close to the queen for fear she would escape. Once when they were in a thick part of the wood he rode ahead to break the branches so that they should not strike her face. Then the queen whispered to a little maiden who rode near her: "If you can do so, slip away from the company. You are so small that perhaps they will not notice you. Take this ring and give it to our greatest knight, Sir Lancelot, and pray him to come and rescue me." The little maid waited until she thought the time for escape had come, and rode off as quietly as she could. Sir Malgrace saw her go, and suspected that the queen had sent her. He ordered his archers to shoot at the child, but she escaped unhurt. "Madam," said Sir Malgrace to the queen, "I know well that you have sent for Sir Lancelot, but you may be sure that hither he shall never come." Then Sir Malgrace ordered his archers to stand guard on the road and shoot down any knight they saw. "But if he should be Sir Lancelot," he said, "be sure that you do not venture very close to him, for he is hard to overcome." Meantime the little maid reached Arthur's Court in safety. She found the king and his knights very anxious because the queen had not returned. She told her story, and gave the queen's ring to Sir Lancelot. "Bring me my armor!" shouted Sir Lancelot. "I will rescue my good and dear queen before the night falls. I would rather see her safe here again than own all France." He put on his armor and mounted his white horse and rode off without delay. The little maid led him to the place where the ten knights had fought with the hundred and eighty. From this point he traced them by the blood on the grass and on the road. At last he reached the archers. "Turn back," they said. "No one may pass here." "That I will not," said Sir Lancelot. "I am a Knight of the Round Table, and therefore have the right of way throughout the land." At that they shot their arrows at him. He was wounded with many of them, and his white horse was killed. Sir Lancelot tried to reach the men, but there were so many hedges and ditches in the way that he could not. They hastened back to tell Sir Malgrace that a knight whom they had not succeeded in killing was coming to the castle. Sir Lancelot tried to walk, but his armor was too heavy for him to carry in his wounded state. He dared not leave any of it behind, for he would need it all in fighting. Just as he was wondering what he could do, a carter passed him, driving a rough wagon. "Carter," said Sir Lancelot, "let me ride in your wagon to the castle of Sir Malgrace." The carter was amazed, for in that day a knight never entered into a cart unless he was a condemned man going to be hanged. Sir Lancelot, however, did not stop to explain. He jumped into the cart and told the driver to go quickly. Some of the ladies of Queen Guinevere were looking out of their window, and one said to her: "See, my queen, there is a poor knight going to be hanged." The queen looked out of the window and recognized Sir Lancelot by the three lions blazoned upon his shield. She was overjoyed, and waved him a glad greeting as he came up to the castle gate. Sir Lancelot beat on the gate with his shield, and cried: "Come out, false traitor, Sir Malgrace; come out and fight. If you do not, you will be branded as a coward forever." At first Sir Malgrace thought that he would keep his gates shut fast and not answer the challenge. But in those days it was a sign of great cowardice not to accept a challenge. Moreover, since Sir Lancelot had been able to reach the castle in spite of the archers, he was afraid other knights of the Round Table might do the same. Then they would besiege him and force him to surrender. Still he was afraid to fight. So he went to Queen Guinevere and said: "Fair queen, remember how I saved your ten knights when I could have killed them. Now I am sorry I took you prisoner. I beg that you will go to Sir Lancelot and urge him not to fight. Then I will entertain him in this castle with the best I have, and to-morrow you shall all go back to the court." Then the queen said: "Peace is always better than war. I will do the best I can." So she went down to Sir Lancelot, who still beat upon the gate, and besought him to come in peaceably, for Sir Malgrace was sorry for what he had done. Sir Lancelot was unwilling, for he knew that Sir Malgrace was a traitor, deserving punishment. Still, he could not refuse the queen anything she asked him, and, therefore, he entered the castle. Sir Malgrace greeted him with politeness, and served to him and to the others of Arthur's Court, a great banquet. After that, to the surprise of everyone, he rose and accused the queen of treason. All the company was astonished. Sir Lancelot was very angry. "If you say the queen is a traitress," he cried, "you shall fight with me, although you were afraid just now." "I am not afraid to fight," said Sir Malgrace. "When and where will you meet me in combat?" asked Sir Lancelot. "In eight days," replied Sir Malgrace, "in the field near Westminster." Sir Lancelot agreed to this. Then Queen Guinevere rose with all her attendants and went into the courtyard. Their horses were brought them and they mounted. Sir Lancelot was the last to pass out of the banquet hall. As he was going through the door he stepped upon a trap which Sir Malgrace had prepared for him. The trapdoor fell and dropped him into a dark dungeon. When the queen and her knights and ladies had ridden out of the courtyard, they noticed that Sir Lancelot was not with them. They supposed, however, that he had ridden off by himself, as was often his custom, so they went without him to Camelot, and told the king what had happened. He was very angry at Sir Malgrace's accusation, but he was sure that Sir Lancelot would punish Sir Malgrace, and so vindicate Queen Guinevere. Meantime, the unhappy Sir Lancelot lay bruised in the dungeon, feeling very sure that Sir Malgrace meant to starve him to death. He lay hungry and thirsty for nearly two days. Then Sir Malgrace peeped in to see if he were dead. "Ah, traitor!" cried Sir Lancelot, "I shall overcome you yet." At that Sir Malgrace shut the trapdoor hastily, as if he were afraid that Sir Lancelot could leap up ten feet in the air. That one look, however, cost the wicked knight dear, for the daughter of the porter saw him shutting the trapdoor, and was curious to know who was in the dungeon. So at night she opened the trapdoor and let herself down by a rope. When she saw Sir Lancelot she was very sorry for him. He offered her much money if she would free him. At last she said: "I will do it for love of Queen Guinevere and not for money." She let him climb up by the rope, and took him out of the courtyard. He was so sick that he went to a hermit's hut and rested for several days. When next Sir Malgrace looked into the dungeon he heard no movement. Then he rejoiced greatly, for he thought Sir Lancelot was dead. When the eighth day had come, all the knights of the Round Table assembled in the tournament field and waited for Sir Lancelot to appear. They all thought he would surely come. But Sir Malgrace rode jauntily about the field. Many of the knights wondered at his courage, not knowing the reason for his confidence. The herald blew his trumpet once, but Sir Lancelot did not appear; twice, and still he did not come. Then up started several knights and begged the king to let them fight instead of Sir Lancelot. "He has been trapped," they said, "or he would be here." While the king was hesitating whom to choose, in rode Sir Lancelot. He dashed up to Sir Malgrace. "Here I am, traitor," he said. "Now do your worst." Then they fought, but at the first stroke Sir Malgrace fell to the earth. "Mercy!" he cried, "I yield to you, Sir Knight. Do not slay me. I put myself in the king's hands and yours." Sir Lancelot was much vexed. He wanted to kill Sir Malgrace for his treachery, and yet, since the man had asked for mercy, he could not. So he said: "What, coward, would you stop already? Shame upon you! Get up and fight." "I shall not rise unless you take me as one who has yielded," answered the knight. Then Sir Lancelot said: "Traitor, I make you this offer: I will take off my helmet, unarm my left side, and tie my left hand behind my back. In that way I will fight with you." Upon hearing this, Sir Malgrace rose to his feet, sure now of killing Sir Lancelot. "My lord King," cried Sir Malgrace, "you have heard this offer. I accept." The king was very sorry that Sir Lancelot had made the offer. However, it was impossible to withdraw it. A squire came and disarmed Sir Lancelot, so that his head and left side were without cover; and since he had only one arm to fight with, he could not use his shield. Then Sir Malgrace dashed at him, aiming for his left side. Sir Lancelot waited till he was very near, and then lightly stepped aside. Before Sir Malgrace could turn, Sir Lancelot lifted his spear and struck his enemy such a blow that he broke his breastplate and pierced his heart. The body of Sir Malgrace was carried off the field and taken to the castle of his good father; Queen Guinevere was proclaimed innocent of treason; and Sir Lancelot was honored more than ever by his king and his queen. [Illustration: The Two Horses] [Illustration] SIR LANCELOT AND ELAINE Every year King Arthur's knights held a grand tournament among themselves, and contended in friendly combat for a prize. This prize was a diamond. Once, in the early days of his kingship, Arthur was walking on a craggy hill, when he came upon the skeleton of a man who had once been a ruler. The skull still wore a gold crown set with nine large diamonds. King Arthur took the crown and had the diamonds unset. Each year at the friendly tournament he gave one of these diamonds as a prize. There had been eight tournaments, and at each Sir Lancelot had won the diamond. The jewel that was to be given as a prize at the ninth tournament was the largest and most beautiful of all. Everyone, of course, expected that Sir Lancelot would win it, but only a few days before the contest he announced to the king that he would not compete. Then the queen was vexed, for she loved Sir Lancelot more than all the other knights, and it gave her great joy to see him always successful in the tournaments. Therefore she urged him to change his decision. "My queen," he said, "I told the king I would not fight." The queen replied: "My advice is that you go in disguise. The knights who contest with you do so but half-heartedly, for they know your great fame and feel sure of failure. If they did not know who you were, they would fight better and win more glory for themselves. Then fight as a stranger knight, and afterwards explain to the king." Sir Lancelot took her advice. He rode away over the woods and hills till he came to the castle of Astolat, where he decided to stop and ask for a disguise. He knocked on the gate, which was opened by an old dumb servant, and entered the courtyard. The lord of Astolat came to meet him with his two sons, Sir Torre and Sir Lavaine, and his beautiful daughter Elaine. The lord of the castle said: "Fair sir, whoever you are, you are welcome. You seem to me much like a Knight of the Round Table." "That I am," said Sir Lancelot. "Hereafter I will tell you my name; at present I wish to remain unknown. I must enter the coming tournament as an unknown knight, and I should like to leave with you my great shield, for it is as well known in Camelot as I. Will you keep it and lend me another one?" Then answered the Lord of Astolat: "You may take the shield of my son Torre. He was hurt in his first tournament, and has not been able to fight since. My son Lavaine will gladly go with you to the tournament. Perhaps," added the lord, laughing, "he can win the diamond, and put it in his sister Elaine's hair." "Nay, father, do not make me ashamed before this noble knight," said the young Lavaine. "I know I can never win the diamond for Elaine, but I can at least do my best to fight." "Gladly will I take you for a companion," said Sir Lancelot, "and if you can, win the diamond for this fair maiden." "Such a diamond," said Sir Torre, "is fit for a queen, and not for a simple girl." Sir Lancelot smiled to himself. He was sure that he should win the diamond. Then he meant to give it with the eight others to Queen Guinevere. He spoke kindly, however, to the beautiful Elaine. "In truth, this fair maiden is fit to be a queen." Then Elaine lifted her eyes and looked at him. He was twice as old as she was. His face was cut and scarred with wounds which he had received in battle, but as she looked at him, she loved him, and felt that she would continue to love him till the day of her death. They went into the great hall where a supper was laid. Sir Lancelot talked of King Arthur and his goodness and all his glorious deeds. Elaine thought that even Arthur could not be so brave as this wonderful lord. All night long she dreamed of him. In the morning she rose early and went down in the courtyard where Sir Lancelot and Sir Lavaine were mounting their horses. "Fair lord," she said boldly to Sir Lancelot, "will you wear my token in your helmet?" Then said Sir Lancelot: "Fair maiden, I have never worn favor nor token for any lady in the tournaments. This is well known to be my custom." "But if you wear my token," she said, "there will be far less likelihood of your being known by your fellow knights." "That is very true, my child," he said. "Bring it to me. What is it?" She held it out to him; it was a red sleeve embroidered with pearls. Sir Lancelot bound it in his helmet and said: "I have never done so much before for any maiden." [Illustration: _"She staid near it all day long in the turret"_] Then he and Sir Lavaine bade Elaine farewell, and the beautiful maiden ran up to the tower of the castle and watched them from the window for a long time. When they were out of sight she asked the old dumb servant to carry Sir Lancelot's shield to the tower. It was a large shield of silver, with three lions emblazoned upon it in gold and blue, but its polished surface was covered with dents and scratches. Elaine knelt before it, and made a story for each scratch and mark, picturing to herself the contests in which the good shield had taken part. For many weeks she stayed near it all day long in the turret, watching for Sir Lancelot and her brother to return. Meanwhile those two had ridden lightly to Camelot, and when they were almost there, Sir Lancelot told Sir Lavaine his name. The young man was astonished. He was very happy, too, to think that he was a companion to the great knight of whom he had heard so often. When Sir Lancelot and Sir Lavaine arrived at the field where the tournament was to be held, they stood looking at the king, who sat upon the great carved chair which had dragons' heads for the arms and the back. On his red robe was embroidered a golden dragon, and a golden dragon was also on his crown. Above him, set in a canopy, was the ninth diamond. All about the king to left and right were rows of ladies whose robes gave to the pavilion in which they sat the brilliant hues of the rainbow. Sir Lancelot said to young Sir Lavaine: "Look at the king. You think I am great, but he is greater than I. I can fight better than he can, but his soul is greater than mine. Aim to become a Knight of the Round Table, and follow the example of goodness which Arthur sets for his knights." At this moment the trumpets blew as a signal that the tournament was to begin. The knights spurred their horses forward, and in a moment their spears and shields clashed. Sir Lancelot rode lightly here and there, overthrowing everyone with whom he contested. All wondered at the skill of this unknown knight. Then Sir Lancelot's kinsmen, his nephew, Sir Lionel, and others, were angry and jealous. "Our Sir Lancelot should be here," they said, "to overcome this stranger knight." "Perhaps this is Sir Lancelot," said one. "Two knights cannot fight so well in this world. It must be Sir Lancelot." "No, no," said the others; "Sir Lancelot would never wear a lady's favor, and this knight wears a red sleeve embroidered with pearls. Let us set on this man and teach him that if Sir Lancelot is not here, we, his kinsmen, will fight for his fame." Then all together they bore down on Sir Lancelot. His horse went down in the shock, and he himself was wounded. A spear had pierced his breastplate and snapped off in his side. Young Sir Lavaine rushed to help Sir Lancelot. The great knight rose slowly and, with the help of his friend, drove back his kith and kin to the far side of the field. Then sounded a great blare of trumpets, and the king proclaimed the stranger knight victor. "Come forward," the herald cried, "and take your diamond." But poor Sir Lancelot said: "Talk not to me of diamonds. Give me air. I fear me I have received my death wound. Let me go hence, and I bid you follow me not." Sir Lavaine helped him upon his horse, and they two rode slowly off the field. When they were near the neighboring forest the great knight fell from his horse and cried: "Pull forth the spear-head which is in my side." "Oh, my lord," said Sir Lavaine, "I am afraid you will die if I draw it forth." "I shall die if you leave it," said Sir Lancelot. So Sir Lavaine drew it forth quickly, causing Sir Lancelot to faint from the pain. Then a hermit who lived near by came to them, and bore the wounded knight into his hut, where for many a week Sir Lancelot lay between life and death. When Arthur found that the unknown knight had gone, no one knew whither, he was sorry. He called the light-hearted Sir Gawain and said to him: "Go forth, take this diamond and seek the stranger knight. Do not cease from your search till you have left the diamond in his hand." Then Arthur went to the queen. She had been ill and had not attended the tournament. When the king told her all that had happened, she cried: "A stranger knight! My lord, my lord! That was our dear Sir Lancelot. He was fighting in disguise." "Alas! he is hurt," said the king. "Perhaps he is dying. He said that he would not fight. He should have told me that he meant to fight in disguise. The truth, my queen, is always best." "Yes, my good lord, I know it," she said. "If I had but let our Lancelot tell the truth, perhaps he would not have been wounded. You would have called on his kinsmen to cease." For many days the king and Guinevere waited in deep anxiety for news of Sir Lancelot. Meantime, Sir Gawain rode forth and sought for the great knight in vain. At last he came to the castle of Astolat, where he was welcomed by the lord and Sir Torre and the fair Elaine. He told them the result of the tournament, and how the stranger knight had won. They showed him Sir Lancelot's shield. "Ah!" said Elaine, when he had told them the name of the unknown knight, "I knew that he must be great." Sir Gawain guessed by the expression of her beautiful face that she loved Sir Lancelot. So he said: "Fair maiden, when he returns here for his shield, give him this diamond, which is the prize he won. Perhaps he will prize it the more because you put it into his hand." Then Sir Gawain bade them farewell and rode off, lightly singing. When he told Arthur what he had done, the king said: "You should have done as I bade you, Gawain. Sir Lancelot deceived me about his disguise, and you have disobeyed me. The kingdom will surely fail if the king and his rules are not honored. Obedience is the courtesy due to kings." Meanwhile the fair Elaine went to her father and said: "Dear father, let me go and seek the wounded Sir Lancelot and my brother." "Nay," said the lord, "it is not a fitting thing for a young maiden like you to seek a wounded knight. He is not your lover. It cannot be." "I would give him his diamond," she said, "and since he is so sorely wounded, I would take care of him. It is not fitting, my father, but I cannot live unless I know where he is and how he does." Then, because he loved his child very much and had never refused any request she made of him, the old lord let her go in care of Sir Torre. The two rode for a long time, until at last, near Camelot, they met Sir Lavaine. Elaine ran up to him and cried: "Lavaine, take me to Sir Lancelot." Sir Lavaine was much astonished that Elaine knew the name of the stranger knight. He was glad to see her, because he thought she could help his friend. Sir Lancelot seemed glad to see her, too, and the beautiful maiden cared for him so tenderly that the old hermit said he never could have recovered without her nursing. When he was well enough, they all rode to the castle of Astolat. There Sir Lancelot remained for a few days; then he took his shield and prepared to return to Camelot. Before he went he asked Elaine if he could not do something for her in return for her care of him. She grew very pale and then she said: "I am going to say something which I should not. I love you. Take me with you to Camelot." Sir Lancelot said very gently: "My poor little maiden, if I had meant to take a wife, I should have wedded earlier. All the court knows that I love only the king and the queen. You do not really love me. Some day you will marry a young knight, and then I shall give you many castles and much land as a dowry." "I will have nothing of all that," said Elaine. She turned away and climbed up to the tower, while her father said to Sir Lancelot: "I pray you, be discourteous in some way so that she will cease to love you. Such love is madness." "It is not my habit to be discourteous," said Sir Lancelot. "However, when she stands at the turret window to wave me farewell, I will not look up at her." Sir Lancelot rode sadly away, and did not look up at the window where Elaine stood. She watched him till he disappeared, and then she fell in a swoon. Day after day she pined away, and one morning she said to her father: "Dear father, I am going to die. When I am dead, take my bed and cover it with rich draperies. Then dress me in my most beautiful clothes; put a letter I have here in my hand, and lay me on the bed. Set it on a barge, and let our dumb servant steer it down the river to Camelot." Her father wept, and promised to do all that she asked. Sir Lancelot had gone to the Court, where he was received with great rejoicing. For many days the knights and ladies held great feasting in his honor, and the king and the queen would hardly allow him to leave their presence. One day while the three stood looking out of the palace window, they saw a black barge come slowly down the river. It stopped at the palace door, and the king, going down, saw on it the beautiful maiden Elaine, pale in death. She was dressed in white satin, and bore a lily in her left hand and a letter in her right. The king ordered two of his knights, the good Sir Galahad and Sir Perceval, to carry Elaine into his great hall. Then Arthur read the letter, which said: "Most noble lord, Sir Lancelot of the Lake: I, Elaine, the maid of Astolat, come to take my last farewell of you, for you left me without a farewell. I loved you, and my love had no return, and so I died." The knights and ladies wept. Sir Lancelot said to Arthur: "My king, I grieve for the death of this maiden, but as I did not love her, I could not wed her." The king answered: "You are not to blame, Sir Lancelot. The world has in it much that is sad as well as much that is joyous. There are happenings for which no human being can be blamed. It would be a fitting deed, however, if you had this maiden richly buried." Sir Lancelot ordered a splendid funeral, such as should be given to a queen. Over Elaine's grave was raised a beautiful tomb on which was carved her figure, with the left hand holding a lily; at her feet lay the shield of Sir Lancelot, and the sad story of her death was written on the tomb in letters of gold and blue. [Illustration: Two Crossed Swords and a Shield] [Illustration] THE SEARCH FOR THE HOLY GRAIL In Arthur's Court there were many virtuous knights and ladies, but the best of all was a beautiful maiden, sister to Sir Perceval. She was so good that the evil in the world oppressed her, and she could be happy only when she was praying for all people to be made better. Once a good old man told her what was meant by the Holy Grail. "Grail," he said, "is the word for the cup out of which our Lord Jesus drank, the night that he held the last supper with his disciples. Therefore, it is called holy. There is a tradition which says that for a long time after the death of Christ the Holy Grail remained on earth, and any one who was sick and touched it was healed at once. But then people grew to be so wicked that it disappeared from earth. It is said that if a person in our day were only good enough, he could see the Holy Grail." "Really see it?" asked the maiden, eagerly, "or see it in a vision?" "I do not know," answered the good old man, "but either one would be a great happiness. For a real sight of it, or a vision, would show the person who saw it that he was sinless." Then the beautiful maiden prayed more than ever. She became so thin and pale that it seemed as if she were almost transparent, and at last she lay dying. One morning she sent for her brother, Sir Perceval, and for his friend, Sir Galahad. Sir Perceval and Sir Galahad were the two best knights in Arthur's Court. They were not so powerful as Sir Lancelot or Sir Geraint or Sir Gareth, but they had purer souls than these. When they came to the bedside of the maiden, she said: "Oh, my brother and my friend, I have seen the Holy Grail. Last night I was awakened by a sound like the music of a silver horn across the hills. It was more beautiful music than any I have ever heard. Then through my window shone a long cold beam of silver light, and slowly across that beam came the Holy Grail. It was red like a beautiful rose, and the light reflected from it covered all the walls with a rosy color. And then it vanished. Now I beg you to seek it; and go to the hall of Arthur and tell all the other knights to take the quest. If they can but see the Grail, it will be a sign that they are good, and that the world is growing better." As she spoke, Sir Galahad's face wore an expression so like her own that Sir Perceval was amazed. But the maiden took from the side of her bed a sword-belt, and gave it to Sir Galahad. "Fair knight," she said, "I have made this golden belt of my hair, and woven on it, in crimson and silver thread, the device of the Holy Grail. Put on this belt, bind your sword to it, and go forth; for you, too, shall see the Holy Grail." Then Sir Galahad and Sir Perceval went away quietly, for they saw that the beautiful maiden had not long to live. That night they went to Arthur's hall. The king was absent with the queen, but most of the knights of the Round Table were there, and to them Sir Galahad and Sir Perceval told the vision that Sir Perceval's sister had seen. As they spoke, suddenly the torches in the hall were extinguished; there was a loud sound like thunder and a sudden cracking of the roof. Then a beam of light, seven times stronger than day, streamed into the room. Across the beam stole the Holy Grail. But it was covered by a luminous cloud, so that its shape could not be seen. Slowly it vanished away. There was silence in the hall for a long time; the knights were awe-struck and could not speak. At last Sir Perceval rose in his seat and said in a low tone: "My sister saw the vision of the Holy Grail, but I, because I am more sinful, have seen it covered with a cloud. Yet because I wish to see it, I vow to spend twelve months and a day in search of it. I will pray, and live as holy a life as I can, and perhaps this vision will be mine." Then good Sir Bors, the cousin of Sir Lancelot, made the same vow, as did also Sir Galahad and Sir Lancelot and Sir Gawain and many others. After the vows had been taken, King Arthur entered. When all had been explained to him, his face grew sorrowful. "If I had been here," he said, "I should not have allowed you to swear the vow. None of you really saw the Grail; you say it was covered with a cloud." Then Sir Galahad cried out: "My king, I saw the Grail, all crimson like a ruby, and I heard a voice which said, 'O Galahad, O Galahad, follow me!'" "Ah, Galahad," said the king, tenderly, "you are fit for this quest, this search, but the others are not. Sir Lancelot is our strongest warrior, but he is not like Sir Galahad. Most of you, my knights, are men with strength and will to right wrongs; that is the work you are fitted for. You have fought in twelve great battles with the heathen, but only one of you is fit for this holiest of visions. Yet go, and fulfill your vow." The faces of the knights were downcast. The king continued: "While you are gone, I shall need your strength here at home, but you will be following a wandering fire. Many of you will never return." All the company felt sad. The next day when the knights departed upon their quest, the king could hardly speak for grief, and many of the knights and ladies wept. Those who had sworn the vow went together to the great gate of the city of Camelot, and there they separated. During the next twelvemonth many a poor laborer who had been wronged came to Arthur's Court to find a knight who would fight for him, and many a poor widow and maiden. But because so many of the knights of the Round Table were absent there was little help to be had, and Arthur's face grew sadder and sadder as time went on. At last, after the twelvemonth and the day had passed, those in Camelot began to look for the return of the knights who had taken the vow. Alas, though they waited all day long, only Sir Gawain, Sir Bors, Sir Perceval, and Sir Lancelot returned. In the evening the knights of the Round Table assembled in the great hall. When each was seated, the king rose, and said to those who had been upon the quest: "My lords, I need only look at your faces to know that you have fared ill. I dare not think of those of you who have not come back. And now, Perceval, my knight who, next to Galahad, has the purest soul, tell me what has happened to you." Sir Perceval rose slowly from his chair and said: "Dear my liege, when I left your court on the sad morning that we all set forth, I did not feel the grief that many of the other knights felt. I had been fighting so well, so many lances had gone down before my stroke, that I was full of confidence in what I could do. "I rode happily, planning all the great victories I should win. I was sure if I righted a great many wrongs, I should soon see the Grail. But after many days I began to grow weary. I was riding through rough forests, and the branches bruised me and my horse; there seemed to be no great deeds to do. I could not even slay wild beasts, and so be of use to the poor country people. My bed was on the hard ground, and my food was wild berries. "One day I came to a great castle, and here I decided to rest. When I entered, I was warmly greeted and brought to the princess of the castle. I found her to be one whom I had loved long ago in her father's court. I was but a young squire and she was a great princess, and so I had gone away without telling her how dear I held her. "She greeted me kindly, and after a time she began to love me. Soon I wondered whether I was fit to see the Holy Grail. I thought perhaps I was one of those who were pursuing a wandering fire. And then the people of the castle begged me to marry their princess, and be their lord and live a happy and easeful life. "One night I awoke, and thought longingly of the Holy Grail. Whether I were fit to see the vision or not, I had at least sworn to seek it for a year and a day. And yet, I had not tried two months! I rose hastily, dressed, and left the castle. Then for many days I prayed and mourned. At last I sought a holy hermit, and told him all I had done and thought since I had left Arthur's Court. "The good hermit, after a short silence, said: 'My son, you have not true humility. You have been too proud of your strength, and too sure in the beginning that you were fit for the vision. You have always thought first of yourself and your own glory, and not of the good you could do.' "I went into the chapel of this hermit, and prayed to be relieved of the sin of pride. As I prayed, Sir Galahad entered. He was clad in silver armor, and his face looked like that of an angel. "'Oh, my brother,' he said, 'have you not seen the Grail?' And after I had answered, he said: "'From the moment when I left the court of our king, the vision has been with me. It is faint in the daytime, but at night it shines blood red. I see it on the mountains, and in the lakes, and on the marshes. It has made me so strong that everywhere I am able to do good. I have broken down many evil customs. I have fought with pagan hordes and been victor, all because of this blessed vision. Perceval, I have not long to live. I am going to the great city above, which is more beautiful than any earthly city. Come out with me this night, and before you die you shall see this vision.' "Then I followed Sir Galahad out of the chapel. We climbed a hill which was steep and rugged, Sir Galahad going first, and his silver armor guiding me. When we came to the top, a storm broke over us, and the lightning seemed to follow us as we descended the hill on the other side. At the bottom of it there was a great black swamp, leading to the sea. It was crossed by a huge bridge built by some forgotten king. Here Sir Galahad left me and ran over the bridge till he reached the sea. His armor shone like a star, far away at the edge of the water. And then I saw him no more. [Illustration: _"And across it slowly moved the Holy Grail"_] "I knelt on the black ground and wept, and wished that I were as good as Sir Galahad, and could do deeds as he did, not to win glory, but to help those who needed help. And as I wept, I was aware of a great light over me. I looked up and saw a silver beam, and across it slowly moved the Holy Grail. It was no longer muffled in a cloud, but shone crimson as a ruby. "I made my way back to the chapel and prayed all the rest of the night. In the morning I found Sir Galahad's body by the sea. He was beautiful as a saint, though he was worn and thin from long self-sacrifice. I buried him and then turned my steps to Camelot. "And now, my lord Arthur, I shall never fight again. I shall become a monk and pass my life in prayer as my sister did. Among my brother monks, there will be very many little deeds of service I can do. Thus will I spend my life." All the knights were very much moved and the king looked affectionately at Sir Perceval, but he did not speak to him. He turned to Sir Gawain and said: "Sir Gawain, was this quest for you?" Then Sir Gawain, always light-hearted and easily turned away from one thing to another, said: "Nay, my king, such a search is not for one like me. In a little time I became tired. I talked to a holy man who told me that I was not fit for such a vision. So I journeyed till I came to a field with silk pavilions and very many knights and ladies. And with them I lived happily for the year." The good king looked displeased, but his face grew tender as he turned to Sir Bors. "Bors," he said, "good, faithful, and honest you have ever been. Tell me what you have seen." Sir Bors, who stood near Sir Lancelot, said: "My lord Arthur, after I had started on the quest, I was told that madness had fallen upon my kinsman, Sir Lancelot. This so grieved me that I had but little heart to seek for the Holy Grail. Yet I sought for it. I believed that if God meant me to see the vision he would send it. "I traveled till I came to a people who were heathen. They knew much of magic, but nothing of God. I stayed with them, and tried to teach them our faith, but they were angry because I would not believe in their gods, and they put me into prison. "I was there many months in darkness and cold. But I tried to be patient, and prayed that my patience would count for something, although I could not do any good deeds. I had at least been faithful though I failed. "One night a stone slipped from my prison wall, and I could see a space of sky, with seven stars set across it. Then slowly across the space glided the Holy Grail. My happiness was great, for I had seen the vision. "The next morning, a maiden who had been secretly converted to our religion released me from prison, and I came hither." Then the king spoke to Sir Lancelot. "My Lancelot, the mightiest of us all, have you succeeded in this quest?" Then Sir Lancelot groaned. "O, king!" he cried, "your mightiest, yes; and yet, far better it would be if I were like Sir Galahad. A great sin is on my soul, and it was to be rid of this sin that I undertook the quest of the Holy Grail. A hermit told me that only by putting this sin away should I ever see the vision. I strove so hard against it that my old sickness came upon me. I became mad, and rode up and down among waste places, fighting with small men who overthrew me. The day has been when the very sound of my name would have made them tremble. "At last I came to the sea and saw a boat anchored near the shore. I stepped into it, loosed the anchor, and floated away. For seven days I sailed, and at last I came to an old castle. I entered and heard a voice singing. I followed it up, up for a thousand steps. At last I came to a door, which burst open before me. Perhaps I dreamed, and yet I believe I saw the Holy Grail, though it was veiled and guarded by great angels. I thought I saw all this, and then I swooned away. When I came to myself, I was alone in the room. It was many days before I made my way back to Camelot." For a long time there was silence in the hall, and then Sir Gawain said: "Sir king, I can fight, and I always shall fight for you. But I do not believe in this vision. All the knights were mad, like Sir Lancelot. They did not really have the vision; it was but fancy." Then the king spoke gravely to Sir Gawain. "Sir Gawain, you are indeed not fit for such a vision, but you should not doubt that others have seen it. I was right, my knights, when I said that most of you would follow a wandering fire. How many of those who left me have not returned, and never will!" The knights looked at the empty chairs. The king went on: "Sir Galahad was the only one who completely saw the vision. He was indeed blessed, and fit for such a quest. You who were unfit should have stayed with me to help govern this land." The knights were silent and sad; then the king said: "My dear knights whom I love, always remember this: whether you seek for a vision, or do humble service as Sir Perceval will for his fellow-monks, or fight to right wrongs as Sir Lancelot does, whatever you do your aim must be to make yourself useful to the world by the work for which you are best fitted." The king rose from the Round Table and left the company, Sir Lancelot following him. Then the other knights departed, one by one, and the great hall was left empty, with its shields glimmering in the moonlight. [Illustration: The Knight with the Sword] [Illustration] THE DEATH OF ARTHUR King Arthur's Round Table had lasted many years, and the knights had done much to help the people of the country; yet there were traitors to the king among his own subjects. One of these traitors made war in a distant part of the kingdom, and Arthur went with most of his knights to punish him. His nephew, Sir Modred, the brother of Sir Gawain and Sir Gareth, ruled in his stead at Camelot. Now Sir Modred was a wicked knight. He hated the king and the queen, and Sir Lancelot. Since King Arthur was absent a long time, Sir Modred had the opportunity of doing much harm. He let evil go unpunished; he allowed bad customs to come into the country; and at last he raised a rebellion against the good king. When Arthur returned to Camelot to quell this rebellion, he had lost many of his faithful knights. Sir Hector was dead, and Sir Ulfius and Sir Brastias; Sir Kay was dead, and Sir Bors, and Sir Gawain. Sir Lancelot was far away. Sir Bedivere alone remained of those who had been with Arthur since he had first ruled in Wales and Britain. The king and Sir Bedivere, with the help of such knights as still were faithful, tried to put down those rebels. They drove the traitors back until they came at length to Lyonnesse by the sea. Here the last great battle took place. The night before the battle, Sir Bedivere heard the king praying. Then Arthur slept, and when he awakened he called to his friend: "Sir Bedivere," he said, "I have had a dream. I thought that Sir Gawain came to me and told me that to-morrow I shall die." "My lord, it is but a dream," answered Sir Bedivere. "You are great; you have done much good which will last forever, and you will live many years yet to perform many gracious acts. The day will soon dawn, and you will win the battle." Arthur shook his head. "This is not like my other battles. I have no heart for it. It is hard to slay my own people, even if they are traitors." Day came, but no sun. A cold white mist lay over land and sea. It chilled the knights to the bone. And when the battle began, the mist was so thick that no one could see with whom he was fighting. Friends slew each other, not knowing whom they killed. Some could not fight at all, for it seemed to them that those moving on the battle-field were ghosts of warriors long since slain. There was many a noble deed and many a base one done in that mist. The fighting went on with clashing of lances and shields throughout the afternoon, and then the sounds grew fainter, till there was silence. At last, towards sunset, a wind from the west blew the mist away. Then Arthur, with Sir Bedivere by his side, looked over the field of battle. He saw but one man standing; all the rest were dead on the seashore. And the tide had risen, and was swaying the helpless hands, and tumbling up and down the hollow helmets and the broken spears that once had fought with Rome. The king's face was white, and his voice was low as he said to Sir Bedivere: "There lie my slain, who have died for me. I am king only of the dead." "Nay, lord," said Sir Bedivere. "You are king everywhere still. Now strike a kingly stroke against the one traitor who still stands." Sir Bedivere pointed at the one other living man, and the king saw that it was Sir Modred. Arthur threw down his scabbard and lifted his good Excalibur. Then he sprang upon the traitor. Sir Modred struck the king on the helmet, which had been worn thin in many battles. The stroke cut through the steel, and wounded Arthur mortally, but he used his ebbing strength for one last blow with Excalibur, and killed Sir Modred. The king sank to the ground, but Sir Bedivere lifted him, and bore him to a ruined chapel near the seashore. When he had laid him down by the broken cross in the chancel, Arthur said: "You know well that my Excalibur was given to me by the Lady of the Lake. I have used it like a king. And now the time has come to obey the writing on the blade. So take my sword Excalibur, and throw it far out into the lake." Sir Bedivere took the sword and went out from the ruined chapel. He walked amid the graves of ancient knights over which the sea wind was singing. He passed the barren cliffs and chasms, and reached the lake at last. He lifted Excalibur, and as he did so the moon came from behind the clouds. The light fell on the hilt of the sword, and all the jewels shone. Sir Bedivere looked until his eyes were dazzled; he could not throw the beautiful weapon away. So he hid it in the weeds upon the shore of the lake, and returned to the king. "What did you see or hear?" asked Arthur. Sir Bedivere replied: "I heard the ripple washing in the reeds, and the wild water lapping on the crags." King Arthur, faint and pale, said: "You have betrayed me. You have acted a lie. Had you thrown the sword, something would have happened, some sign would have been given. Go back now, and throw it into the lake." Sir Bedivere went back and again picked up Excalibur. As he looked at it he said aloud: "Surely it is not right to throw away such a precious thing. It would please the eyes of people forever. I know it is wrong to disobey the king. Yet he is sick; perhaps he does not know what he is doing. If I keep Excalibur and store it in a great treasure-house, people will look at it throughout all the coming years, and feel great reverence for the king who fought with it." So again Sir Bedivere hid the sword and returned to the king, who asked: "What have you seen or heard?" And Sir Bedivere replied: "I heard the water lapping on the crag, and the long ripple washing in the reeds." Then the king was very angry. "Ah, unkind!" he cried. "You, too, are a traitor. Because I am dying, I have no authority. You refuse to obey me, you who are the last of my knights! Yet it is possible for a man to fail in his duty twice, and succeed the third time. Go now, and throw Excalibur." Sir Bedivere ran quickly and seized the sword, shutting his eyes that he might not see its beauty. He whirled it round his head and threw it far out over the lake. It flashed in the moonlight and fell. But before it reached the surface of the water, an arm, clothed in pure white, rose and caught it, brandished it three times, and then drew it under the water. When Sir Bedivere went back to Arthur, the king knew that he had been obeyed. "I am dying," he said. "Lift me on your back and carry me to the lake." Then Sir Bedivere carried the helpless king, walking quickly through the place of tombs, and over the crags, and past the chasms, till he came to the smooth shining lake. There beside the bank was a barge, all black. The deck was covered with stately figures of people clad in mourning. Among them were three fair queens with crowns of gold--the three queens who were to help Arthur at his need. They had come to take him away, Sir Bedivere did not know where. When they saw the wounded king, they gave a cry of grief that seemed to rise to the stars. Then they lifted him into the barge. The tallest put his head on her knees, and took off his broken helmet. She called him by name, weeping bitterly. Poor Sir Bedivere cried: "Oh, my Lord Arthur, you are leaving me. Where shall I go? The great Round Table is broken up forever. What shall I do?" Then Arthur answered: "Old customs pass and new ones come. God makes his world better in many ways. The Round Table did its work and now has disappeared; but something else will surely come to advance the cause of truth and justice. Pray for me and for yourself. More things are done by prayer than this world dreams of. And now, farewell! You shall never see me again, my Bedivere. My work is done; yours, too, is nearly over. Farewell!" Then the barge moved slowly away, while those on board lamented. Sir Bedivere watched it till it disappeared amid the shadows over the lake. Then he rose slowly and wandered back to Lyonnesse. After a time he went to Camelot. There was a new king there, who was good, and new customs, also good. But Sir Bedivere was too old to change his way of life. He spent the rest of his days in Camelot, but he lived only in the past, dreaming of the time when King Arthur and his knights of the Round Table ruled in the land. [Illustration: The Shield and the Sword] 
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41783	----	KING ARTHUR IN CORNWALL by W. HOWSHIP DICKINSON, M.D. Honorary Fellow of Gonville and Caius College, Cambridge Longmans, Green, and Co. 39 Paternoster Row, London New York and Bombay 1900 All rights reserved PREFACE The following pages present an attempt to bring together what may be accepted with regard to the personality and actual life of King Arthur, while putting aside everything that is obviously or probably fabulous. I have endeavoured to give due weight to the evidence, both positive and negative, rather than to work up to a pre-determined conclusion. With regard to the evidence of a positive kind, if so it may be called, I have given especial weight to the details of topography, more particularly in Cornwall, with the Arthurian localities of which I happen to be more familiar than with those elsewhere. The fame of Arthur as expressed by the association of his name with places is greater than that of any other personage save one who can claim this sort of connection with our island. On this showing, Julius Cæsar and Oliver Cromwell sink into insignificance as compared with the Cornish Chief. Only the Devil is more often mentioned in local association than Arthur. That name, indeed, is almost ubiquitous, since it is to be found wherever local peculiarities exist which were not explicable to our forefathers save by infernal agency. The Devil's Dyke, The Devil's Bridge, the Devil's Jumps, the Devil's Frying Pan, the Devil's Post-Office, the Devil's Punch-Bowl, are a few instances among many. Next to the Devil in bestowing names on localities comes Arthur. But the two names are distributed in a very different fashion: that of the Devil is scattered impartially, being placed at random wherever thought suitable; that of Arthur is limited to certain districts in which according to history or tradition the hero lived or moved. This dissemination and limitation of the name must have some origin, and may be most obviously and reasonably explained by connecting them with an individual to whom it actually belonged. I hold Arthur to have been as real a person as Cæsar or Cromwell, though less advantageously circumstanced for the recording of his deeds. The British Chief lived in the dark interval between two civilisations, between the departure of the Romans from the island and the establishment of the Saxon polity. The west and the north, which were the seats of his exploits, were remote from what had been the centres of Roman learning, and it may be presumed that Arthur's fighting men were only less illiterate than the Saxons with whom they contended. There may have been priests among them, for Christianity had already reached Ireland and touched the western extremity of England, but the priests, if priests there were, were probably more religious than literate. There was no Xenophon in Arthur's army, and perhaps no one who could read or write. No manuscript has come down to us from Arthur's time and place, though we have reason to believe that among his contemporaries and immediate successors were some who could compose and others who could learn, recite, and remember with advantages the deeds of a leader who made an impression on his countrymen which will probably never be obliterated. What was crystallised in metre was easily remembered and handed down with something approaching to verbal accuracy. The narratives not so expressed gathered exaggeration as they went on, until in the course of time both the facts and the fiction acquired the permanence of writing. Oral tradition is not to be ignored; indeed, a large proportion of ancient history must have had this origin. Putting aside obvious and inevitable exaggerations, the general outlines of Arthur's story are consistent with historic probability and with his great fame, which cannot be otherwise explained; while, as will presently be seen, many details are strikingly confirmed by the correspondence of the topography with the traditions. * * * * * I have not attempted to construct a biography of Arthur, nor even to arrange in chronological sequence the deeds attributed to him and the circumstances which, according to tradition, preceded his birth. So far as I have used the order of time, it has had to do with the records to which I have referred rather than with the events of which I have made mention. CONTENTS PAGE I. INTRODUCTORY 1 II. TRADITIONS AND HISTORY BEARING UPON THE LIFE OF ARTHUR 10 III. ARTHUR'S LAST BATTLE--THE DOUBTS WHICH SURROUND HIS PLACE OF BURIAL 31 IV. TOPOGRAPHICAL ASSOCIATIONS 49 V. CONCLUSIONS 78 ILLUSTRATIONS FIGURE PAGE 1. TINTAGEL CASTLE AS REPRESENTED BY NORDEN, 1584-1600 62 2. TINTAGEL CASTLE, FROM THE 25-INCH ORDNANCE MAP 63 3. DAMELIOCK CASTLE, REPRODUCED FROM THE 25-INCH ORDNANCE MAP 69 4. CASTLE KILLIBURY, FROM THE 25-INCH ORDNANCE MAP 73 5. CARDINHAM CASTLE, FROM THE 25-INCH ORDNANCE MAP 76 KING ARTHUR IN CORNWALL I INTRODUCTORY _Ex nihilo nihil fit._ For the story of King Arthur there must be some foundation, however the primary facts may have been distorted and exaggerated. Two rules may be safely laid down with regard to tradition: it usually has some truth to rest upon; that truth is not accurately presented to us, but has been altered and probably magnified by verbal transmission. We may believe that Troy was besieged and captured by the Greeks, though we hesitate to accept the many instances of divine intervention which the siege afforded; we may believe that Ulysses met with many adventures at sea, though we may have our doubts concerning the Sirens and Polyphemus. The creative power of man's mind is small; he is more ready to embellish than to invent. We may give to tradition a credence as to something which has an origin in fact, though it is not always easy or possible to separate that fact from the superstructure by which it has been overlaid. Tradition, first oral and latterly written, pointed to the grave of Agamemnon: a skeleton with a gold mask was found there, after the lapse of 3,000 years, with surroundings which appeared to indicate that it was that of the King of Men. Tradition preserved the memory of a church at Perranzabuloe which was buried in sand and lost to view--some say in the 8th or 9th century--certainly at a remote period of English history. In the year 1835 a great storm shifted the sand and exposed the minute archaic edifice where tradition had placed it, and where it had been hidden for we cannot say how many centuries. A tradition came down from Druidical to recent times to the effect that near the Cheesewring in Cornwall the Arch-Druid had his seat, and there dispensed wine to hunters out of a gold cup, which, like the widow's cruse, was inexhaustible. In the year 1837 a gold cup was found in Rillaton Barrow, within a quarter of a mile of the supposed seat of the Druid. This cup was decided by archæologists to belong to the Bronze Age.[1] * * * * * In looking at the legend of King Arthur one is immediately struck with its wide distribution. Originally of Celtic origin, it has taken root in certain localities, and held its place in them notwithstanding that the people among whom it originated have suffered admixture or even been entirely replaced by other races. There are four groups of what are called 'Arthurian localities'--localities in which the name 'Arthur' is frequently used in connection with places or structures, or in which some name or tradition is retained which connects Arthur with them. Some of the designations referred to are certainly ancient, some of doubtful antiquity, some obviously modern. The four groups of 'Arthurian localities' are:-- 1. In North Cornwall, from Boscastle to Wadebridge. This is the most interesting, and the traditions belonging to it are the most explicit, and relate not only to Arthur's life, but to events which preceded it. To mention some of the Arthurian names in Cornwall, and the names of places with which Arthur is traditionally connected, we find King Arthur's Castle, the famous stronghold at Tintagel, where we may believe that he was born; Damelioc, whereby hangs a tale; and Kelly Rounds, which, if I am correct in identifying it with Kelliwic, has also a place in Arthurian lore. Allusive names without circumstance are numerous in the same district. To mention some, we have King Arthur's Hall, Hunting Seat, Bed, Quoit, Cups and Saucers, Tomb, and Grave. I may add Pentargon, which Mr. Baring-Gould interprets as 'Arthur's Head.' Many of these designations declare nothing more than the prevalence of the name in a certain district and the readiness of our ancestors to apply it indiscriminately. 'Arthur's Tomb' bears the name of Latinus, but is assigned to Arthur because he was erroneously thought to have been killed in the vicinity, and the inscription is difficult to be read. (See page 33). 'Arthur's Grave' is a barrow also called the 'Giant's Grave,' of which the occupant is unknown. 'Arthur's Quoit' is the top stone of a cromlech which has no probable relation to King Arthur, excepting that it is in Tintagel. 'Arthur's Cups and Saucers' are excavations made by weather in Tintagel Head. These bare names prove nothing beyond the vague retention of a memory in the district to which they relate, but so much they may be held to indicate. The names which are associated with traditions are more suggestive and will receive further consideration. 2. In Britanny, probably a mere offshoot from Cornwall--Britanny and Cornwall being closely connected geographically and by identity of race. As there is no reason to suppose that Arthur was ever in Gaul, I do not propose to dwell upon the French localisation of the Arthurian legend, nor have I the necessary local knowledge. 3. In Wales, chiefly in the south, with Caerleon-upon-Usk as a centre, but involving the north to a lesser extent. I may touch briefly upon the Welsh localisations, though it is not my purpose to dwell upon them in detail. The Welsh legends or traditions are more circumstantial than those I shall presently refer to as Scottish or Cumbrian. Caerleon-upon-Usk was known as the City of Legions, because in the time of the Roman supremacy a legion (the Second Augustan) was stationed there. It was an Archiepiscopal See, and as such was held by Dubricius, who plays a prominent part in Arthurian mythology. According to Nennius, one of Arthur's battles was fought here. Welsh names, local and personal, abound in Arthurian literature, and the connection of Arthur with South Wales was accepted by both Hume and Gibbon as sufficient to warrant them in regarding him as a prince of the Silures. As will presently be seen, I have not adopted this hypothesis. 4. In Scotland and the North of England, reaching from north of Edinburgh to south of Carlisle, and comprising the Lowlands and Cumberland. Cornwall and Wales belong to what Sir William Harcourt once called 'the Celtic fringe'; in the Lowlands and Cumberland the Celt has been superseded by other races, who have taken, together with his territory, some reminiscence of his traditions. In the north Arthurian names are more widely scattered than anywhere else, though there is an absence of the details which connect the Cornish localities with the personality of Arthur. Mr. Skene in his 'Four Ancient Books of Wales,'[2] a work to which I owe much, has discussed with learning the military career of Arthur, and shown that there is reason to believe that many of his battles took place in the north, including that in which he met his end. Mr. Stuart Glennie has followed on the same side, in the endeavour to prove that the north was 'the historical birthland of the Arthurian tradition.' I venture to think, as will presently be seen, that there is satisfying evidence that Scotland was the scene of the later events of Arthur's life and probably of his death. The Arthurian district of the north reaches from Penrith to Strathmore, and has supplied Mr. Skene and Mr. Stuart Glennie with a large number of Arthurian names. Arthur's Seat occurs three times, Arthur's Round Table twice; besides which we have Arthurstone, Arthur's O'on (oven), Arthur's Chair, Camp, Lee, Fountain, Hill, Tomb. There are also to be found Merlin's Fountain, Merlin's Grave, Mordred's Castle, and Camlan or Camelon. The local association of Mordred and Camlan is of especial interest; for Camlan, wherever it be, is the name given in Arthurian literature to Arthur's last battle. Whether this is to be placed in Scotland or in Cornwall is a question which will receive further consideration. I have no doubt that this list of Scottish place-names which refer to Arthur might be considerably increased. Ben Arthur is to be found at the head of Loch Long, and Dumbarton Castle was known in the time of David II. as Castrum Arthuri, near which, according to Mr. Skene's reading, occurred Arthur's ninth battle. Many of these names may be purely fanciful--applied, we know not how recently, to the places they denote; but at any rate it may be regarded as probable that someone, presumably a Celtic chieftain (for the word 'Arthur' is of Celtic origin), left the memory of the name, if of little else, widely scattered over Scotland and the North of England. In addition to the localisation of Arthurian names it will presently be seen that many, or I may say most, of the battles attributed to Arthur, including that in which he died, have been placed in this district. The conclusion is not to be avoided that at some remote time, imperfectly presented to us by history, one Arthur was a prominent person in the south of Scotland and the north of England, left his name widely scattered in the Lowlands, and fought many battles hereabouts. II TRADITIONS AND HISTORY BEARING UPON THE LIFE OF ARTHUR Apart from the evidence of names, we may inquire what is to be found in the way of history or circumstantial tradition. Arthur has been regarded as a somewhat shadowy character; it has even been doubted whether he was not wholly imaginary. Milton[3] thus expresses his uncertainty: 'Who Arthur was, and whether any such person reigned in Britain, hath been doubted heretofore, and may again with good reason.' It is said that Tennyson, who has partaken of Arthur's immortality, doubted his existence; and so much has the Arthurian story been overlaid with romance that it is no easy matter to discover the historical facts which are concealed under the superstructure of fiction. So much has the story of Arthur been magnified and embellished by the romancers of the twelfth and subsequent centuries, so much has it been glorified by impossible details and inflated by obvious anachronisms,[4] that we cannot wonder that the whole tale was distrusted where there was so much reason for rejecting the greater part. The later Arthurian story presents conditions rather befitting the Black Prince than the British king. To get to the foundations, we must dig below the superstructure, which is mostly of French origin, and examine the records, scanty though they be, which belong to Arthur's country and as nearly as may be to his time. The ancient literature of Cornwall, if there ever was any, has perished with its language, but there remains much of that of Wales, some going back possibly to the time of Arthur, probably to the century in which he lived. Some of the Triads and some of the songs of the bards are confidently believed to have been handed down from the sixth century, though we possess no manuscripts which have an earlier date than the twelfth. Among these survivals are many allusions to Arthur, mentioning him by name and referring to him as a fighting man and a leader, and more than one associating him with Cornwall, and with a particular earthwork which, I venture to think, can still be identified. One of these writings is entitled 'Triads of Arthur and His Warriors,'[5] and is thus translated: Arthur the chief lord at Kelliwic in Cornwall, and Bishop Betwine the chief Bishop, and Caradawe Vreichvras the chief elder. This is referred to by Dr. Guest[6] as 'a poem of the sixth century, whose genuineness no scholar has ever doubted.'[7] The Triads do not deal with narrative; their purpose is served when three names are linked together. The mention of Cornwall in connection with Arthur may be taken to indicate that he was a Cornish rather than a Welsh potentate; while that of Kelliwic, as will presently be shown, is of especial interest as indicating the locality to which he belonged. The 'Black Book of Caermarthen' contains a poem of somewhat uncertain date and authorship, in which the same place is referred to in connection with Arthur: he killed every third person When Celli was lost. Celli is evidently the place elsewhere referred to as Celliwig, another form of the name Kelliwic. The same 'Black Book' gives a poem relating to Geraint, who was killed in the course of it. Arthur was there, and attracted the notice and commendation of the author:-- In Llongborth I saw Arthur, And brave men who hewed with steel, Emperor and conductor of the toil. I presume that Llongborth is a place elsewhere spoken of as Longporth, and believed to be Portsmouth; and the battle referred to, one between Arthur and Cerdric. The same manuscript gives a poem entitled 'The Verses of the Graves.' Many graves are mentioned which are not to the present purpose; that of Arthur is referred to as unknown in the following line:-- A mystery to the world the grave of Arthur. Taliessin was a Welsh bard who, among others, is assigned to the sixth century. He refers to Arthur frequently as the Guledig--a term, according to Skene, equivalent to Ruler or Imperator. That Arthur was not Imperator of all Britain will presently appear; that he held some position of supremacy in the west may well be believed. Taliessin refers to Arthur frequently, once as 'Arthur the blessed':-- on the face of battle, Upon him a restless activity. The same poet describes with much repetition a certain expedition, of which one stanza may serve as a sufficient sample:-- And when we went with Arthur, a splendid labour, Except seven none returned from Caer Vedwyd. The same poet alludes to 'the steed of Arthur' in a poem which enumerates memorable horses. In the 'Book of Aneurin,' a Welsh poet who belonged, as it is thought, to the sixth century, Arthur is made use of as a standard of comparison. A certain warrior is thus referred to:-- He was an Arthur In the midst of the exhausting conflict.[8] Further quotations from similar sources might be brought together, but enough have been adduced to show that the name of Arthur was so widely celebrated by the Welsh bards, and was so connected by them with place and circumstance, that it is not possible to doubt that the traditions had reference to a real person. Whether any of the bardic effusions which have come down to us are correctly assigned to the sixth century, as Welsh scholars believe, I am not competent to decide. Many of them are obviously of later date; but if we may accept what is generally believed, we must attribute some of these poetic remnants to a time when Arthur was a recent memory, and give credence to them as at least founded on fact. By the bards Arthur was represented as a military chief paramount in the country to which their knowledge extended; as a soldier of exceptional activity, and one who attracted the admiration of those who fought under him; as concerned in a variety of fights in a variety of places, most of which are not now to be exactly identified, but one of which was Kelliwic, a place of strength which will receive further notice; and as resembling another great leader in the invincible obscurity which shrouded his place of rest. 'In the lost battle borne down by the flying,' his sepulchre may have been the maws of kites. From the time of the bards--not to limit that period to the sixth century--until the ninth century no records concerning King Arthur have come down to us. It is more likely that some were written, utilised, and lost, than that the historian of the ninth century was guided only by oral tradition. The earliest connected history of Arthur, though, as has been seen, this by no means contains the earliest mention of him, is that of Nennius, a Briton who, according to his own statement, wrote in the year 858, and concludes his history in the time of the 'Heptarchy.' Thus three centuries elapsed between the supposed death of Arthur in 542 and any collected record of his doings which is still extant. This interval, however, was not barren of Arthurian lore, for we have derived from it, as I have shown, a sufficiency of fragments and allusions to certify to the existence of Arthur, to mark his position as 'Dux Bellorum,' to present him in his fighting character, and in more than one instance to associate him with places which can still be identified. * * * * * As against the positive testimony of the Bards we have a certain amount of negative evidence to which due weight must be attached, though the negation may be held to apply not so much to the existence of Arthur as a chieftain in the west as to the general supremacy assigned to him by later writers and popular tradition as King of Britain, Comes Britanniæ, lord of the whole country comprising the 'Saxon shore' as well as the remote districts of the west and north. Proceeding in chronological order, the first historical record (for the bardic fragments can scarcely be so termed) relating to 'Britain's Isle and Arthur's days' is that of Gildas, a British priest of reforming tendencies, who was born, according to his own statement, in the year of the famous battle of Badon Hill, or Mons Badonicus, and received in consequence the addition of Badonicus to his name. This battle, which was fought in the year 520, or, according to another reckoning, 516, was connected in later times with Arthur, and regarded as his crowning victory. If Gildas was born in the year of Badon Hill, he must, supposing we accept the date 520 for that engagement, have been twenty-two years old at the time assigned by tradition to Arthur's last battle. Yet Gildas makes no mention of Arthur, though he refers by name to Ambrosius as the successful leader of the Britons against the Saxons at this epoch. If, as there is reason to believe, Scotland was the scene of the latter part of Arthur's career and of his death, it is the less remarkable that he should have escaped mention by Gildas, who apparently belonged to the south of England, for he is known to have spent part of his time at Glastonbury. Similar negative evidence is provided by the Venerable Bede, who lived nearer to the place of Arthur's exploits than did Gildas, though he was more remote from them in time. Bede was a Northumbrian priest in the time of the 'Heptarchy.' He was born in 673 and died in 735. As a writer on ecclesiastical history, it is remarkable that he found no place for Arthur as a Christian champion. Bede, who closely follows Gildas, mentions only Ambrosius. I may venture to quote from the 'Ecclesiastical History' the passage which refers to Ambrosius, from which it will be seen that this historian does not explicitly attribute the victory of Badon Hill to Ambrosius, though his words have been thought to bear that signification. 'Under him' (Ambrosius) 'the Britons revived and, offering battle to the victors, by the help of God came off victorious. From that day, sometimes the natives, and sometimes their enemies, prevailed, till the year of the siege of Baddesdown Hill, when they made no small slaughter of those invaders.' Putting Badon Hill aside, there are other battles, which will be enumerated in due course, of which Arthur has the sole credit, which might have been expected to have drawn the attention of the priest to the hero had he been all that later chronicles represent. Here is a difficulty which cannot be ignored; and which consists not so much of conflicting testimony as of testimony conflicting with the absence of testimony. In such a case it is probable that more weight should be attached to positive evidence than to negative. The ignoring of Arthur by Gildas and Bede, and as I shall presently show by the 'Saxon Chronicle,' may imply no more than that he held no such position as would have caused him to be mentioned by the British writers, who named no one but the commander-in-chief, and that the field of his activity did not bring him under the notice of the Saxon chroniclers, who took no cognizance of what went on at this time in the west. The two British writers, whose notice of the wars of the Saxon invasion is confined to the briefest epitome, mention no leader on either side but Ambrosius. There must have been others, of whom Arthur may have been one. Arthur was never, like Vortigern, King of Britain, or, like Ambrosius, commander-in-chief of the British forces: he had no concern with the 'Saxon shore'; he was, as we are frequently told, Guledig, or Imperator, but his authority must have been limited to the west and north. * * * * * Between the history of Bede and that of Nennius, the Arthurian legend appears to have taken tangible shape, and by the later historian was written in a connected though condensed form. If, as is probable, Nennius was guided by earlier manuscripts, they have perished or not come to light. Little is known of this writer. His 'Historia Britonum' is said to have been edited by Mark the Hermit in the tenth century. According to his own statement, Nennius, who was apparently a Briton and a priest, wrote his history in the year 858. It concludes with the battle of Cocboy (or Maserfield), between two kings of the 'Heptarchy' in the year 642. Importance (as will presently be seen) is to be attached to the date of this conclusion. Nennius in the course of his history deals with the conflicts between the Britons and Saxons after the death of Hengist, and introduces us to Arthur in these words:-- 'Then it was that the magnanimous Arthur, with all the kings and military force of Britain, fought against the Saxons. And although there were many more noble than himself, yet he was twelve times chosen their commander and was as often conqueror. The first battle in which he was engaged was at the mouth of the river Gleni. The second, third, fourth and fifth were on another river, by the Britons called Duglas, in the region Linuis. The sixth on the river Bassas. The seventh in the wood Celidon, which the Britons call Cat Coit Celidon. The eighth was near Gurnion Castle, where Arthur bore the image of the Holy Virgin, mother of God, upon his shoulders, and through the power of our Lord Jesus Christ and the Holy Mary put the Saxons to flight, and pursued them the whole day with great slaughter. The ninth was at the City of Legion which is called Cair Lion. The tenth was on the banks of the river Trat Treuroit. The eleventh was in the mountain Breguoin, which we call Cat Bregion. The twelfth was a most severe contest, where Arthur penetrated to the hill of Badon. In this engagement nine hundred and forty fell by his hand alone, no one but the Lord affording him assistance.'[9] It is worth noting that a later writer, Geoffrey of Monmouth, tells a story with regard to the battle of Badon Hill resembling that which Nennius attaches to that of Gurnion Castle. Arthur had a picture of the Virgin painted on his shield, and with his own hand and his sword Caliburn slew 470 men; Giraldus Cambrensis explains that the picture was on the inside of the shield, so that Arthur might kiss it without inconvenience. These battles are indicated by Nennius only by their localities, without mention of the chiefs to whom Arthur was opposed. It is believed that Cerdric was prominent in this capacity: he may have been so in the south, but we find no evidence that this commander ever got far enough north to take part in the majority of the fights of which Nennius is the historian and Arthur the hero. The river Gleni has been thought to be the Glen in Ayrshire; by others to be a river of the same name, a tributary of the Till in Northumberland. The Duglas, or Dubglass, has been supposed to be the Dunglas, which forms the southern boundary of Lothian; by others one of the rivers in Scotland which bears the name of Douglas; by others to be the Duglas in Lancashire. The wood Celidon may be the Caledonian Forest or Englewood in Cumberland. Gurnion Castle is supposed by some to have been a Roman station near Yarmouth, by Skene to be one near Lammermoor. The City of Legion or Cair Lion, where the ninth battle was said to have been fought, should be Caerleon-upon-Usk, though this position does not correspond with that of the other contests, and on this and other grounds must be held in doubt. Giles supposes Cair Lion to have been Exeter. The river Trat Treuroit, on which was the tenth battle, cannot be satisfactorily located. The eleventh battle was apparently fought at Edinburgh, not against the Saxons but the Picts. Cadbury in Somersetshire, according to another hypothesis, has also been assigned as the place of this battle. The famous twelfth battle, which was between the British and Saxons, and resulted in the taking of Mons Badonicus or Badon Hill, has been placed at Bannesdown near Bath, at Badbury in Dorsetshire, and at Bouden Hill in Linlithgowshire. This great battle, whatever may be the doubts as to its position, stands out as an indubitable historical fact, though Gildas and Bede have occasioned a certain ambiguity between Arthur and Ambrosius in regard to it. If, as is believed, Ambrosius died, whether by sword or poison, in 508, and Mons Badonicus was fought in 520, we may disconnect Ambrosius from this battle and give the sole credit of it to Arthur. The opponent of Arthur on this occasion was, according to evidence and probability, Cerdric, who had landed at the mouth of the Itchen in 495, defeated Natanleod near Netley in 508; and was himself defeated at Badon Hill in 520.[10] If these statements be accepted, as it seems they should be, we can scarcely place Mons Badonicus in Scotland, whither Cerdric, so far as we know, never went. He was probably sufficiently occupied at this time in establishing his kingdom of Wessex. It is possible that at Badon Hill Arthur and Cerdric may have met, not for the first time, for a bardic fragment to which I have referred (see page 14) represents Arthur as fighting, probably with Cerdric, at Llongporth or Portsmouth. English, as distinguished from Scottish, historians concur in placing Badon Hill in the south. Geoffrey says that the battle was near Bath (not that this is by any means conclusive); Bannesdown has been generally accepted as its situation, though Dr. Guest prefers to place it at Badbury in Dorsetshire. At any rate, we must believe that it took place in the southwest and within stroke of Cerdric. Amid much that is obscure, this battle, as between the British and Saxons and Arthur and Cerdric, presents itself as a sort of anchorage in a sea of doubt. We may look back upon the preceding battles having regard to the presumption that in 520 Arthur was in the south of England. Of these battles, eleven in number, we have no exact knowledge as to either time or place. With regard to three of them we cannot form any reasonable conjecture. Of the remaining eight each has more than one position hypothetically assigned to it--always one in the lowlands of Scotland, where Arthurian names most abound, another generally in the north of England. It would be vain to pretend that we know enough of the particulars of the invasion to give us more than vague guidance as to the movements of Arthur. It may be supposed that in his time the Angles were penetrating the island by the Humber and the Forth, and it is possible that he may have been concerned in the fighting which ensued. Manifestly he obtained great fame in the north, though we do not know when. Between the battle of Badon Hill in 520 and Camlan in 542 we are in absolute darkness as to his whereabouts. We may presume that he was in the south of England in 520 and in Scotland in 542; between the two dates there is room for conjecture and for much fighting. If we could adapt the traditions to probability, we should suppose that the Scotch battles took place after, and not before, Badon Hill; that in the early part of his career Arthur was at war with Cerdric and the Saxons of Wessex, in the later part with the Angles of the north and possibly with the Picts. But if we accept the list of battles as given by Nennius, and in the order in which he places them, we must believe that Arthur went north before Badon Hill[11] and returned to fight there, for all the little evidence we have indicates that some at least of the battles which this historian records were in Scotland. If this be so, Arthur must have gone north again to conclude his career at Camlan, and thus must have made more than one Scotch campaign, to the multiplication of Arthurian names.[12] * * * * * The 'Saxon Chronicle,' which gives a detailed account of the battles in Kent, Sussex, and Hampshire, makes no mention of any in the west or north, or of Arthur. The 'Saxon Chronicle' is an apparently truthful, if somewhat bald, history. It mentions Vortigern as King of Britain and the opponent of Hengist, it names Natanleod, Commail, Condida and Farinmail as British kings who were defeated and slain; but neither Arthur nor Ambrosius find place in this record. It has been supposed that Natanleod, who was killed, together with five thousand men, by Cerdric at Netley in the year 508, was no other than Ambrosius, but I have not been able to find the evidence on which this theory rests; and there is another tradition with regard to the death of Ambrosius, namely, that he was poisoned in the same year by a Saxon monk. The silence of the Chronicle, if so it be regarded, as to Ambrosius throws no doubt upon his existence; and as to Arthur, though it may indicate that he had no position of national supremacy in the east and south, it goes for nothing as touching the west and north, of which this record takes no cognizance. The fame of Arthur may have been, or rather must have been, founded upon his deeds, but the vast superstructure raised on that foundation is to be attributed to the close association between the branches of the Celtic race in Cornwall, Wales and Britanny. The fame of Arthur, once established among the Welsh Bards and the Romancers of Britanny, easily lent itself to exaggeration and attracted to itself much that was due to others or was purely imaginary. * * * * * I have called Geoffrey of Monmouth an imaginative writer: it may admit of question whether he should be termed imaginative or credulous. He was an indiscriminate collector of Arthurian legends, some of which may contain a modicum of truth, while others are wholly false. Of the latter variety Arthur, according to Geoffrey, conquers Ireland, Iceland and the Orkneys, subdues Norway, Dacia, Aquitaine and Gaul, bestows Normandy upon Bedver the butler, and establishes his court in Paris. He was crossing the Alps to attack Rome when he was recalled by the treachery of Mordred, to conclude his career on the Camel. Such inventions savour more of the twelfth century than the sixth, and mark Geoffrey as one whose statements are not to be accepted without concurrent testimony. So overloaded is the story of Arthur with fiction or romance that it is difficult or impossible to discern the truth that must necessarily be at the bottom of it. The more remote are the Arthurian writings from the Arthurian epoch, the more voluminous, the more circumstantial, and the more obviously superadditional, they become. But there must necessarily be a root under all this efflorescence, the presence of which is clearly indicated, though it cannot be fully exposed to view. III ARTHUR'S LAST BATTLE--THE DOUBTS WHICH SURROUND HIS PLACE OF BURIAL The last battle attributed to Arthur has obtained more prominence than the most famous battles of antiquity, has been connected with its supposed place by geographical particulars, has been enriched with romantic detail, made the subject of poetry, and so much glorified in English literature from Geoffrey to Tennyson, that it seems like sacrilege to hint that the only fight on the Camel of which we have sure information, took place long after Arthur's death; and that if he and Mordred encountered, as there is reason to believe they did, the place of that event was not Cornwall but Scotland. The fatal battle of Camlan, as it is called, which is assigned to the year 542, in which Mordred is supposed to have been slain and Arthur mortally wounded, is stated by Geoffrey, and generally believed, to have taken place on the Camel. There was undoubtedly a great battle on this river, near Camelford, at some remote time, and its position seems to be exactly indicated by a bridge which still bears the name of Slaughter Bridge, or Bloody Bridge. Near the bridge, close to the river, is an inscribed sepulchral stone, obviously of great antiquity, which is held in repute in the neighbourhood as marking the grave of King Arthur. The position is a likely one to have been chosen by an army on the defensive. The stream, which was probably larger then than now, runs through a marshy bottom with hills ascending on both sides. That a great battle was fought here may be accepted as certain, and equally so that it was between the Britons and the Saxons. One of the writers who attributes it to Arthur tells us that the Camel[13] overflowed its banks with the blood of the slain. So far we have a likely Arthurian story, and we may look with interest at the inscription on the stone which presumably covers (or rather _covered_, for the stone has been slightly moved from its original situation) the bones of some one killed in the fight, perhaps of the king himself. Carew, in his 'Survey of Cornwall,' speaks of the stone as 'bearing Arthur's name, though now depraved to Atry.' Borlase accepts the tradition that Arthur fought his last battle near this spot, but denies that the stone bears reference to that warrior. The inscription, according to Borlase, runs thus: 'Catin hic jacit[14]--filius Magari,' and refers not to Arthur but to the son of Magarus. The letters are about six inches high and much weatherworn. They are not easy to be made out, but the Rev. W. Iago, of Bodmin,[15] has brought his special skill to bear upon them, and, with the aid of casts and rubbings, has determined the inscription to be as follows: Latini ic jacit filius Magarii. which Mr. Iago thus interprets: (The monument) of Latinus; here he lies; son of Magarius. _ic_ stands of course for _hic_. The use of the Latin language points to British rather than Saxon authorship. Latinus was probably a Briton of Roman descent who was presumably fighting on the British side. That his fellow soldiers had leisure to construct a memorial on the battlefield may be accepted as an indication that they retained their position as victors, but we seek in vain for evidence that Arthur was here concerned. It is certain that a great battle was fought in this position in the time of Egbert in the year 823. This is mentioned in the 'Saxon Chronicle,' in 'Ethelwerd's Chronicle,' and by Henry of Huntingdon, as having taken place at Camelford between the Britons of Cornwall and the Saxons of Devonshire. Several thousands fell on both sides according to Henry of Huntingdon, but we are not told which was victorious. Probably the Britons, for the Saxons do not seem to have pushed their conquests further, at least until the time of Athelstan, nor ever to have generally replaced the former inhabitants in the further parts of the county. So much for the historical battle in the year 823. Now for the traditional battle on the same river in the year 542. Nennius makes no mention of either. His history terminates in the year 640, and does not reach the later battle, but his failure to mention the earlier, if it took place when and where it is supposed, is remarkable. Another English writer, Henry of Huntingdon, who is disposed to give much credit to Arthur, speaks of the twelve battles, with particular reference to Badon Hill, but makes no mention of the subsequent battle or of the death of the king. These appear to have been entirely ignored so far as English chroniclers are concerned until we reach Geoffrey of Monmouth, in the twelfth century, who must be regarded as a romancer rather than a serious historian. We must either suppose that there were two great battles on the Camel, the earlier of which, in the sixth century, escaped the notice of chroniclers until the twelfth, and then was recovered with ample circumstance and detail by the highly imaginative writer to whom I have referred; or we must suppose that there was only one great battle in this situation; that this was fought in the ninth century; and that between the ninth century and the twelfth it came to be confused with a battle in Scotland in which Arthur was really engaged, and in which he met his death. In relation to the earlier battle on the Camel, if there was one, and the supposed connection of Arthur with it, I must mention a scrap of topographical evidence, which is far from conclusive, but which may be taken for what it is worth. In this supposed battle, Cador, Duke of Cornwall, half-brother to Arthur, or, according to another account, his nephew, takes a traditional place among the slain. About three miles from Camelford, between the Camel and the sea, stands a large sepulchral mound which looks down upon the Atlantic from an elevation of over a thousand feet. This is known as Cadõn Barrow, and the tradition is that it covers the body of Cador. To this tumulus especial consideration and sanctity have long been attached. If it covers the bones of Arthur's kinsman the place consorts with his death on the Camel. At a distance of about seven miles from the battlefield, be it Arthur's or Egbert's, stands another sepulchral mound in which an interested person might find an Arthurian association. This mound is known as the Giant's Grave, or King Arthur's Grave. It lies within a gigantic double-walled enclosure which has the name of Warbstowe Bury, one of the largest of the British camps of Cornwall. This occupies a commanding situation, and would furnish an ideal resting-place for a Cornish hero. But whatever be the purpose of the mound, we have no reason to connect it with Arthur. The name is employed somewhat at random: barrows are common in Cornwall; and we must have consistent historical evidence before we suppose Arthur to occupy the Giant's Grave or his kinsman Cadõn Barrow. The evidence which is wanting with regard to Arthur's battle on the Camel comes to light on the Firth of Forth. There is reason to suppose that tradition did not err in the fatal association of Arthur and Mordred, though the place of the last scene was not Cornwall but Scotland. The name Camlan, which has been freely given by later writers to the supposed battle on the Camel, is not to be found there, nor, so far as I can ascertain, in Cornwall. Skene and Stuart Glennie maintain with much converging evidence that Camlan is Camelon[16] on the river Carron, in the valley of the Forth, where it is said are the remains of a Roman town. Here, according to Scotch tradition, Arthur and Mordred met. We have evidence which appears to be sufficient that Mordred was King of the Picts, or, as he is sometimes termed, King of Scotland, and the head of a confederacy of Picts, Scots, and Saxons, or, as some authorities have it, Picts, Scots, and renegade Britons. With this composite army he gave battle to Arthur and his faithful British force, in which the latter were defeated and Arthur slain. It is worth noting as in favour of the Scottish location of the battle that Geoffrey, who places it on the Camel, nevertheless states Mordred's force to have consisted of Picts and Scots. It is surely improbable that Arthur could have been confronted in Cornwall by a great army of these northern savages. On the Forth[17] they were numerous and much at home. Mordred was supposed to have been the son of Llew, to whom Arthur had given Lothian. These particulars are confirmed by the 'Chronicle of the Scots.' It may be added that an earthwork with double lines of circumvallation in the neighbouring valley of the Tay, now known as Barry Hill, is designated by tradition as Mordred's Castle, not the only instance in which testimony of this nature has been found to throw light upon Arthurian history. * * * * * It is impossible to dissociate the place of Arthur's death from that of his supposed burial. According to the well-known story which we owe to Geoffrey of Monmouth, the king was desperately wounded on the Camel, and thence conveyed to Glastonbury, where we must suppose he died; for there, in confirmation of Geoffrey's account, was his grave found, or said to have been found, after the lapse of 647 years. The circumstantial report of the finding and identification of the grave on the spot indicated by the story gives verisimilitude to the legend, and demands for it serious criticism. In the first place, there is reason to believe, as I have shown, that though there was a great battle on the Camel, Arthur was not in it, and though he died in battle, it was not on the Camel. If Arthur concluded his career, not on the Camel but the Forth, the question of sepulture at Glastonbury may be dismissed as a fabrication. On the other hand, if the burial in this place can be maintained, then we must abandon the Scottish localisation of the last battle, and may accept the statement of the unveracious Geoffrey that it was fought on the Cornish river. It behoves us, therefore, to examine the Glastonbury story as one upon which much turns. The tradition that Arthur, mortally wounded on the Camel, was conveyed alive to Glastonbury may be at once discarded. Such a transporting of a desperately wounded man must be regarded as impracticable. He was within easy reach of his Cliff Castle at Tintagel and of his fortified camp of Kelliwick (assuming this to have been Kelly Rounds), and would probably, if moved at all, have been deposited in one or the other. On the other hand, if he was killed outright the removal of the body to Glastonbury by way of the Camel and the sea would be neither impossible nor unlikely. Glastonbury was one of the earliest seats of Christianity in this island, and no doubt was reverenced as such in the time of Arthur. The tumulus and the churchyard were at this time competing as receptacles for the dead--the tumulus as a heathen, the churchyard as a Christian place of rest. A tumulus was raised over a Saxon chief in the time, and with the permission, of Ambrosius. Christian burial was probably practised at Glastonbury at as early a date. Giraldus Cambrensis, together with a monk of Glastonbury quoted by Leland, professed themselves to have been witnesses of the opening of Arthur's grave. There are two accounts as to the finding of this--one that it was sought for by order of Henry II., who had learned from the British Bards that Arthur was buried between two pyramids at Glastonbury; the other that it was found accidentally in this situation in digging to bury a monk who had selected this spot for his interment. The pyramids undoubtedly existed before the alleged discovery of Arthur's grave; for they were described by William of Malmesbury in the reign of Henry I. They displayed some inscription, apparently Saxon, and an ecclesiastical effigy, but no mention of Arthur. So circumstantial is the statement of Giraldus, who represents himself as an eye-witness of the exploration, that if in any essential respect he departed from the truth, whether by way of addition or otherwise, we can scarcely suppose that the falsehood was unintentional. Though there are differences, as I shall presently show, relating to the date of the alleged exploration, preponderating evidence places it in the time of Henry II., in whose interest it has been suspected that a fraud was devised to gratify the king and serve a political purpose. Henry as a Norman might, it has been thought, desire to rehabilitate Arthur as, like himself, an enemy of the Saxons. Priests were deceivers ever: here they may have had both the motive and the means for deception. But it must be allowed that if the ecclesiastical explorers lied they lied so much like truth that if any exception be taken to their report it is only that it comes up too exactly to what might have been expected. The story, as told by Giraldus, is as follows. On digging between the pyramids in the monks' cemetery a leaden cross was found at a depth of seven feet, which bore this inscription in rude letters: HIC JACET SEPULTUS INCLYTUS REX ARTHURIUS IN INSULA AVALLONIA, CUM WENNEVEREIA UXORE SUA SECUNDA Camden gives what professes to be a facsimile of the inscription, which 'was formerly written and preserved in the monastery of Glastonbury.' The lettering has the appearance of great antiquity, but suspicion attaches to the mention of the name of the place in connection with the interment. Avallonia, or Avalon, is of course Glastonbury--probably in Arthur's time an island in a swamp. As to its place, the body speaks for itself. It may be necessary to say whose it is; it is not necessary to say where it is; nor is it usual on tombstones or coffins to give their address. At a depth of nine feet, or two feet below the cross, was found a coffin, consisting of a hollowed oak, in which were the bones of a man and a woman. The man was represented as of great stature. I am indebted to the scholarship of Mr. T. Holmes for as exact a translation of the words of Giraldus as the Latin of that author allows. Speaking of the male occupant of the coffin, Giraldus says: 'His tibia placed beside that of the tallest man in the place (whom the Abbot pointed out to me), and fixed into the earth by the side of his foot, extended fully three fingers' breadth above the man's knee. His skull bone also was capacious and large enough for a prodigy or a show--so much so that the interval between the eyelids and the space between the eyes might contain the size of a man's palm fully. And in this were seen ten or more wounds, all of which, except one larger than the others and which had made a great gash, and which alone seemed to have caused death, had joined into a firm cicatrix.' The body of the woman found in the same receptacle presented yellow hair nicely braided, a lock of which on being handled by a monk crumbled into dust. Here we have all we could expect--almost more. Strength and valour, together with as much of female charm as could survive six centuries. Hair will last and retain its colour for an indefinite time. With regard to the male skeleton, the large recent wound on the head corresponds with the manner of Arthur's death and the wounds of earlier infliction with the manner of his life. In the length of the tibiæ there is nothing impossible. But with regard to the skull the dimensions possible to humanity are so much exceeded that it is difficult to suppose that we are reading the honest report of an eye-witness. The palm between the eyes savours more of imagination than observation. The space between the orbits in an ordinary skull on a level with the eyelids, where the distance is greatest, is at most 1-1/2 inch. One of the largest human skeletons known is that of the Irish Giant at the College of Surgeons, which measures 7 feet 7 inches in height. The distance between the orbits in a level with the place of the eyelids is 2 inches. The palm between the eyes is impossible even to procerity. Thus doubts gather round the grave: if the king desired that this should be found attempts not wholly ingenuous might have been made to gratify him. Apart from the inscription and the skull, the completeness of the alleged discovery, the appropriately wounded skeleton and the fascinating queen, are suggestive of invention. A postscript or corollary was added to this story in the time of Edward I. The skeletons, when first found, were removed, as we are told, from the cemetery to the church; not as yet to find final repose, for in the year 1278 'Eduardus Longus' (Edward I. or Longshanks), together with Queen Eleanor, caused the tomb to be reopened and the bones to be again buried in front of the high altar, with the exception of the skulls, which were kept outside for the devotion of the people.[18] The chests in which the bones were found were painted with representations, and the arms, of the occupants. Within the new sepulchre was placed a writing referring to the finding of the bones by Edward and Eleanor, and attested by many witnesses whose names are still to be read in the pages of Leland.[19] I think it may be credited that bones were unearthed, probably in the time of Henry II. and the Abbot Henry de Blois, which were adopted as those of King Arthur and provided with suitable conditions and surroundings. That bones were re-buried as those of Arthur and found by 'long Edward' I think admits of no doubt. But much may we doubt whether the bones were those of Arthur, not only from the inconsistency and improbabilities of the story of the disinterment, but from the lack of evidence that Arthur died within practicable reach of Glastonbury. But perhaps the most convincing negative evidence is supplied by Gildas, to whom I have already referred. This historian, a fellow-countryman and contemporary of Arthur, was either ignorant of his existence or thought him not worth mentioning. Now Gildas, as we are told by William of Malmesbury, 'took up his abode' at Glastonbury 'for a series of years.' If Arthur died, as was supposed, in the year 542, and Gildas was born in 520, the historian must have been twenty-two years old when the king was buried under the description of 'the famous King Arthur,' _inclytus Rex Arthurius_. Gildas might have been present had this taken place as represented, or at any rate must have heard from his friends the monks of what could not fail to be of interest to the British historian. But neither Arthur's death nor his life appealed to Gildas. Thus we must discredit both the Camel and Glastonbury as connected with Arthur's death and burial. IV TOPOGRAPHICAL ASSOCIATIONS I do not propose to follow in detail the romancers of the twelfth and succeeding centuries, excepting where they may be taken in concurrence with surviving structures and geographical peculiarities. I have said something in this sense both of the Cornish and the Scottish localisation of Camlan. Turning from the conclusion of Arthur's career to the beginning of it, I must again have recourse to Geoffrey of Monmouth, a writer who sometimes finds the corroboration which he always needs. Uther Pendragon, King of Britain, held a festival in London, or, according to another account, at Winchester, at which were present Gorlois, King of Cornwall, and his wife Igerna, 'the greatest beauty in all Britain.' Uther was more attentive to the lady than was approved by her husband, who abruptly left the Court and returned to Cornwall, taking his wife with him. Uther followed. Gorlois deposited Igerna in Tintagel, 'upon the sea shore, which he looked upon as a place of great safety. But he himself entered the castle of Damelioc to prevent their both being involved in the same danger if any should happen.' Damelioc is described as a strong 'castle,' having many issues out. According to the legend, Gorlois hoped here to receive succour from Ireland. In this place Gorlois was besieged by the superior forces of Uther, and was slain fighting outside its ramparts. Igerna was apparently secure in Tintagel. 'For it is situated upon the sea and on every side surrounded by it; and there is but one entrance into it, and that through a straight rock, which three men shall be able to defend against the whole power of the kingdom.' But though Tintagel was impregnable, the lady was not. Uther obtained admittance into the castle while Gorlois was in Damelioc, and Arthur was the result. According to tradition, Uther was transformed into the likeness of Gorlois by the arts of Merlin, and the King of Britain admitted under a misunderstanding to the domestic privileges of the King of Cornwall. The sceptical may hesitate to accept this explanation of the error of Igerna, but no doubt it was furnished by the lady herself, who could scarcely fail to have been acquainted with the facts. My purpose in alluding to the story is rather local than personal. The description of Tintagel might serve at the present day. Part of the castle is on a lofty and precipitous peninsula commonly known as the Island, which has only a narrow connection with the mainland, which few could defend against many. It is obvious that it was on the Island that Igerna was placed and Arthur begotten. * * * * * The Castle of Tintagel is so closely connected with the Arthurian legend that a few particulars concerning it must be introduced. At Tintagel, according to tradition, the Kings or Dukes of Cornwall had their residence before the coming of Cæsar. The place was formerly known as Dundagell, and is supposed to be indicated by the name Donecheniv, which is to be found in 'Domesday Book,' and according to Gilbert means the fort or castle with the chain. This is the earliest reference to Tintagel, if it be one, which I have been able to discover. The allusion to the chain is appropriate. There is evidence that the chasm which separates the insular part of the castle from that on the mainland was formerly crossed by a drawbridge. This is likely enough, for the chasm was evidently once narrower than at present, having been enlarged by the falling away of the cliff, while the buildings on the mainland and the island are opposite and near to each other, as if they had at one time been connected. Leland in his 'Itinerary' describes the castle as it existed in the time of Henry VIII. In the earlier part of his work he refers to a drawbridge as connecting the two portions of the fortress; in a later part he states that the island could be reached only by long elm trees laid for a bridge. Other writers refer to the bridge. Carew in his 'Survey of Cornwall' in 1602 states that this was in existence one hundred years before he wrote, and Norden, a writer of about the same date, says that it was there within living memory. It is obvious that the historical bridge belonged to the buildings parts of which still exist. The allusion in 'Domesday Book,' if correctly interpreted, must relate to an earlier structure, for there is reason to believe, as I shall presently show, that no part of what now remains existed at the time of the Conquest. Nevertheless, there was probably at that time some mechanism with a chain which gave access to the island from the adjacent cliff. It is not my purpose to give a detailed description of Tintagel Castle, such as may be found in many works relating to the locality;[20] but a few words bearing upon the question of its hypothetical association with Arthur seem called for. The site of the castle is remarkable: it is partly on the mainland and partly on a peninsula which from time immemorial has been known as the Island. This is separated from the mainland by a deep chasm which is evidently in process of enlargement, or, in other words, was once narrower than it is now. The island, which is bounded by lofty precipices, is connected with the mainland only by a narrow ridge, which rises steeply from the sea, traverses the chasm, and gives access to the island by a narrow path cut in the face of the cliff, which now, as in ancient days, might be defended by a few against many. To take first the insular part of the castle, which no doubt was the original place of retreat and defence, the site may be associated with that of many prehistoric fortifications of earth or stone, the remains of which are to be found on the Cornish coast. The ancient engineers habitually selected a precipitous peninsula, inaccessible from the sea, with a narrow neck, across which they made barriers to protect against attack from the landward side. Thus Tintagel Head was selected as a place of defence, if not by prehistoric engineers, certainly in accordance with prehistoric methods. The buildings at present on the island are less extensive than those on the mainland. There is no evidence that any part of them is anterior to the Plantagenets. An arch which forms the gateway of the outer wall is distinctly though bluntly pointed, and must be later than the Norman period. A bluntly pointed arch, known as the Iron Gate, is also to be seen in a wall which protects what was apparently once a landing place. Outside the enclosure of the castle are the wind-swept remains of a little chapel which should be that in which Merlin vainly sought repose. Old it undoubtedly is, but the most credulous could scarcely attribute it to the sixth century. In construction it resembles the rest of the insular part of the castle, being not too solidly built of roughly quarried unsquared slates. There is nothing of architectural style to determine the date, but the walls resemble the others and may be presumed to be like them of the early Plantagenet time.[21] The buildings on the mainland give more scope for discussion. These are placed on a high, narrow elevation which rises out of a gorge: this elevation, which is steep on one side and precipitous on the other, rises above the level of the buildings on the island, with which at one point they may easily have communicated. The structures on the mainland consist of two walled enclosures on different levels, connected by steps. The lower and larger is supposed to be the courtyard, the higher the keep, and indeed they do not admit of any other interpretation. The courtyard presents towards the land the remnants of a great gateway, while towards the sea the wall has fallen, exposing a precipice where once the wall stood. The gateway is of especial interest: what remains of the arch is suggestive that it once was pointed, and I have the evidence of an intelligent mason who lives hard by, and who was familiar with its condition twenty years ago, that though then broken it retained enough of the curve to indicate that originally it was bluntly pointed, and resembled in construction those still to be found on the island. I may add that I have seen a drawing executed by Mr. Sturge, about sixteen years ago, from which the same inference is to be drawn. I may draw attention to a photographic reproduction of a print of the castle as it was about 300 years ago, when the gateway was complete (see fig. 1, p. 62). The arch in question appears to be less flat than it should be were it Norman, though the scale of the drawing is too small to display a distinct point. It has been supposed that the upper enclosure, known as the keep, is older than the lower or courtyard, and the late Prebendary Kinsman thought he had found traces of Roman methods in a projecting course of flat stones which traverses the upper part of one of the walls; but I am inclined to agree with my friend the mason, who considers the projection to be of English invention, designed to protect the wall from weather and give finish to its top.[22] The keep is connected with the courtyard by a flight of steps, as if the two formed part of the same design, while the masonry of the two portions is exactly of the same character, as if they were coeval. That the upper and lower enclosures formed parts of the same design, is sufficiently evinced by the drawing which has been reproduced. The insular part, though showing similar work and material, is in better preservation; indeed, it is not easy to doubt that it is considerably later, though belonging to the same architectural period. The pointed arches indicate that neither the continental nor the insular part were constructed before the introduction of this form of arch. The pointed arch gradually superseded the round arch during the reign of Henry II.--1154-1189--and did not become general until quite the end of this period.[23] There are indeed pointed arches in the church of St. Cross, near Winchester, which are supposed to date back as far as 1136, but this appears to have been a solitary instance some 50 years earlier than the general employment of the style. It may fairly be presumed that neither portion of the existing buildings dates back further than the twelfth century, while the insular portion is probably less ancient than that on the mainland. There is evidence that there were buildings on the island at an earlier date than can be ascribed to those now existing. Geoffrey of Monmouth, who was made Bishop of St. Asaph in the year 1152, and probably wrote earlier, describes the place, in words which I have already quoted, as he supposes it to have been in the time of Uther Pendragon. He calls it 'the town of Tintagel, a place of great safety. For it is situated upon the sea and on every side surrounded by it; and there is but one entrance into it, and that through a straight rock, which three men shall be able to defend against the whole power of the kingdom.' Not to insist upon Uther, it is clear that Geoffrey intended to describe the place as it was before his own time, and, by unavoidable inference, before the buildings at present on the island were constructed. For it is almost certain that none of them existed in the time of Geoffrey--quite certain that none of them were built before his birth. It is to be noted that this writer makes no allusion to the part of the castle on the mainland, which, though probably older, was presumably not made when he wrote. We cannot but infer that before Geoffrey's time there was some sort of fortification on the island, which was replaced by the existing structure; and this inference is supported by the name under which this place is referred to in 'Domesday Book,' if Gilbert is correct in his interpretation of it as 'the fort with the chain.' The evidence that Tintagel Head was used as a stronghold before the present buildings were made lends credibility to the tradition which connects Arthur with Tintagel, though none of the present walls were constructed until at least 600 years after his death. With the great gateway at one end and the exposed precipice at the other, the courtyard corresponds with a description written in the thirteenth century, and designed to present the state of the castle in the time of Arthur.[24] Through this gateway, according to the romance, rode Uther and Merlin, and within these walls Arthur was begotten. It is much to be regretted that the building so adapted to the story had no existence in the time to which it relates. It may be objected also that the romancer has made a capital error in placing the adventure on the mainland, and a minor error in assigning the same position to the chapel. It is to be presumed that the story-tellers long subsequent to Arthur's time adapted the legends relating to Tintagel somewhat loosely to the building as it existed in their own. The 25-inch Ordnance Map represents the continental part of the castle as built upon the site of a camp. It is with great diffidence that I venture to question this interpretation of a trench which runs parallel to, and close to, the south wall of the castle. This trench must, I think, be accepted as having been made simultaneously with, or subsequently to, the building, for it evidently bears relation to the great gate and to an otherwise unprotected wall, of which it formed an outer defence. Sir John Maclean calls this a moat. If this means no more than a defending ditch I am of his opinion, but if a moat should hold water the term is inapplicable, for the fosse is on such a slope that water never could have remained in it. As to the camp theory, it may be observed that there are undoubted remains of a camp within a quarter of a mile, close to the church, and it is unlikely that two camps would have been constructed in such proximity. [Illustration: FIG. 1.--_Tintagel Castle as represented by Norden_, 1584-1600.] [Illustration: FIG. 2.--_Tintagel Castle from 25-inch Ordnance Map_] I insert a drawing (p. 62), to which I think much interest attaches. It represents the castle as it was about the year 1600--roughly speaking, 300 years ago. It is a copy made by photography of a print in 'Norden's Speculi Britanniæ Pars,' a book now in the British Museum, formerly in the Royal Library. It is dedicated to James I., and appears to have been written at the end of the sixteenth century. The date 1584 has been doubtfully assigned to it: we may safely refer it to the end of the sixteenth century. Norden was born in 1548 and died in 1626. He was Surveyor of Woods to James I., and evidently regarded architectural accuracy more than pictorial effect. The drawing shows the landward part as extending further seawards than at present, while it indicates a place where parts of the insular buildings had recently been engulfed. The great gateway on the mainland is entire; the keep and the lower court nearly so; while the relation of the three as parts of the same building, presumably built at the same time, is unmistakable. The buildings on the island are much as they are now. * * * * * I append what may also be of interest--a facsimile of as much of the 25-inch Ordnance Map as relates to Tintagel Castle. For permission to do so I have to thank the Director of Her Majesty's Stationery Office, to whom also I am indebted for similar permission touching the maps of Damelioc, Kelly Rounds, and Cardinham Castle, to which I shall presently draw attention. * * * * * So much and so little for the Castle of Tintagel and its relation to King Arthur, who certainly never saw an arch or a stone of the existing building, and could not have been begotten in a hall which was not made until many centuries after his death. What took place, and where, before the hall was built are other questions. This does not necessarily detach Arthur from Tintagel. It is probable that Tintagel Head was a place of strength and of retreat in prehistoric times, as were many headlands on the Cornish coast. No earthworks were needed to secure it, as it had been rendered impregnable by nature. The Celts in the sixth century, and in Cornwall, though they must have had skill in stone-carving if some of the existing crosses are correctly attributed to this period, were probably not castle builders, unless the term 'castle' be applied to earthworks, as is indeed still the custom. If Arthur was the lord of Tintagel, as is indicated by an immemorial tradition, which we may, without violence to probability, accept, nothing remains of this his dwelling-place excepting the immortal ramparts which will be for ever associated with his name. * * * * * _Dameliock_ or _Dimilioc_ still exists as a formidable earthwork, and retains the name.[25] It is mentioned in 'Domesday Book' under the term Damelihoc. 'Domesday Book' is a mere rent-roll and does not deal in descriptions, but the name is significant if Gilbert[26] is correct in his interpretation of it as 'the place of battle.' Damelioc Castle is a British camp of great strength. It lies about eight miles from Tintagel Castle by the modern roads, though in earlier time the distance may have been as much as ten miles, which is assigned by tradition as the distance of Damelioc from Tintagel. It is in the parish of St. Kew, close to the road which connects Tintagel with the mouth of the Camel, and, taking a wide scope, may be said to lie between the north of Cornwall and the south of Ireland. The work is said to extend over an area of twelve acres. It once consisted of three concentric ramparts, of which two remain effective if not complete, while portions of a third and outer are still to be seen, though much of it has yielded to the invasion of agriculture. Outside each of the two nearly complete ramparts, of which the outer is the higher, lies a ditch. This rampart is from 20 to 30 feet high, measured from the bottom of the ditch;[27] it is about 11 yards thick and the ditch 10 yards wide. The inner circle is less perfect than the outer, or more properly the middle, little remaining except the ditch, which is about 5 feet deep. The enclosure, measuring from the inside of the middle rampart (the outermost is not complete enough to reckon by), has a diameter of about 170 yards and a circumference of about 530 yards. The enclosure formed by this rampart would, according to Colonel Mead, whose assistance I had in examining the fortification, give comfortable accommodation to 2,000 men, supposing them to be besieged for a week or ten days, while under temporary pressure 5,000 people might be crowded into it. Were the outer circle restored according to the indications afforded by its remains, it is obvious that the camp would hold a much larger number than that referred to as capable of being contained within the middle defence. Like others of the Cornish earthworks, it stands on a commanding elevation among hills which are higher than itself. * * * * * It has been seen that Tintagel and Damelioc are exactly adapted to the story of which they are the scene. Either the story must have had some foundation in fact, or the inventor of it must have possessed extensive and accurate knowledge of the topographical features of this remote part of the British Isles. [Illustration: FIG. 3.--_Reproduced from the 25-inch Ordnance Map._] The Romancers of Britanny may easily have heard of a place so well known as Tintagel, and woven it into their fictions; but Damelioc seems to have attracted little attention, though mentioned by Gilbert in 1838, until it emerged from obscurity to find name and place in the last edition of the Ordnance map. Thus unknown or disregarded, it would scarcely have been selected as the scene of a purely imaginary romance. To me, the finding of Damelioc where and what it should be according to the story is an indication that this was dictated by something more substantial than imagination, though this faculty no doubt had much to do with its embellishment. * * * * * I have already quoted from the Welsh Triads assigned to the sixth century a reference to Arthur as 'the chief lord at Kelliwic,' and have referred also to other Welsh compositions, probably of little less antiquity, in which Kelliwic or Celliwig is spoken of in the same connection. Professor Rhys finds in the Triads an account of a raid made by Mordred[28] upon Arthur's Court, apparently in Arthur's absence, where the intruder left neither food nor drink unconsumed so much as would support a fly, and where he outraged the Queen. This is said to have occurred at Kelliwic in Cornwall, though it must be admitted that the association of the northern king with the southern fortress is suggestive of doubt. Kelliwic is elsewhere referred to as a place from which a certain marksman of exceptional ability was able to hit a wren in Ireland. Dismissing this as one of the super-additions to which tradition is liable, I revert from the archer to the king. If there be any truth in the tradition which places Arthur's court or camp at Kelliwic, we ought to find some trace of it. If Kelliwic could be found as a place of defence in the Arthurian country, we might at least say that the coincidence was remarkable, unless the tradition had some substratum of fact. Now I venture to suggest that we have Kelliwic still with us under the name of that remarkable earthwork known as Kelly Rounds. _Kelly Rounds_ or _Castle Killibury_ is about five miles from Damelioc, to which it bears a general resemblance, though possessing only two ramparts, with no traces of a third. The work is situated near the road between Camelford and Wadebridge, about 2-1/2 miles from the latter, which is a well protected port. It consists--or rather I should say consisted--of two concentric circles, each with rampart and ditch. It is obviously a British camp. A road now cuts it into two nearly equal parts, of which that on the south has been nearly obliterated, while the northern segment is comparatively uninjured. The ramparts, of which the inner is the higher, present a maximum height of perhaps 15 feet, judging roughly by the eye. The diameter of the remaining semicircle is about 210 yards, measuring from the inside of the outer rampart, while the semi-circumference in the same position is 290 yards. On the west side are the traces of an outwork, or partial enclosure, which was evidently designed to protect the entrance. The extravagance of the archer who 'shot with a lusty longbow' from Kelliwic to Ireland is not quite without significance, for it may be held to show that Kelliwic, like Kelly Rounds, was opposite the Irish coast. [Illustration: FIG. 4.--_From the 25-inch Ordnance Map._] We may with some confidence identify Kelly Rounds, or Castle Killibury, with Kelliwic, and discern in it, as in Damelioc, a definite association with Arthur. * * * * * A place to which the name of _Caradigan_ is given is prominent in Arthurian lore. This has been interpreted as Cardigan, the ancient designation of Cardiganshire being Keridigion.[29] But Mr. E. G. B. Phillimore, who is a great authority on ancient Welsh literature, considers that Caradigan is not Cardigan, but Cardinam, now known as Cardinham, a considerable, though much damaged, earthwork near Bodmin. In this interpretation Mr. Phillimore apparently has the approval of Professor Rhys. If Caradigan is Cardinham, this was one of the places where Arthur held his Court. It was at Caradigan that Enid was wedded to Eric by the Archbishop of Canterbury, in the presence of Queen Guenevere. It was to Arthur's Court at Caradigan that Lancelot brought his newly-married wife, Iblis. The doings at Caradigan are obviously mingled with fiction, if not wholly fictitious. The Archbishop of Canterbury was not yet, and Eric as a knight of mediæval chivalry is, like the Archbishop, an anachronism; but there is something in a name, and Caradigan associates Arthur with the Cornish stronghold. Cardinham Castle, as it is called, though far inferior in size and distinctness to Killibury and Damelioc, is worth more notice than it has yet received. About five miles from Bodmin, on the edge of Cardinham Moor, lies Old Cardinham, now represented by a solitary farm-house. In a field behind the house stands an earthwork, of small extent but great natural advantage. It is situated, like Damelioc and Kelly Rounds, on high ground among hills which are higher than itself, but not near enough to command it without artillery. This stronghold or place of defence displays the remains of one rampart enclosing an ovoid or irregularly elongated space on the side of a hill, within which the experts of the Ordnance Survey discern a small inner circumvallation. In designing the enclosure the natural slope has been made use of to co-operate with the rampart on the north side, while the rampart on the south is wholly artificial, much broken, and in places obliterated. [Illustration: FIG. 5.--_From the 25-inch Ordnance Map._] The partial destruction of the south wall makes the enclosure incomplete, and gives it a horse-shoe shape. The entire circuit along the tops of the existing and nearly obsolete ramparts is about 267 yards, and this comparatively small circumference encloses a narrow and elongated space of relatively small capacity. The surface is irregular, and may once have had buildings upon it, of which there are now no remnants. This small but well-protected enclosure seems to have been better fitted for a fortified residence than a resort for an army. It may conceivably have held the residential quarters of a Cornish chieftain in the sixth century, and its legendary association with Arthur may not impossibly have had some foundation in fact. V CONCLUSIONS To piece together the dislocated fragments which are all that remain of the life of Arthur, they thus present themselves. Arthur, though unknown or unrecorded by the Saxon chroniclers of the invasion, who say nothing of what went on in the west and north, finds abundant mention among the Welsh bards and poets assigned to the sixth century, who speak of him by name, attribute to him great fame as a warrior, and briefly refer to certain details which connect him with places some of which can still be identified. This positive and detailed evidence is of more weight than the negative evidence, if so it can be called, which lies in the omission of Arthur's name by Gildas and Bede, two ecclesiastics who touch only incidentally upon the wars of the sixth century and are satisfied with the mention of Ambrosius, who preceded Arthur, and apparently occupied a position more nearly approaching that of commander-in-chief, having regard to the whole country, than did the later champion. But it is not my purpose now to recapitulate the writings to which I have already referred, but only to put together, with their help, some indications as to the probable biography of a personage who is at once so famous and so obscure. We may look upon Tintagel as the birthplace of Arthur, and believe that he was the son or putative son of a petty Cornish king. The exact fitness of Tintagel and Damelioc for the story of which they are the scene lends probability to it: not that we need accept the narrative precisely as related. Time, verbal transmission, and Celtic imagination have to be allowed for; but we may without undue credulity believe that Gorlois was slain at Damelioc and Arthur born at Tintagel. We may presume that Arthur remained in possession and occupation of the country of his nativity. Tintagel Castle has been from time immemorial known as King Arthur's; Kelliwic, which is mentioned in the earliest records in connection with Arthur, may with probability be identified with Kelly Rounds and placed near the estuary of the Camel; and Cardinam Castle, which credible though later tradition assigns to Arthur as a palace or residence, exists near Bodmin. Great interest, to my mind, attaches to these memorials. Military engineering is older than the corps of Royal Engineers; and it may be said that the most ancient history of our country is written in earth. These memorials, together with Tintagel, a fortification constructed by the hand of nature, indicate that King Arthur occupied the coast line from Tintagel to the Camel, and the inland country to the vicinity of Bodmin. If we accept the evidence of names, that of Pentargon in particular, we must suppose Boscastle to be included in the Arthurian country, which would thus extend from the mouth of the Camel to the mouth of the Vallency. The town of Camelford lies within this district, and it is difficult not to think of Camelot as possibly on the Camel, though we have no indication, excepting the name, to justify the assumption, and other places compete for the distinction of supplying the site of this somewhat hypothetical creation. We can speak with more confidence of Kelliwic, assuming that it is still with us under the name of Kelly Rounds. This lies 2-1/2 miles from Wadebridge, where the Camel forms a practicable tidal harbour, and was no doubt used as such in the sixth century. The fortification covered the landing-place, at a convenient distance, and commanded what must have been the chief line of communication between Arthur's Cornish domain, Wales, Ireland, and the north-west coast. The sea is a connection rather than a separation, and may have provided the lord of Kelliwic with an access to the north which would have been practically unattainable by other means. It may be doubted whether in Arthur's time the Saxons had reached Tintagel: it is clear that in the ninth century they were fighting on the Camel, apparently unsuccessfully, and that they never generally superseded the Celtic population much further to the west than the traditional territory of Arthur. That Arthur ever fought a great battle on this river is improbable; nor is it likely that the Saxons in his time got far enough to the west to assault his earthworks; but these at any rate may have served as places of retreat, and been used by him as Torres Vedras was by Wellington. We may accept the statement of Nennius, who was apparently an historian of honest intentions, that Arthur was selected to command against the Saxons, and that in this capacity he fought many, perhaps twelve, battles. There must, it is certain, have been much fighting in the west and north as well as elsewhere, and we may give Arthur the credit of much of it, though details, if not entirely absent, are by no means explicit. It seems clear that he entered Scotland, perhaps more than once, became a prominent character in the Lowlands, as the dissemination of his name implies, and finally perished at Camelon or Camlan, near the Firth of Forth, fighting against a coalition of Saxons, or, strictly speaking, Angles, Picts, and Scots, or, according to another tradition, against one consisting of Picts, Scots, and revolted Britons. It is a far cry from Cornwall to Scotland, but the feat is not impossible. Agricola marched from the south of England to Scotland at an earlier date; but he had the resources of the Roman Empire behind him. Arthur must have been aided by his access to the sea, and probably found allies in the Celts of the west and north-west along the whole front of the Teutonic encroachments. His movements in the south and in the north were attended with a series of British victories in which the invaders were pushed back from the western parts of the island, and which contributed to the preservation of the Celtic race in the regions of Cornwall and Wales, where it still survives. Such achievements were enough to make Arthur famous from the Camel to the Forth, however little in those days of imperfect communication his reputation extended to the 'Saxon shore.' The places where above all others he was held in memory and where his name was handed down as a local tradition were his little inheritance in Cornwall, where he was born, and which we cannot doubt that he occupied--more or less; and the northern region, where he apparently did much fighting and where he ultimately perished. I need not repeat that if, as seems probable, Arthur's last battle was in Scotland we must dissociate his death with the Camel and his burial with Glastonbury. So much for what may be accepted as history. We might have had more had the Cornish language survived like the Welsh. I do not propose to deal with the superstructure of romance which in succeeding centuries collected about Arthur's name. The magnitude of this echo, if so it may be called, is in some sort a measure of the impression produced by Arthur in his life time. The romance seems to have come chiefly from France. There was little communication in Arthur's time between the west and east of England: even between Cornwall and Devonshire there seems to have been little. The chief connection between Cornwall and the rest of the world was by sea, and Wales, Britanny and Ireland were the countries in the most intimate association with this peninsula. Navigation is an ancient art, older than the mariner's compass: in the comparatively late sixth century crossing the Channel and the narrow seas must have been familiar to our ancestors, whether Saxon or British. Britanny and Wales, countries within touch of Cornwall, were, like it, occupied by Celts, a race gifted with more imagination than has been granted to the practical and hard-headed Saxon. The fictions of which Arthur is the centre, constructed chiefly in France, but to a lesser extent in Wales, were brought to England in the twelfth and later centuries, and replaced history by myth. In these poetic regions this story attained a complicated development the like of which is not to be found in British history, though we can discern something like it in connection with the siege of Troy and the subsequent adventures of some of the persons supposed to have been concerned in it. That Arthur was a patriot, a defender of the soil against foreign invaders, is sufficiently obvious. That he was also a Christian must be believed. Christianity reached Cornwall before St. Augustine preached in Kent: Britain probably received some sprinkling of Christianity during the Roman occupation, though we cannot suppose that much of this religion penetrated from London to Cornwall. The western extremity of the island was much associated with Ireland, and we have reason to believe that as early as the fifth century the creed of St. Patrick was brought to Cornwall, which thus became one of the earliest places in Britain to receive the Christian religion. It is worth observing that the ancient Cornish crosses, of which there are so many, generally present the Greek cross rather than the Latin, and would appear to belong to the Eastern rather than the Western Church. The oldest of these crosses are supposed to date back to the sixth century. It is more than probable that a Cornish chieftain at this period would have been a Christian, and possible that Arthur himself may have knelt before some of the crosses which still exist. THE END PRINTED BY SPOTTISWOODE AND CO., NEW-STREET SQUARE LONDON FOOTNOTES: [1] I have to thank the Rev. S. Baring-Gould for supplying me with these particulars, which are to be found in the Report of the Launceston Meeting of the Cambrian Archæological Society, _Archæologia Cambrensis_, No. 51, fifth series, July 1896. This relic is preserved in the royal collection at Osborne, and is described and figured in the _Archæological Journal_, vol. xxiv. p. 189. The vessel is represented as in excellent preservation and of artistic design. It is of hammered gold, and is supposed to be of Scandinavian workmanship. [2] See _The Four Ancient Books of Wales_, by W. F. Skene, 1868; also an essay on Arthurian localities, by J. S. Stuart Glennie, _Merlin_, part iii., published by the Early English Text Society, 1869. [3] _History of Britain_, by John Milton. [4] I need not refer to _La Morte d'Arthur_, a work of which Roger Ascham disapproves as encouraging manslaughter and incontinence: 'yet I know,' says Roger, 'when God's Bible was banished the Court, and La Morte d'Arthur received into the prince's Chamber.' [5] Skene's _Four Ancient Books of Wales_, vol. ii. p. 457. [6] Guest's _Origines Celticæ_, vol. ii. p. 194. [7] Dr. Guest's opinion as that of an antiquarian scholar deservedly carries great weight, though some at least of the bardic fragments usually ascribed to the sixth century are held by Stephens to belong to the twelfth. (See _Literature of the Kymry_, 1849.) This writer allows certain of these fragments to have come down from the sixth century, and the admission of so scrupulous a critic goes far to establish their antiquity. I may refer to Skene's _Four Ancient Books of Wales_ for information regarding the works in question, as well as for the text of some of them. There appears to be no reasonable doubt that Taliessin, Llymarch Hen, and Myrddin lived in the sixth century, though their supposed compositions are not presented to us in any manuscripts which bear an earlier date than the twelfth. _The Black Book of Caermarthen_, which contains some of these remnants, of the greatest reputed antiquity, was written in the time of Henry II. But though all intermediate writings have perished or remain hidden, we are not to infer that none ever existed. It is clear that some of the bardic fragments refer to the sixth century; for example, that relating to the fight at Llongborth between Geraint and, as is supposed, Cerdric, in which Arthur is mentioned. It is possible that this and other poems may at first have been transmitted by word of mouth, but impossible that they could have been so conveyed for six hundred years. Intermediate writings there must have been; these have not survived, but they are probably fairly represented in the _Black Book of Caermarthen_ and similar records. It cannot be doubted that these compositions relating to the sixth century, by whatever means and with whatever modifications they reached the twelfth century, must have had some substantial foundation. It would have been impossible in the twelfth century to create out of nothing stories and allusions so suited to the sixth in historic probability and local association. [8] Skene's _Four Ancient Books of Wales_, vol. i. p. 426. [9] Quoted from the edition by J. A. Giles in _Six Old English Chronicles_. [10] See the _Chronicle of Henry of Huntingdon_. [11] As bearing upon Arthur's early campaigns and their connection with Scotland, it is of interest to recall the tradition which connects Arthur with Mordred. Arthur's sister, Anne by name, married Llew, otherwise Lothus or Lot, King of the Picts, to whom Arthur is supposed to have given Lothian. Of this marriage came Mordred, or Modred, Arthur's nephew and mortal enemy. From this it would appear that the southern adventurer was associated with the northern monarch before Mordred was born, and had visited Scotland apparently as a conqueror in the time of Mordred's father. [12] An elaborate and learned disquisition relating to Arthur and his battles is to be found in Whitaker's _History of Manchester_, published in the year 1775. See book ii. chapter ii. [13] Quoted by Camden from _Marianus Scotus_. [14] _Jacit_, instead of _jacet_, calls for remark. Mr. Iago assures me that this spelling was not unusual in the time to which the inscription belongs, and refers to Professor Hübner for instances of Christian inscriptions in Britain in which the same spelling was employed. [15] See _Trigg Minor_, by Sir John Maclean, vol. i. p. 583, where is a representation of the stone and inscription provided by Mr. Iago. [16] Skene's _Four Ancient Books of Wales_, vol. i. p. 60; Stuart Glennie, _Arthurian Scotland_, Merlin Early English Text Society, part iii. p. lxi. [17] The Scots with whom Arthur fought were probably, like the Picts, inhabitants of Scotland, though the term Scotti is also applied to a portion of the inhabitants of Ireland. [18] Leland's _Assertio Arturii_. [19] There are discrepancies of date with regard to disentombment which increase the doubts which on other grounds surround the story. The date commonly assigned is that adopted by Camden, 1189, the last year of King Henry's reign. Leland gives the date as 1191, in which he is followed by Hume, in the reign of Richard I. Giraldus, who represents himself as an eye-witness, and is necessarily the earliest authority, does not give the year, but indicates the time within certain limits. He states that the grave was opened by order of Henry II. during the rule of the Abbot Henry. This Abbot was apparently Henry de Blois, the grandson of the Conqueror and the brother of King Stephen; Henry II. was therefore his first cousin once removed. It has been supposed that the consanguinity may have disposed the Abbot to gratify the king by finding what he wanted. Henry de Blois was the 37th Abbot. He was appointed in 1126, in the time of Henry I., and died in 1171, in that of Henry II. In the year 1129, three years after his appointment to Glastonbury, this Abbot became, according to Leland, also Bishop of Winchester. Giraldus tells us that the discovery took place before the Abbot became Bishop. If that were so the remains were found not later than 1129, in the reign of Henry I., not in that of Henry II., as Giraldus represents. Giraldus himself was not born until 1147, or 1150 (both dates are assigned); so it is evident that a large error has come in with regard to the date of the disentombment, in reference to the appointment of the Abbot to the bishopric. Putting aside this contradiction as possibly due to some mistake in the ecclesiastical records, we at any rate cannot doubt, if any credit is to be attached to Giraldus, that the exhumation took place, if at all, in the time of Henry de Blois, who died in 1171. This is inconsistent with the dates 1189 and 1191 which are respectively assigned to the event. Thus three Kings are presented as contemporary with the finding of Arthur's grave, while two Abbots and a _locum tenens_ offer themselves as immediately concerned in the transaction. For in the last year of the reign of Henry II., in which according to one account the grave was opened, there was no Abbot of Glastonbury, the King from the year 1178 until his death in 1189 having retained the Abbey in his own hands and administered it by means of a subordinate. Thus in 1189, the date authoritatively assigned for the concurrence of the Abbot and the King, there was no Abbot and the King was approaching his end. In the year 1191 Richard I. and the 39th Abbot bore sway. Like the Abbot of royal blood, he was named Henry (which may have led to confusion), one Henry de Saliaco, but he does not supply the requirements of the case if we are to believe that King Henry was the instigator and his sacerdotal kinsman the agent. Thus the whole story is beset with doubts. This much may be believed: in the time probably of Henry II. the bones of Arthur were sought for; two skeletons were found where skeletons most do congregate, which with judicious exaggeration and some invention were made to come up to what was demanded of the remains of the warrior and his beautiful consort; these were re-interred under the names of Arthur and Guenevere, and about 100 years later were honestly accepted as such by Edward and Eleanor. [20] _History of the Deanery of Trigg Minor_, by Sir John Maclean, vol. iii. p. 194. [21] Among the more noticeable particulars in the buildings, both on the island and the mainland, especially on the island, are the numerous holes in the walls. These have given rise to much remark and speculation; by some they have been inconsiderately interpreted as arrow holes. It is sufficiently obvious that they once gave lodgment to the beams which formed the scaffolding employed in the construction of the walls. The orifices are rectangular, about 7 inches × 6 or 6 inches × 5. The passages in connection with them are horizontal and give no scope for the adjustment of the weapon; many of them have no exits, but come to an end against rock or masonry. The holes are generally arranged so that several are on the same level. Similar holes for the same purpose are not uncommon in the neighbourhood, and may be seen in the Vicarage wall. I am indebted to Colonel Mead, of the Royal Engineers, for the self-evident explanation which I have adopted. [22] A similar projecting course is to be seen on a wall which cuts off the neighbouring peninsula of the Willapark from the mainland. This wall, though ancient and probably defensive, cannot be supposed to be Roman or to show Roman methods. [23] Rickman's _Gothic Architecture_. [24] I insert the description of Tintagel Castle as given in _The High History of the Holy Grail_, a French romance of the thirteenth century: 'They (_i.e._ Arthur, Lancelot and Gawain) came into a very different land, scarce inhabited of any folk, and found a little castle in a combe. They came thitherward and saw that the enclosure of the castle was fallen down into an abysm, so that none might approach it on that side, but it had a right fair gateway and a door tall and wide, whereby they entered. They beheld a chapel that was right fair and rich, and below was a great ancient hall. They saw a priest appear in the middle of the castle, bald and old, that had come forth of the chapel. They are come thither and alighted, and asked the priest what the castle was, and he told them it was the great Tintagel. "And how is the ground all caved in about the castle?" The priest then relates the death of Gorlois and the transfiguration of Uther, "so that he begat King Arthur in a great hall that was next to the enclosure there, where this abysm is. And for this sin hath the ground sunken in on this wise." He cometh then with them toward the chapel, that was right fair and had a right rich sepulchre therein. "Lords, in this sepulchre was placed the body of Merlin, but never mought it be set inside the chapel, wherefore perforce it remained outside. And know of very truth that the body lieth not within the sepulchre, for so soon as it was set therein it was taken out and snatched away, either in God's behalf or the Enemy's, but which we know not."' _The High History of the Holy Grail_, by Master Blihis (1200-1250), translated by Sebastian Evans, vol. ii., p. 75. If we may suppose, as probably we may, that Master Blihis describes the castle as it was in his own time, though affecting to adapt his description to that of King Arthur, we may infer that in the thirteenth century when the existing castle was comparatively new it had already begun to suffer from the encroachments of the sea. [25] In connection with the identification of Damelioc Castle, I have to acknowledge my obligation to the Director-General of the Ordnance Survey, and to Staff-Surgeon Trevan, of Bideford. [26] See Gilbert's _History of Cornwall_, 1838, vol. i. p. 328, vol. iv. p. 94. [27] These measurements and others relating to the camps are only to be taken as approximate, the horizontal distances were measured by pacing, the heights by the eye. They will serve to give a generally correct impression, though not made with the accuracy of a land-surveyor. This may be found in the Ordnance maps which are attached. [28] _The Arthurian Legend_, by Professor Rhys, pp. 15 and 38. [29] _The Arthurian Legend_, by Professor Rhys, pp. 129 and 132. 
15551	----	_The_ KINGS TREASURIES OF LITERATURE GENERAL EDITOR SIR A.T. QUILLER COUCH [Illustration: THE LADY OF THE LAKE TELLETH ARTHUR OF THE SWORD EXCALIBUR] NEW YORK--E.P. DUTTON & COMPANY [Illustration: FIRST AND CHIEF OF ALL THE THREE BEST MOST CHRISTIAN AND WORTHY, KING ARTHUR] STORIES FROM LE MORTE D'ARTHUR AND THE MABINOGION RETOLD BY BEATRICE CLAY LONDON & TORONTO--J.M. DENT & SONS Ltd. SOLE AGENT FOR SCOTLAND THE GRANT EDUCATIONAL CO. LTD. GLASGOW FIRST EDITION, 1920 REPRINTED, 1922, 1924 PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN CONTENTS INTRODUCTION BOOK I.--THE COMING OF ARTHUR I. OF ARTHUR'S BIRTH; AND HOW HE BECAME KING II. THE ROUND TABLE III. OF THE FINDING OF EXCALIBUR IV. OF THE TREACHERY OF QUEEN MORGAN LE FAY V. HOW THE SCABBARD OF EXCALIBUR WAS LOST VI. MERLIN VII. BALIN AND BALAN BOOK II.--SIR LAUNCELOT VIII. SIR LAUNCELOT DU LAC IX. THE ADVENTURE OF THE CHAPEL PERILOUS X. SIR LAUNCELOT AND THE FALCON BOOK III.--SIR TRISTRAM XI. OF THE BIRTH OF ST. TRISTRAM XII. HOW TRISTRAM FOUGHT WITH SIR MARHAUS OF IRELAND XIII. THE FAIR ISOLT XIV. HOW KING MARK SENT SIR TRISTRAM TO FETCH HIM A WIFE XV. HOW SIR TRISTRAM AND THE FAIR ISOLT DRANK OF THE MAGIC POTION XVI. OF THE END OF SIR TRISTRAM BOOK IV.--KING ARTHUR'S NEPHEWS XVII. SIR GAWAIN AND THE LADY XVIII. THE ADVENTURES OF SIR GARETH BOOK V.--SIR GERAINT XIX. THE ADVENTURES OF GERAINT XX. GERAINT AND ENID BOOK VI.--THE LADY OF THE FOUNTAIN XXI. THE LADY OF THE FOUNTAIN BOOK VII.--SIR PEREDUR XXII. THE ADVENTURES OF SIR PEREDUR BOOK VIII.--THE HOLY GRAIL XXIII. THE COMING OF SIR GALAHAD XXIV. HOW SIR GALAHAD WON THE RED-CROSS SHIELD XXV. THE ADVENTURES OF SIR PERCIVALE XXVI. THE ADVENTURES OF SIR BORS XXVII. THE ADVENTURES OF SIR LAUNCELOT XXVIII. HOW SIR LAUNCELOT SAW THE HOLY GRAIL XXIX. THE END OF THE QUEST BOOK IX.--THE FAIR MAID OF ASTOLAT XXX. THE FAIR MAID OF ASTOLAT BOOK X.--QUEEN GUENEVERE XXXI. HOW MORDRED PLOTTED AGAINST SIR LAUNCELOT XXXII. THE TRIAL OF THE QUEEN XXXIII. HOW SIR GAWAIN DEFIED SIR LAUNCELOT XXXIV. HOW KING ARTHUR AND SIR GAWAIN WENT TO FRANCE BOOK XI.--THE MORTE D'ARTHUR XXXV. MORDRED THE TRAITOR XXXVI. THE BATTLE IN THE WEST XXXVII. THE PASSING OF ARTHUR XXXVIII. THE DEATH OF SIR LAUNCELOT AND OF THE QUEEN INTRODUCTION Among the stories of world-wide renown, not the least stirring are those that have gathered about the names of national heroes. The _Æneid_, the _Nibelungenlied_, the _Chanson de Roland_, the _Morte D'Arthur_,--they are not history, but they have been as National Anthems to the races, and their magic is not yet dead. In olden times our forefathers used to say that the world had seen nine great heroes, three heathen, three Jewish, and three Christian; among the Christian heroes was British Arthur, and of none is the fame greater. Even to the present day, his name lingers in many widely distant places. In the peninsula of Gower, a huge slab of rock, propped up on eleven short pillars, is still called Arthur's Stone; the lofty ridge which looks down upon Edinburgh bears the name of Arthur's Seat; and--strangest, perhaps, of all--in the Franciscan Church of far-away Innsbrück, the finest of the ten statues of ancestors guarding the tomb of the Emperor Maximilian I. is that of King Arthur. There is hardly a country in Europe without its tales of the Warrior-King; and yet of any real Arthur history tells us little, and that little describes, not the knightly conqueror, but the king of a broken people, struggling for very life. More than fifteen centuries ago, this country, now called England, was inhabited by a Celtic race known as the Britons, a warlike people, divided into numerous tribes constantly at war with each other. But in the first century of the Christian era they were conquered by the Romans, who added Britain to their vast empire and held it against attacks from without and rebellions from within by stationing legions, or troops of soldiers, in strongly fortified places all over the country. Now, from their conquerors, the Britons learnt many useful arts, to read and to write, to build houses and to make roads; but at the same time, they unlearnt some of their own virtues and, among others, how to think and act for themselves. For the Romans never allowed a Briton any real part in the government of his own country, and if he wished to become a soldier, he was sent away from Britain to serve with a legion stationed in some far-distant part of the empire. Thus it came about that when, in the fifth century, the Romans withdrew from Britain to defend Rome itself from invading hordes of savages, the unhappy Britons had forgotten how to govern and how to defend themselves, and fell an easy prey to the many enemies waiting to pounce on their defenceless country. Picts from Scotland invaded the north, and Scots from Ireland plundered the west; worst of all, the heathen Angles and Saxons, pouring across the seas from their homes in the Elbe country, wasted the land with fire and sword. Many of the Britons were slain; those who escaped sought refuge in the mountainous parts of the west from Cornwall to the Firth of Clyde. There, forgetting, to some extent, their quarrels, they took the name of the Cymry, which means the "Brethren," though the English, unable to understand their language, spoke of them contemptuously as the "Welsh," or the "Strangers." For a long time the struggle went on between the two races, and nowhere mere fiercely than in the south-west, where the invaders set up the Kingdom of Wessex; but at last there arose among the Britons a great chieftain called Arthur. The old histories speak of him as "Emperor," and he seems to have been obeyed by all the Britons; perhaps, therefore, he had succeeded to the position of the Roman official known as the Comes Britanniæ, whose duty it was to hasten to the aid of the local governors in defending any part of Britain where danger threatened. At all events, under his leadership, the oppressed people defeated the Saxons in a desperate fight at Mons Badonicus, perhaps the little place in Dorsetshire known as Badbury, or, it may be, Bath itself, which is still called Badon by the Welsh. After that victory, history has little to say about Arthur. The stories tell that he was killed in a great battle in the west; but, nowadays, the wisest historians think it more probable that he met his death in a conflict near the River Forth. And so, in history, Arthur, the hero of such a mass of romantic story, is little more than a name, and it is hardly possible to explain how he attained to such renown as the hero of marvellous and, sometimes, magical feats, unless on the supposition that he became confused with some legendary hero, half god, half man, whose fame he added to his own. Perhaps not the least marvel about him is that he who was the hero of the Britons, should have become the national hero of the English race that he spent his life in fighting. Yet that is what did happen, though not till long afterwards, when the victorious English, in their turn, bent before their conquering kinsmen, the Normans. Now in the reign of the third Norman king, Henry I., there lived a certain Welsh priest known as Geoffrey of Monmouth. Geoffrey seems to have been much about the Court, and perhaps it was the Norman love of stories that first made him think of writing his _History of the British Kings_. A wonderful tale he told of all the British kings from the time that Brut the Trojan settled in the country and called it, after himself, Britain! For Geoffrey's book was history only in name. What he tells us is that he was given an ancient chronicle found in Brittany, and was asked to translate it from Welsh into the better known language, Latin. It is hardly likely, however, that Geoffrey himself expected his statement to be taken quite seriously. Even in his own day, not every one believed in him, for a certain Yorkshire monk declared that the historian had "lied saucily and shamelessly"; and some years later, Gerald the Welshman tells of a man who had intercourse with devils, from whose sway, however, he could be freed if a Bible were placed upon his breast, whereas he was completely under their control if Geoffrey's _History_ were laid upon him, just because the book was so full of lies. It is quite certain that Geoffrey did not write history, but he did make a capital story, partly by collecting legends about British heroes, partly by inventing stories of his own; so that though he is not entitled to fame as an historian, he may claim to rank high as a romantic story-teller who set a fashion destined to last for some three centuries. So popular was his book that, not only in England, but, in an even greater degree, on the Continent, writers were soon at work, collecting and making more stories about the greatest of his kings, Arthur. By some it is thought that the Normans took such delight in the knightly deeds of Geoffrey's heroes that they spread the story in France when they visited their homes in Normandy. Moreover, they were in a good position to learn other tales of their favourite knights, for Normandy bordered on Brittany, the home of the Bretons, who, being of the same race as the Welsh, honoured the same heroes in their legends. So in return for Geoffrey's tales, Breton stories, perhaps, found their way into England; at all events, marvellous romances of King Arthur and his Round Table were soon being told in England, in France, in Germany and in Italy. Now, to some it may seem strange that story-tellers should care to weave their stories so constantly about the same personages; strange, too, that they should invent stories about men and women who were believed actually to have existed. But it must be remembered that, in those early days, very few could read and write, and that, before printing was invented, books were so scarce that four or five constituted quite a library. Those who knew how to read, and were so fortunate as to have books, read them again and again. For the rest, though kings and great nobles might have poets attached to their courts, the majority depended for their amusement on the professional story-teller. In the long winter evening, no one was more welcome than the wandering minstrel. He might be the knightly troubadour who, accompanied by a jongleur to play his accompaniments, wandered from place to place out of sheer love of his art and of adventure; more often, however, the minstrel made story-telling his trade, and gained his living from the bounty of his audience--be it in castle, market-place, or inn. Most commonly, the narratives took the form of long rhyming poems; not because the people in those days were so poetical--indeed, some of these poems would be thought, in present times, very dreary doggerel--but because rhyme is easier to remember than prose. Story-tellers had generally much the same stock-in-trade--stories of Arthur, Charlemagne, Sir Guy of Warwick, Sir Bevis of Southampton, and so on. If a minstrel had skill of his own, he would invent some new episode, and so, perhaps, turn a compliment to his patron by introducing the exploit of an ancestor, at the same time that he made his story last longer. People did not weary of hearing the same tales over and over again, any more than little children get tired of nursery rhymes, or their elders turn away from "Punch and Judy," though the same little play has been performed for centuries. As for inventing stories about real people, that may well have seemed permissible in an age when historians recorded mere hearsay as actual fact. Richard III., perhaps, had one shoulder higher than the other, but within a few years of his death grave historians had represented him as a hunchbacked deformity. The romances connected with King Arthur and his knights went on steadily growing in number until the fifteenth century; of them, some have survived to the present day, but undoubtedly many have been lost. Then, in the latter half of the fifteenth century, the most famous of all the Arthurian stories was given to the world in Sir Thomas Malory's _Morte D'Arthur_. By good luck, the great printer who made it one of his first works, has left an account of the circumstances that led to its production. In the reign of Edward IV., William Caxton set up his printing-press (the first in England) in the precincts of Westminster Abbey. There he was visited, as he himself relates, by "many noble and divers gentlemen" demanding why he had not printed the "noble history of the Saint Grail and of the most-renowned Christian King ... Arthur." To please them, and because he himself loved chivalry, Caxton printed Sir Thomas Malory's story, in which all that is best in the many Arthurian romances is woven into one grand narrative. Since then, in our own days, the story of Arthur and his knights has been told in beautiful verse by Lord Tennyson; but for the originals of some of his poems it would be useless to look in Malory. The story of Geraint and Enid, Tennyson derived from a very interesting collection of translations of ancient Welsh stories made by Lady Charlotte Guest, and by her called _Mabinogion_,[1] although not all Welsh scholars would consider the name quite accurate. [Footnote 1: Meaning the apprentices of the bards.] And now it is time to say something about the stories themselves. The Arthur of history was engaged in a life-long struggle with an enemy that threatened to rob his people of home, of country, and of freedom; in the stories, the king and his knights, like Richard Coeur-de-Lion, sought adventure for adventure's sake, or, as in the case of Sir Peredur, took fantastic vows for the love of a lady. The Knights of the Round Table are sheathed from head to foot in plate armour, although the real Arthur's warriors probably had only shirts of mail and shields with which to ward off the blows of the enemy. They live in moated castles instead of in halls of wood, and they are more often engaged in tournaments than in struggles with the heathen. In fact, those who wrote the stories represented their heroes as living such lives as they themselves led. Just in the same way, Dutch painters used to represent the shepherds in the Bible story as Dutch peasants; just so David Garrick, the great actor of the eighteenth century, used to act the part of a Roman in his own full-bottomed wig and wide-skirted coat. It must not be forgotten that, in those far-away days when there were few who could even read or write, there was little that, in their ignorance, people were not prepared to believe. Stories of marvels and magic that would deceive no one now, were then eagerly accepted as truth. Those were the days when philosophers expected to discover the Elixir of Life; when doctors consulted the stars in treating their patients; when a noble of the royal blood, such as Humphrey, Duke of Gloucester, could fall into disgrace because his wife was accused of trying to compass the king's death by melting a wax image of him before a slow fire. Of all the stories, perhaps the most mystical is that of the Quest of the Holy Grail, and it has features peculiar to itself. Nuns take the place of fair ladies; there are hermitages instead of castles; and the knights themselves, if they do not die, become monks or hermits. The reason for this change in scene and character is, that this is a romance in which the Church was trying to teach men, by means of a tale such as they loved, the lesson of devotion and purity of heart. The story sprang from certain legends which had grown up about the name of Joseph of Arimathea. It was related that, when our Lord was crucified, Joseph caught in a dish, or vessel, the blood which flowed from His wounded side. In later years, the pious Jew left his home and, taking with him the precious vessel, sailed away on unknown seas until he came to the land of Britain. In that country he landed, and at Glastonbury he built himself a hermitage, where he treasured the sacred dish which came to be known as the Saint Grail. After Joseph's death, the world grew more wicked, and so the Holy Grail disappeared from the sight of sinful men, although, from time to time, the vision of it was granted, as in the story, to the pure in heart. In later days, legend said that where Joseph's hermitage had stood, there grew up the famous monastery of Glastonbury, and it came to have a special importance of its own in the Arthurian romance. In the reign of Henry II., by the king's orders, the monks of Glastonbury made search for the grave of King Arthur, and, in due time, they announced that they had found it, nine feet below the soil, the coffin covered with a stone in which was inlaid a leaden cross bearing this inscription: "Hic iacet sepultus inclitus rex Arthurius in insula Avalonia." Some, however, suggested that the monks, less honest than anxious to please the masterful king, had first placed the stone in position and then found it! One more feature of the tales remains to be mentioned: their geography. There is no atlas that will make it plain in all cases; and this is hardly wonderful, for so little was known of this subject that, even in the reign of Henry VIII., the learned Lord Berners was quite satisfied that his hero should journey to Babylon by way of the Nile! Some of the places mentioned in the stories are, of course, familiar, and others, less well known, can, with a little care, be traced; but to identify all is not possible. Caerleon, where King Arthur so often held his Court, still bears the same name, though its glory has sorely shrank since the days when it had a bishop of its own. Camelot, where stood the marvellous palace built for the king by Merlin, is perhaps the village of Queen's Camel in Somersetshire. If it is borne in mind that the French call Wales _Pays de Galles_, it is not difficult to see that North Galis may well be North Wales. Gore is the peninsula of Gower; Liones probably the land south-west of Cornwall, now sunk beneath the sea; and Avalonia was the name given to one of the many small islands of the once marshy, low-lying shore of Somersetshire, which became afterwards better known as Glastonbury. Happily, it is neither on their history nor on their geography that the tales depend for their interest. As long as a story of adventure thrills; as long as gentleness, courtesy and consideration for the weak excite respect, so long will be read the tales of the brave times "When every morning brought a noble chance, And every chance brought out a noble knight." STORIES FROM LE MORTE D'ARTHUR AND THE MABINOGION BOOK I THE COMING OF ARTHUR CHAPTER I OF ARTHUR'S BIRTH; AND HOW HE BECAME KING Long years ago, there ruled over Britain a king called Uther Pendragon. A mighty prince was he, and feared by all men; yet, when he sought the love of the fair Igraine of Cornwall, she would have naught to do with him, so that, from grief and disappointment, Uther fell sick, and at last seemed like to die. Now in those days, there lived a famous magician named Merlin, so powerful that he could change his form at will, or even make himself invisible; nor was there any place so remote but that he could reach it at once, merely by wishing himself there. One day, suddenly he stood at Uther's bedside, and said: "Sir King, I know thy grief, and am ready to help thee. Only promise to give me, at his birth, the son that shall be born to thee, and thou shalt have thy heart's desire." To this the king agreed joyfully, and Merlin kept his word: for he gave Uther the form of one whom Igraine had loved dearly, and so she took him willingly for her husband. When the time had come that a child should be born to the King and Queen, Merlin appeared before Uther to remind him of his promise; and Uther swore it should be as he had said. Three days later, a prince was born, and, with pomp and ceremony, was christened by the name of Arthur; but immediately thereafter, the King commanded that the child should be carried to the postern-gate, there to be given to the old man who would be found waiting without. Not long after, Uther fell sick, and he knew that his end was come; so, by Merlin's advice, he called together his knights and barons, and said to them: "My death draws near. I charge you, therefore, that ye obey my son even as ye have obeyed me; and my curse upon him if he claim not the crown when he is a man grown." Then the King turned his face to the wall and died. Scarcely was Uther laid in his grave before disputes arose. Few of the nobles had seen Arthur or even heard of him, and not one of them would have been willing to be ruled by a child; rather, each thought himself fitted to be king, and, strengthening his own castle, made war on his neighbours until confusion alone was supreme, and the poor groaned because there was none to help them. Now when Merlin carried away Arthur--for Merlin was the old man who had stood at the postern-gate--he had known all that would happen, and had taken the child to keep him safe from the fierce barons until he should be of age to rule wisely and well, and perform all the wonders prophesied of him. He gave the child to the care of the good knight Sir Ector to bring up with his son Kay, but revealed not to him that it was the son of Uther Pendragon that was given into his charge. At last, when years had passed and Arthur was grown a tall youth well skilled in knightly exercises, Merlin went to the Archbishop of Canterbury and advised him that he should call together at Christmas-time all the chief men of the realm to the great cathedral in London; "For," said Merlin, "there shall be seen a great marvel by which it shall be made clear to all men who is the lawful King of this land." The Archbishop did as Merlin counselled. Under pain of a fearful curse, he bade barons and knights come to London to keep the feast, and to pray heaven to send peace to the realm. The people hastened to obey the Archbishop's commands, and, from all sides, barons and knights came riding in to keep the birth-feast of our Lord. And when they had prayed, and were coming forth from the cathedral, they saw a strange sight. There, in the open space before the church, stood, on a great stone, an anvil thrust through with a sword; and on the stone were written these words: "Whoso can draw forth this sword, is rightful King of Britain born." At once there were fierce quarrels, each man clamouring to be the first to try his fortune, none doubting his own success. Then the Archbishop decreed that each should make the venture in turn, from the greatest baron to the least knight; and each in turn, having put forth his utmost strength, failed to move the sword one inch, and drew back ashamed. So the Archbishop dismissed the company, and having appointed guards to watch over the stone, sent messengers through all the land to give word of great jousts to be held in London at Easter, when each knight could give proof of his skill and courage, and try whether the adventure of the sword was for him. Among those who rode to London at Easter was the good Sir Ector, and with him his son, Sir Kay, newly made a knight, and the young Arthur. When the morning came that the jousts should begin, Sir Kay and Arthur mounted their horses and set out for the lists; but before they reached the field, Kay looked and saw that he had left his sword behind. Immediately Arthur turned back to fetch it for him, only to find the house fast shut, for all were gone to view the tournament. Sore vexed was Arthur, fearing lest his brother Kay should lose his chance of gaining glory, till, of a sudden, he bethought him of the sword in the great anvil before the cathedral. Thither he rode with all speed, and the guards having deserted their post to view the tournament, there was none to forbid him the adventure. He leaped from his horse, seized the hilt, and instantly drew forth the sword as easily as from a scabbard; then, mounting his horse and thinking no marvel of what he had done, he rode after his brother and handed him the weapon. When Kay looked at it, he saw at once that it was the wondrous sword from the stone. In great joy he sought his father, and showing it to him, said: "Then must I be King of Britain." But Sir Ector bade him say how he came by the sword, and when Sir Kay told how Arthur had brought it to him, Sir Ector bent his knee to the boy, and said: "Sir, I perceive that ye are my King, and here I tender you my homage"; and Kay did as his father. Then the three sought the Archbishop, to whom they related all that had happened; and he, much marvelling, called the people together to the great stone, and bade Arthur thrust back the sword and draw it forth again in the presence of all, which he did with ease. But an angry murmur arose from the barons, who cried that what a boy could do, a man could do; so, at the Archbishop's word, the sword was put back, and each man, whether baron or knight, tried in his turn to draw it forth, and failed. Then, for the third time, Arthur drew forth the sword. Immediately there arose from the people a great shout: "Arthur is King! Arthur is King! We will have no King but Arthur"; and, though the great barons scowled and threatened, they fell on their knees before him while the Archbishop placed the crown upon his head, and swore to obey him faithfully as their lord and sovereign. Thus Arthur was made King; and to all he did justice, righting wrongs and giving to all their dues. Nor was he forgetful of those that had been his friends; for Kay, whom he loved as a brother, he made Seneschal and chief of his household, and to Sir Ector, his foster-father, he gave broad lands. CHAPTER II THE ROUND TABLE Thus Arthur was made King, but he had to fight for his own; for eleven great kings drew together and refused to acknowledge him as their lord, and chief amongst the rebels was King Lot of Orkney who had married Arthur's sister, Bellicent. By Merlin's advice, Arthur sent for help overseas, to Ban and Bors, the two great Kings who ruled in Gaul. With their aid, he overthrew his foes in a great battle near the river Trent; and then he passed with them into their own lands and helped them drive out their enemies. So there was ever great friendship between Arthur and the Kings Ban and Bors, and all their kindred; and afterwards some of the most famous Knights of the Round Table were of that kin. Then King Arthur set himself to restore order throughout his kingdom. To all who would submit and amend their evil ways, he showed kindness; but those who persisted in oppression and wrong he removed, putting in their places others who would deal justly with the people. And because the land had become overrun with forest during the days of misrule, he cut roads through the thickets, that no longer wild beasts and men, fiercer than the beasts, should lurk in their gloom, to the harm of the weak and defenceless. Thus it came to pass that soon the peasant ploughed his fields in safety, and where had been wastes, men dwelt again in peace and prosperity. Amongst the lesser kings whom Arthur helped to rebuild their towns and restore order, was King Leodegrance of Cameliard. Now Leodegrance had one fair child, his daughter Guenevere; and from the time that first he saw her, Arthur gave her all his love. So he sought counsel of Merlin, his chief adviser. Merlin heard the King sorrowfully, and he said: "Sir King, when a man's heart is set, he may not change. Yet had it been well if ye had loved another." So the King sent his knights to Leodegrance, to ask of him his daughter; and Leodegrance consented, rejoicing to wed her to so good and knightly a King. With great pomp, the princess was conducted to Canterbury, and there the King met her, and they two were wed by the Archbishop in the great Cathedral, amid the rejoicings of the people. On that same day did Arthur found his Order of the Round Table, the fame of which was to spread throughout Christendom and endure through all time. Now the Round Table had been made for King Uther Pendragon by Merlin, who had meant thereby to set forth plainly to all men the roundness of the earth. After Uther died, King Leodegrance had possessed it; but when Arthur was wed, he sent it to him as a gift, and great was the King's joy at receiving it. One hundred and fifty knights might take their places about it, and for them Merlin made sieges or seats. One hundred and twenty-eight did Arthur knight at that great feast; thereafter, if any sieges were empty, at the high festival of Pentecost new knights were ordained to fill them, and by magic was the name of each knight found inscribed, in letters of gold, in his proper siege. One seat only long remained unoccupied, and that was the Siege Perilous. No knight might occupy it until the coming of Sir Galahad; for, without danger to his life, none might sit there who was not free from all stain of sin. With pomp and ceremony did each knight take upon him the vows of true knighthood: to obey the King; to show mercy to all who asked it; to defend the weak; and for no worldly gain to fight in a wrongful cause: and all the knights rejoiced together, doing honour to Arthur and to his Queen. Then they rode forth to right the wrong and help the oppressed, and by their aid, the King held his realm in peace, doing justice to all. CHAPTER III OF THE FINDING OF EXCALIBUR Now when Arthur was first made King, as young knights will, he courted peril for its own sake, and often would he ride unattended by lonely forest ways, seeking the adventure that chance might send him. All unmindful was he of the ruin to his realm if mischief befell him; and even his trusty counsellors, though they grieved that he should thus imperil him, yet could not but love him the more for his hardihood. So, on a day, he rode through the Forest Perilous where dwelt the Lady Annoure, a sorceress of great might, who used her magic powers but for the furtherance of her own desires. And as she looked from a turret window, she descried King Arthur come riding down a forest glade, and the sunbeams falling upon him made one glory of his armour and of his yellow hair. Then, as Annoure gazed upon the King, her heart grew hot within her, and she resolved that, come what might, she would have him for her own, to dwell with her always and fulfil all her behests. And so she bade lower the drawbridge and raise the portcullis, and sallying forth accompanied by her maidens, she gave King Arthur courteous salutation, and prayed him that he would rest within her castle that day, for that she had a petition to make to him; and Arthur, doubting nothing of her good faith, suffered himself to be led within. Then was a great feast spread, and Annoure caused the King to be seated in a chair of state at her right hand, while squires and pages served him on bended knee. So when they had feasted, the King turned to the Lady Annoure and said courteously: "Lady, somewhat ye said of a request that ye would make. If there be aught in which I may pleasure you, I pray you let me know it, and I will serve you as knightly as I may." "In truth," said the lady, "there is that which I would fain entreat of you, most noble knight; yet suffer, I beseech you, that first I may show you somewhat of my castle and my estate, and then will I crave a boon of your chivalry." Then the sorceress led King Arthur from room to room of her castle, and ever each displayed greater store of beauty than the last. In some the walls were hung with rich tapestries, in others they gleamed with precious stones; and the King marvelled what might be the petition of one that was mistress of such wealth. Lastly, Annoure brought the King out upon the battlements, and as he gazed around him, he saw that, since he had entered the castle, there had sprung up about it triple walls of defence that shut out wholly the forest from view. Then turned he to Annoure, and gravely he said: "Lady, greatly I marvel in what a simple knight may pleasure one that is mistress of so wondrous a castle as ye have shown me here; yet if there be aught in which I may render you knightly service, right gladly would I hear it now, for I must forth upon my way to render service to those whose knight I am sworn." "Nay, now, King Arthur," answered the sorceress mockingly, "ye may not think to deceive me; for well I know you, and that all Britain bows to your behest." "The more reason then that I should ride forth to right wrong and succour them that, of their loyalty, render true obedience to their lord." "Ye speak as a fool," said the sorceress; "why should one that may command be at the beck and call of every hind and slave within his realm? Nay, rest thee here with me, and I will make thee ruler of a richer land than Britain, and give thee to satisfy thy every desire." "Lady," said the King sternly, "I will hear and judge of your petition at this time, and then will I forth upon my way." "Nay," said Annoure, "there needs not this harshness. I did but speak for thine advantage. Only vow thee to my service, and there is naught that thou canst desire that thou shalt not possess. Thou shalt be lord of this fair castle and of the mighty powers that obey me. Why waste thy youth in hardship and in the service of such as shall render thee little enough again?" Thereupon, without ever a word, the King turned him about and made for the turret stair by which he had ascended, but nowhere could he find it. Then said the sorceress, mocking him: "Fair sir, how think ye to escape without my good-will? See ye not the walls that guard my stronghold? And think ye that I have not servants enow to do my bidding?" She clapped her hands and forthwith there appeared a company of squires who, at her command, seized the King and bore him away to a strong chamber where they locked him in. And so the King abode that night, the prisoner of that evil sorceress, with little hope that day, when it dawned, should bring him better cheer. Yet lost he not courage, but kept watch and vigil the night through lest the powers of evil should assail him unawares. And with the early morning light, Annoure came to visit him. More stately she seemed than the night before, more tall and more terrible; and her dress was one blaze of flashing gems, so that scarce could the eye look upon her. As a queen might address a vassal, so greeted she the King, and as condescending to one of low estate, asked how he had fared that night. And the King made answer: "I have kept vigil as behoves a knight who, knowing him to be in the midst of danger, would bear himself meetly in any peril that should offer." And the Lady Annoure, admiring his knightly courage, desired more earnestly even than before to win him to her will, and she said: "Sir Arthur, I know well your courage and knightly fame, and greatly do I desire to keep you with me. Stay with me and I promise you that ye shall bear sway over a wider realm than any that ever ye heard of, and I, even I, its mistress, will be at your command. And what lose ye if ye accept my offer? Little enough, I ween, for never think that ye shall win the world from evil and men to loyalty and truth." Then answered the King in anger: "Full well I see that thou art in league with evil and that thou but seekest to turn me from my purpose. I defy thee, foul sorceress. Do thy worst; though thou slay me, thou shalt never sway me to thy will"; and therewith the King raised his cross-hilted sword before her. Then the lady quailed at that sight. Her heart was filled with hate, but she said: "Go your way, proud King of a petty realm. Rule well your race of miserable mortals, since more it pleasures you than to bear sway over the powers of the air. I keep you not against your will." With these words, she passed from the chamber, and the King heard her give command to her squires to set him without her gates, give him his horse, and suffer him to go on his way. And so it came to pass that the King found himself once more at large, and marvelled to have won so lightly to liberty. Yet knew he not the depths of treachery in the heart of Annoure; for when she found she might not prevail with the King, she bethought her how, by mortal means, she might bring the King to dishonour and death. And so, by her magic art, she caused the King to follow a path that brought him to a fountain, whereby a knight had his tent, and, for love of adventure, held the way against all comers. Now this knight was Sir Pellinore, and at that time he had not his equal for strength and knightly skill, nor had any been found that might stand against him. So, as the King drew nigh, Pellinore cried: "Stay, knight, for none passes this way except he joust with me." "That is no good custom," said the King; "it were well that ye followed it no more." "It is my custom, and I will follow it still," answered Pellinore; "if ye like it not, amend it if ye may." "I will do my endeavour," said Arthur, "but, as ye see, I have no spear." "Nay, I seek not to have you at advantage," replied Pellinore, and bade his squire give Arthur a spear. Then they dressed their shields, laid their lances in rest, and rushed upon each other. Now the King was wearied by his night's vigil, and the strength of Pellinore was as the strength of three men; so, at the first encounter, Arthur was unhorsed. Then said he: "I have lost the honour on horseback, but now will I encounter thee with my sword and on foot." "I, too, will alight," said Pellinore; "small honour to me were it if I slew thee on foot, I being horsed the while." So they encountered each other on foot, and so fiercely they fought that they hewed off great pieces of each other's armour and the ground was dyed with their blood. But at the last, Arthur's sword broke off short at the hilt, and so he stood all defenceless before his foe. "I have thee now," cried Pellinore; "yield thee as recreant or I will slay thee." "That will I never," said the King, "slay me if thou canst." Then he sprang on Pellinore, caught him by the middle, and flung him to the ground, himself falling with him. And Sir Pellinore marvelled, for never before had he encountered so bold and resolute a foe; but exerting his great strength, he rolled himself over, and so brought Arthur beneath him. Then had Arthur perished, but at that moment Merlin stood beside him, and when Sir Pellinore would have struck off the King's head, stayed his blow, crying: "Pellinore, if thou slayest this knight, thou puttest the whole realm in peril; for this is none other than King Arthur himself." Then was Pellinore filled with dread, and cried: "Better make an end of him at once; for if I suffer him to live, what hope have I of his grace, that have dealt with him so sorely?" But before Pellinore could strike, Merlin caused a deep sleep to come upon him; and raising King Arthur from the ground, he staunched his wounds and recovered him of his swoon. But when the King came to himself, he saw his foe lie, still as in death, on the ground beside him; and he was grieved, and said: "Merlin, what have ye done to this brave knight? Nay, if ye have slain him, I shall grieve my life long; for a good knight he is, bold and a fair fighter, though something wanting in knightly courtesy." "He is in better case than ye are, Sir King, who so lightly imperil your person, and thereby your kingdom's welfare; and, as ye say, Pellinore is a stout knight, and hereafter shall he serve you well. Have no fear. He shall wake again in three hours and have suffered naught by the encounter. But for you, it were well that ye came where ye might be tended for your wounds." "Nay," replied the King, smiling, "I may not return to my court thus weaponless; first will I find means to purvey me of a sword." "That is easily done," answered Merlin; "follow me, and I will bring you where ye shall get you a sword, the wonder of the world." So, though his wounds pained him sore, the King followed Merlin by many a forest path and glade, until they came upon a mere, bosomed deep in the forest; and as he looked thereon, the King beheld an arm, clothed in white samite, shoot above the surface of the lake, and in the hand was a fair sword that gleamed in the level rays of the setting sun. "This is a great marvel," said the King, "what may it mean?" And Merlin made answer: "Deep is this mere, so deep indeed that no man may fathom it; but in its depths, and built upon the roots of the mountains, is the palace of the Lady of the Lake. Powerful is she with a power that works ever for good, and she shall help thee in thine hour of need. For thee has she wrought yonder sword. Go now, and take it." Then was Arthur aware of a little skiff, half hidden among the bulrushes that fringed the lake; and leaping into the boat, without aid of oar, he was wafted out into the middle of the lake, to the place where, out of the water, rose the arm and sword. And leaning from the skiff, he took the sword from the hand, which forthwith vanished, and immediately thereafter the skiff bore him back to land. Arthur drew from its scabbard the mighty sword, wondering the while at the marvel of its workmanship, for the hilt shone with the light of many twinkling gems--diamond and topaz and emerald, and many another whose names none know. And as he looked on the blade, Arthur was aware of mystic writings on the one side and the other, and calling to Merlin, he bade him interpret them. "Sir," said Merlin, "on the one side is written 'Keep me,' and on the other 'Throw me away.'" "Then," said the King, "which does it behove me to do?" "Keep it," answered Merlin; "the time to cast it away is not yet come. This is the good brand Excalibur, or Cut Steel, and well shall it serve you. But what think ye of the scabbard?" "A fair cover for so good a sword," answered Arthur. "Nay, it is more than that," said Merlin, "for, so long as ye keep it, though ye be wounded never so sore, yet ye shall not bleed to death." And when he heard that, the King marvelled the more. Then they journeyed back to Caerleon, where the knights made great joy of the return of their lord. And presently, thither came Sir Pellinore, craving pardon of the King, who made but jest of his own misadventure. And afterwards Sir Pellinore became of the Table Round, a knight vowed, not only to deeds of hardihood, but also to gentleness and courtesy; and faithfully he served the King, fighting ever to maintain justice and put down wrong, and to defend the weak from the oppressor. CHAPTER IV OF THE TREACHERY OF QUEEN MORGAN LE FAY There was a certain Queen whose name was Morgan le Fay, and she was a powerful sorceress. Little do men know of her save that, in her youth, she was eager for knowledge and, having learnt all human lore, turned her to magic, becoming so skilled therein that she was feared of all. There was a time when great was her enmity towards King Arthur, so that she plotted his ruin not once only nor twice; and that is a strange thing, for it is said that she herself was the kinswoman of the King. And truly, in the end, she repented her of her malice, for she was, of those that came to bear Arthur to the Delightful Islands from the field of his last bitter conflict; but that was long after. Now when this enchantress learned how the Lady of the Lake had given the King a sword and scabbard of strange might, she was filled with ill-will; and all her thought was only how she might wrest the weapon from him and have it for her own, to bestow as she would. Even while she pondered thereon, the King himself sent her the scabbard to keep for him; for Merlin never ceased to warn the King to have in safe keeping the scabbard that had power to keep him from mortal hurt; and it seemed to Arthur that none might better guard it for him, till the hour of need, than Morgan le Fay, the wise Queen that was of his own kindred. Yet was not the Queen shamed of her treacherous intent by the trust that Arthur had in her; but all her mind was set on how she might win to the possession of the sword itself as well as of the scabbard. At the last--so had her desire for the sword wrought upon her--she resolved to compass the destruction of the King that, if she gained the sword, never might she have need to fear his justice for the wrong she had done. And her chance came soon. For, on a day, King Arthur resolved to chase the hart in the forests near Camelot, wherefore he left behind him his sword Excalibur, and took but a hunting spear with him. All day long, he chased a white hart and, when evening fell, he had far outstripped his attendants, save only two, Sir Accolon of Gaul and Sir Uriens, King of Gore, the husband of Queen Morgan le Fay herself. So when the King saw that darkness had come upon them in the forest, he turned to his companions, saying: "Sirs, we be far from Camelot and must lodge as we may this night. Let us go forward until we shall find where we may shelter us a little." So they rode forward, and presently Arthur espied a little lake glinting in the beams of the rising moon, and, as they drew nearer, they descried, full in the moonlight, a little ship, all hung with silks even to the water's edge. Then said the King to his knights: "Yonder is promise of shelter or, it may be, of adventure. Let us tether our horses in the thicket and enter into this little ship." And when they had so done, presently they found themselves in a fair cabin all hung with silks and tapestries, and, in its midst, a table spread with the choicest fare. And being weary and hungered with the chase, they ate of the feast prepared and, lying down to rest, were soon sunk in deep slumber. While they slept, the little ship floated away from the land, and it came to pass that a great wonder befell; for when they woke in the morning, King Uriens found himself at home in his own land, and Sir Accolon was in his own chamber at Camelot; but the King lay a prisoner, bound and fettered and weaponless, in a noisome dungeon that echoed to the groans of hapless captives. When he was come to himself, King Arthur looked about him and saw that his companions were knights in the same hard case as himself; and he inquired of them how they came to be in that plight. "Sir," said one of them, "we are in duresse in the castle of a certain recreant knight, Sir Damas by name, a coward false to chivalry. None love him, and so no champion can he find to maintain his cause in a certain quarrel that he has in hand. For this reason, he lies in wait with a great company of soldiers for any knights that may pass this way, and taking them prisoners, holds them in captivity unless they will undertake to fight to the death in his cause. And this I would not, nor any of my companions here; but unless we be speedily rescued, we are all like to die of hunger in this loathsome dungeon." "What is his quarrel?" asked the King. "That we none of us know," answered the knight. While they yet talked, there entered the prison a damsel. She went up to the King at once, and said: "Knight, will ye undertake to fight in the cause of the lord of this castle?" "That I may not say," replied the King, "unless first I may hear what is his quarrel." "That ye shall not know," replied the damsel, "but this I tell you: if ye refuse, ye shall never leave this dungeon alive, but shall perish here miserably." "This is a hard case," said the King, "that I must either die or fight for one I know not, and in a cause that I may not hear. Yet on one condition will I undertake your lord's quarrel, and that is that he shall give me all the prisoners bound here in this dungeon." "It shall be as ye say," answered the damsel, "and ye shall also be furnished with horse and armour and sword than which ye never saw better." Therewith the damsel bade him follow her, and brought him to a great hall where presently there came to him squires to arm him for the combat; and when their service was rendered, the damsel said to him: "Sir Knight, even now there has come one who greets you in the name of Queen Morgan le Fay, and bids me tell you that the Queen, knowing your need, has sent you your good sword." Then the King rejoiced greatly, for it seemed to him that the sword that the damsel gave him was none other than the good sword Excalibur. When all was prepared, the damsel led King Arthur into a fair field, and there he beheld awaiting him a knight, all sheathed in armour, his vizor down, and bearing a shield on which was no blazonry. So the two knights saluted each other, and, wheeling their horses, rode away from each other some little space. Then turning again, they laid lance in rest, and rushing upon each other, encountered with the noise of thunder, and so great was the shock that each knight was borne from the saddle. Swiftly they gained their feet, and, drawing their swords, dealt each other great blows; and thus they contended fiercely for some while. But as he fought, a great wonder came upon Arthur, for it seemed to him that his sword, that never before had failed him, bit not upon the armour of the other, while every stroke of his enemy drew blood, till the ground on which he fought was slippery beneath his feet; and at the last almost his heart failed within him, knowing that he was betrayed, and that the brand with which he fought was not Excalibur. Yet would he not show aught of what he suffered, but struggled on, faint as he was and spent; so that they that watched the fight and saw how he was sore wounded, marvelled at his great courage and endurance. But presently, the stranger knight dealt the King a blow which fell upon Arthur's sword, and so fierce was the stroke that the blade broke off at the pommel. "Knight," said the other, "thou must yield thee recreant to my mercy." "That may I not do with mine honour," answered the King, "for I am sworn to fight in this quarrel to the death." "But weaponless thou must needs be slain." "Slay me an ye will, but think not to win glory by slaying a weaponless man." Then was the other wroth to find himself still withstood and, in his anger, he dealt Arthur a great blow; but this the King shunned, and rushing upon his foe, smote him so fiercely on the head with the pommel of his broken sword that the knight swayed and let slip his own weapon. With a bound, Arthur was upon the sword, and no sooner had he it within his grasp than he knew it, of a truth, to be his own sword Excalibur. Then he scanned more closely his enemy, and saw the scabbard that he wore was none other than the magic scabbard of Excalibur; and forthwith, leaping upon the knight, he tore it from him and flung it far afield. "Knight," cried King Arthur, "ye have made me suffer sore, but now is the case changed and ye stand within my power, helpless and unarmed. And much I misdoubt me but that treacherously ye have dealt with me. Nevertheless, yield you recreant and I will spare your life." "That I may not do, for it is against my vow; so slay me if ye will. Of a truth, ye are the best knight that ever I encountered." Then it seemed to the King that the knight's voice was not unknown to him, and he said: "Tell me your name and what country ye are of, for something bids me think that ye are not all unknown to me." "I am Accolon of Gaul, knight of King Arthur's Round Table." "Ah! Accolon, Accolon," cried the King, "is it even thou that hast fought against me? Almost hast thou undone me. What treason tempted thee to come against me, and with mine own weapon too?" When Sir Accolon knew that it was against King Arthur that he had fought, he gave a loud cry and swooned away utterly. Then Arthur called to two stout yeomen amongst those that had looked on at the fight, and bade them bear Sir Accolon to a little hermitage hard by, and thither he himself followed with pain, being weak from loss of blood; but into the castle he would not enter, for he trusted not those that held it. The hermit dressed their wounds, and presently, when Sir Accolon had come to himself again, the King spoke gently to him, bidding him say how he had come to bear arms against him. "Sir and my lord," answered Sir Accolon, "it comes of naught but the treachery of your kinswoman, Queen Morgan le Fay. For on the morrow after we had entered upon the little ship, I awoke in my chamber at Camelot, and greatly I marvelled how I had come there. And as I yet wondered, there came to me a messenger from Queen Morgan le Fay, desiring me to go to her without delay. And when I entered her presence, she was as one sore troubled, and she said to me: 'Sir Accolon, of my secret power, I know that now is our King, Arthur, in great danger; for he lies imprisoned in a great and horrible dungeon whence he may not be delivered unless one be found to do battle for him with the lord of the castle. Wherefore have I sent for you that ye may take the battle upon you for our lord the King. And for greater surety, I give you here Excalibur, Arthur's own sword, for, of a truth, we should use all means for the rescuing of our lord.' And I, believing this evil woman, came hither and challenged the lord of this castle to mortal combat; and, indeed, I deemed it was with Sir Damas that I fought even now. Yet all was treachery, and I misdoubt me that Sir Damas and his people are in league with Queen Morgan le Fay to compass your destruction. But, my lord Arthur, pardon me, I beseech you, the injuries that, all unwitting, I have done you." King Arthur was filled with wrath against the Queen, more for the wrong done to Sir Accolon than for the treason to himself. In all ways that he might, he sought to comfort and relieve Sir Accolon, but in vain, for daily the knight grew weaker, and, after many days, he died. Then the King, being recovered of his wounds, returned to Camelot, and calling together a band of knights, led them against the castle of Sir Damas. But Damas had no heart to attempt to hold out, and surrendered himself and all that he had to the King's mercy. And first King Arthur set free those that Sir Damas had kept in miserable bondage, and sent them away with rich gifts. When he had righted the wrongs of others, then he summoned Sir Damas before him, and said: "I command thee that thou tell me why thou didst seek my destruction." And cringing low at the King's footstool, Damas answered: "I beseech you, deal mercifully with me, for all that I have done, I have done at the bidding of Queen Morgan le Fay." "A coward's plea," said the King; "how camest thou first to have traffic with her?" "Sir," replied Damas, "much have I suffered, first by the greed of my younger brother and now by the deceit of this evil woman, as ye shall hear. When my father died, I claimed the inheritance as of right, seeing that I was his elder son; but my young brother, Sir Ontzlake, withstood me, and demanded some part of my father's lands. Long since, he sent me a challenge to decide our quarrel in single combat, but it liked me ill, seeing that I am of no great strength. Much, therefore, did I desire to find a champion but, by ill fortune, none could I find until Queen Morgan le Fay sent word that, of her good will to me, she had sent me one that would defend my cause; and that same evening, the little ship brought you, my lord, to my castle. And when I saw you, I rejoiced, thinking to have found a champion that would silence my brother for ever; nor knew I you for the King's self. Wherefore, I entreat you, spare me, and avenge me on my brother." Therewith, Sir Damas fawned upon the King, but Arthur sternly bade him rise and send messengers to bring Sir Ontzlake before him. Presently, there stood before the King a youth, fair and of good stature, who saluted his lord and then remained silent before him. "Sir Ontzlake," said the King, "I have sent for you to know of your dealings with Sir Accolon and of your quarrel with your brother." "My lord Arthur," answered the youth, "that I was the cause of hurt to yourself, I pray you to pardon me, for all unwitting was I of evil. For ye shall know that I had challenged my brother to single combat; but when word came to me that he was provided of a champion, I might not so much as brook my armour for a sore wound that I had got of an arrow shot at me as I rode through the forest near his castle. And as I grieved for my hard case, there came a messenger from Queen Morgan le Fay bidding me be of good courage, for she had sent unto me one, Sir Accolon, who would undertake my quarrel. This only she commanded me, that I should ask no question of Sir Accolon. So Sir Accolon abode with me that night and, as I supposed, fought in my cause the next day. Sure am I that there is some mystery, yet may I not misdoubt my lady Queen Morgan le Fay without cause; wherefore, if blame there be, let me bear the punishment." Then was the King well pleased with the young man for his courage and loyalty to others. "Fair youth," said he, "ye shall go with me to Camelot, and if ye prove you brave and just in all your doings, ye shall be of my Round Table." But to Sir Damas he said sternly: "Ye are a mean-spirited varlet, unworthy of the degree of knighthood. Here I ordain that ye shall yield unto your brother the moiety of the lands that ye had of your father and, in payment for it, yearly ye shall receive of Sir Ontzlake a palfrey; for that will befit you better to ride than the knightly war-horse. And look ye well to it, on pain of death, that ye lie no more in wait for errant knights, but amend your life and live peaceably with your brother." Thereafter, the fear of the King kept Sir Damas from deeds of violence; yet, to the end, he remained cowardly and churlish, unworthy of the golden spurs of knighthood. But Sir Ontzlake proved him a valiant knight, fearing God and the King and naught else. CHAPTER V HOW THE SCABBARD OF EXCALIBUR WAS LOST Now when Queen Morgan le Fay knew that her plot had miscarried and that her treachery was discovered, she feared to abide the return of the King to Camelot; and so she went to Queen Guenevere, and said: "Madam, of your courtesy, grant me leave, I pray you, to depart." "Nay," said the Queen, "that were pity, for I have news of my lord the King, that soon he will return to Camelot. Will ye not then await his return, that ye may see your kinsman before ye depart?" "Alas! madam," said Morgan le Fay, "that may not be, for I have ill news that requires that immediately I get to my own country." "Then shall ye depart when ye will," said the Queen. So before the next day had dawned, Morgan le Fay arose and, taking her horse, departed unattended from Camelot. All that day and most of the night she rode fast, and ere noon the next day, she was come to a nunnery where, as she knew, King Arthur lay. Entering into the house, she made herself known to the nuns, who received her courteously and gave her of their best to eat and to drink. When she was refreshed, she asked if any other had sought shelter with them that day; and they told her that King Arthur lay in an inner chamber and slept, for he had rested little for three nights. "Ah! my dear lord!" exclaimed the false sorceress; "gladly would I speak with him, but I will not that ye awaken him, and long I may not tarry here; wherefore suffer me at least to look upon him as he sleeps, and then will I continue my journey." And the nuns, suspecting no treachery, showed Queen Morgan le Fay the room where King Arthur slept, and let her enter it alone. So Morgan le Fay had her will and stood beside the sleeping King; but again it seemed as if she must fail of her purpose, and her heart was filled with rage and despair. For she saw that the King grasped in his hand the hilt of the naked brand, that none might take it without awakening him. While she mused, suddenly she espied the scabbard where it hung at the foot of the bed, and her heart rejoiced to know that something she might gain by her bold venture. She snatched up the empty sheath, and wrapping it in a fold of her garment, left the chamber. Brief were her farewells to the holy nuns, and in haste she got to horse and rode away. Scarcely had she set forth, when the King awoke, and rising from his couch, saw at once that the scabbard of his sword was gone. Then summoned he the whole household to his presence and inquired who had entered his chamber. "Sir," said the Abbess, "there has none been here save only your kinswoman, the Queen Morgan le Fay. She, indeed, desired to look upon you since she might not abide your awakening." Then the King groaned aloud, saying, "It is my own kinswoman, the wife of my true knight, Sir Uriens, that would betray me." He bade Sir Ontzlake make ready to accompany him, and after courteous salutation to the Abbess and her nuns, together they rode forth by the path that Morgan le Fay had taken. Fast they rode in pursuit, and presently they came to a cross where was a poor cowherd keeping watch over his few beasts, and of him they asked whether any had passed that way. "Sirs," said the peasant, "even now there rode past the cross a lady most lovely to look upon, and with her forty knights." Greatly the King marvelled how Queen Morgan le Fay had come by such a cavalcade, but nothing he doubted that it was she the cowherd had seen. So thanking the poor man, the King, with Sir Ontzlake, rode on by the path that had been shown them, and presently, emerging from the forest, they were aware of a glittering company of horsemen winding through a wide plain that lay stretched before them. On the instant, they put spurs to their horses and galloped as fast as they might in pursuit. But, as it chanced, Queen Morgan le Fay looked back even as Arthur and Sir Ontzlake came forth from the forest, and seeing them, she knew at once that her theft had been discovered, and that she was pursued. Straightway she bade her knights ride on till they should come to a narrow valley where lay many great stones; but as soon as they had left her, she herself rode, with all speed, to a mere hard by. Sullen and still it lay, without even a ripple on its surface. No animal ever drank of its waters nor bird sang by it, and it was so deep that none might ever plumb it. And when the Queen had come to the brink, she dismounted. From the folds of her dress she drew the scabbard, and waving it above her head, she cried, "Whatsoever becometh of me, King Arthur shall not have this scabbard." Then, whirling it with all her might, she flung it far into the mere. The jewels glinted as the scabbard flashed through the air, then it clove the oily waters of the lake and sank, never again to be seen. When it had vanished, Morgan le Fay mounted her horse again, and rode fast after her knights, for the King and Ontzlake were in hot pursuit, and sore she feared lest they should come up with her before she might reach the shelter of the Valley of Stones. But she had rejoined her company of knights before the King had reached the narrow mouth of the valley. Quickly she bade her men scatter among the boulders, and then, by her magic art, she turned them all, men and horses and herself too, into stones, that none might tell the one from the other. When King Arthur and Sir Ontzlake reached the valley, they looked about for some sign of the presence of the Queen or her knights, but naught might they see though they rode through the valley and beyond, and returning, searched with all diligence among the rocks and boulders. Never again was Queen Morgan le Fay seen at Camelot, nor did she attempt aught afterwards against the welfare of the King. When she had restored her knights to their proper form, she hastened with them back to her own land, and there she abode for the rest of her days until she came with the other queens to carry Arthur from the field of the Battle in the West. Nor would the King seek to take vengeance on a woman, though sorely she had wronged him. His life long, he guarded well the sword Excalibur, but the sheath no man ever saw again. CHAPTER VI MERLIN Of Merlin and how he served King Arthur, something has been already shown. Loyal he was ever to Uther Pendragon and to his son, King Arthur, and for the latter especially he wrought great marvels. He brought the King to his rights; he made him his ships; and some say that Camelot, with its splendid halls, where Arthur would gather his knights around him at the great festivals of the year, at Christmas, at Easter, and at Pentecost, was raised by his magic, without human toil. Bleise, the aged magician who dwelt in Northumberland and recorded the great deeds of Arthur and his knights, had been Merlin's master in magic; but it came to pass in time that Merlin far excelled him in skill, so that his enemies declared no mortal was his father, and called him devil's son. Then, on a certain time, Merlin said to Arthur: "The time draws near when ye shall miss me, for I shall go down alive into the earth; and it shall be that gladly would ye give your lands to have me again." Then Arthur was grieved, and said: "Since ye know your danger, use your craft to avoid it." But Merlin answered: "That may not be." Now there had come to Arthur's court, a damsel of the Lady of the Lake--her whose skill in magic, some say, was greater than Merlin's own; and the damsel's name was Vivien. She set herself to learn the secrets of Merlin's art, and was ever with him, tending upon the old man and, with gentleness and tender service, winning her way to his heart; but all was a pretence, for she was weary of him and sought only his ruin, thinking it should be fame for her, by any means whatsoever, to enslave the greatest wizard of his age. And so she persuaded him to pass with her overseas into King Ban's land of Benwick, and there, one day, he showed her a wondrous rock, formed by magic art. Then she begged him to enter into it, the better to declare to her its wonders; but when once he was within, by a charm that she had learnt from Merlin's self, she caused the rock to shut down that never again might he come forth. Thus was Merlin's prophecy fulfilled, that he should go down into the earth alive. Much they marvelled in Arthur's court what had become of the great magician, till on a time, there rode past the stone a certain Knight of the Round Table and heard Merlin lamenting his sad fate. The knight would have striven to raise the mighty stone, but Merlin bade him not waste his labour, since none might release him save her who had imprisoned him there. Thus Merlin passed from the world through the treachery of a damsel, and thus Arthur was without aid in the days when his doom came upon him. CHAPTER VII BALIN AND BALAN Among the princes that thought scorn of Arthur in the days when first he became king, none was more insolent than Ryons of North Wales. So, on a time when King Arthur held high festival at Camelot, Ryons sent a herald who, in the presence of the whole court, before brave knights and fair dames, thus addressed the King: "Sir Arthur, my master bids me say that he has overcome eleven kings with all their hosts, and, in token of their submission, they have given him their beards to fringe him a mantle. There remains yet space for the twelfth; wherefore, with all speed, send him your beard, else will he lay waste your land with fire and sword." "Viler message," said King Arthur, "was never sent from man to man. Get thee gone, lest we forget thine office protects thee." So spoke the King, for he had seen his knights clap hand to sword, and would not that a messenger should suffer hurt in his court. Now among the knights present the while was one whom men called Balin le Savage, who had but late been freed from prison for slaying a knight of Arthur's court. None was more wroth than he at the villainy of Ryons, and immediately after the departure of the herald, he left the hall and armed him; for he was minded to try if, with good fortune, he might win to Arthur's grace by avenging him on the King of North Wales. While he was without, there entered the hall a Witch Lady who, on a certain occasion, had done the King a service, and for this she now desired of him a boon. So Arthur bade her name her request, and thus she said: "O King, I require of you the head of the knight Balin le Savage." "That may I not grant you with my honour," replied the King; "ask what it may become me to give." But the Witch Lady would have naught else, and departed from the hall, murmuring against the King. Then, as it chanced, Balin met her at the door, and immediately when he saw her, he rode upon her, sword in hand, and, with one blow, smote off her head. Thus he took vengeance for his mother's death, of which she had been the cause, and, well content, rode away. But when it was told King Arthur of the deed that Balin had done, he was full wroth, nor was his anger lessened though Merlin declared the wrong the Witch Lady had done to Balin. "Whatsoever cause he had against her, yet should he have done her no violence in my court," said the King, and bade Sir Lanceour of Ireland ride after Balin and bring him back again. Thus it came to pass that, as Sir Balin rode on his way, he heard the hoof-beats of a horse fast galloping, and a voice cried loudly to him: "Stay, Knight; for thou shalt stay, whether thou wilt or not." "Fair Knight," answered Balin fiercely, "dost thou desire to fight with me?" "Yea, truly," answered Lanceour; "for that cause have I followed thee from Camelot." "Alas!" cried Balin, "then I know thy quarrel. And yet, I dealt but justly by that vile woman, and it grieves me to offend my lord King Arthur again." "Have done, and make ready to fight," said Lanceour insolently; for he was proud and arrogant, though a brave knight. So they rushed together, and, at the first encounter, Sir Lanceour's spear was shivered against the shield of the other, but Balin's spear pierced shield and hauberk and Lanceour fell dead to the earth. Then Sir Balin, sore grieved that he had caused the death of a knight of Arthur's court, buried Lanceour as well as he might, and continued sorrowfully on his journey in search of King Ryons. Presently, as he rode through a great forest, he espied a knight whom, by his arms, he knew at once for his brother, Sir Balan. Great joy had they in their meeting, for Balan had believed Balin still to be in prison. So Balin told Balan all that had befallen him, and how he sought Ryons to avenge Arthur upon him for his insolent message, and hoped thereby to win his lord's favour again. "I will ride with thee, brother," said Balan, "and help thee all I may." So the two went on their way till, presently, they met with an old man--Merlin's self, though they knew him not, for he was disguised. "Ah, Knight," said Merlin to Balin, "swift to strike and swift to repent, beware, or thou shalt strike the most dolorous blow dealt by man; for thou shalt slay thine own brother." "If I believed thy words true," cried Balin hotly, "I would slay myself to make thee a liar." "I know the past and I know the future," said Merlin; "I know, too, the errand on which thou ridest, and I will help thee if thou wilt." "Ah!" said Balin, "that pleases me well." "Hide you both in this covert," said Merlin; "for presently there shall come riding down this path King Ryons with sixty of his knights." With these words he vanished. So Balin and Balan did as he had bidden them, and when King Ryons and his men entered the little path, they fell upon them with such fury that they slew more than forty knights, while the rest fled, and King Ryons himself yielded him to them. So Sir Balan rode with King Ryons to Camelot that he might deliver him to King Arthur; but Balin went not with them, for he would see more adventures before he sought King Arthur's presence again. After many days' travel and many encounters, it befell that, one evening, Balin drew near to a castle; and when he would have sought admittance, there stood by him an old man, and said: "Balin, turn thee back, and it shall be better for thee," and so vanished. At that moment there was blown a blast on a horn, such as is sounded when the stag receives its death; and hearing it, Balin's heart misgave him, and he cried: "That blast is blown for me, and I am the prize. But not yet am I dead!" At that instant the castle gate was raised and there appeared many knights and ladies welcoming Balin into the castle. So he entered, and presently they were all seated at supper. Then the lady of the castle said to Balin: "Sir Knight, to-morrow thou must have ado with a knight that keeps an island near-by; else mayest thou not pass that way." "That is an evil custom," answered Balin; "but if I must, I must." So that night he rested, but with the dawn he arose, and was arming himself for battle when there came to him a knight and said: "Sir, your shield is not good; I pray you, take mine which is larger and stouter." In an evil hour, Balin suffered himself to be persuaded, and taking the stranger's shield, left; behind his own on which his arms were blazoned. Then, entering a boat, he was conveyed to the island where the unknown knight held the ford. No sooner was he landed, than there came riding to him a knight armed all in red armour, his horse, too, trapped all in red; and without word spoken, they charged upon each other, and each bore the other from the saddle. Thus for a while they lay, stunned by the fall. The Red Knight was the first to rise, for Balin, all wearied by his travels and many encounters, was sore shaken by the fall. Then they fought together right fiercely, hacking away great pieces of armour, and dealing each other dreadful wounds. But when they paused to take breath, Balin, looking up, saw the battlements of the castle filled with knights and ladies watching the struggle, and immediately, shamed that the conflict should have so long endured, he rushed again upon the Red Knight, aiming at him blows that might have felled a giant. So they fought together a long while; but at the last, the Red Knight drew back a little. Then cried Balin: "Who art thou? for till now, never have I met my match." Then said the Red Knight: "I am Balan, brother to the noble knight, Sir Balin"; and with the word, he fell to the ground as one dead. "Alas!" cried Balin, "that I should have lived to see this day!" Then, as well as he might, for his strength was almost spent, he crept on hands and knees to his brother's side and opened the vizor of his helmet, and when he saw his brother's face all ghastly, as it was, he cried: "O Balan, I have slain thee, as thou hast also slain me! Oh! woeful deed I never to be forgotten of men!" Then Balan, being somewhat recovered, told Balin how he had been compelled by those at the castle to keep the ford against all comers, and might never depart; and Balin told of the grievous chance by which he had taken another's shield. So these two died, slain by each other's hands. In one tomb they were buried; and Merlin, passing that way, inscribed thereon the full story of their deaths. BOOK II SIR LAUNCELOT CHAPTER VIII SIR LAUNCELOT DU LAC Now, as time passed, King Arthur gathered into his Order of the Round Table knights whose peers shall never be found in any age; and foremost amongst them all was Sir Launcelot du Lac. Such was his strength that none against whom he laid lance in rest could keep the saddle, and no shield was proof against his sword dint; but for his courtesy even more than for his courage and strength, Sir Launcelot was famed far and near. Gentle he was and ever the first to rejoice in the renown of another; and in the jousts, he would avoid encounter with the young and untried knight, letting him pass to gain glory if he might. It would take a great book to record all the famous deeds of Sir Launcelot, and all his adventures. He was of Gaul, for his father, King Ban, ruled over Benwick; and some say that his first name was Galahad, and that he was named Launcelot du Lac by the Lady of the Lake who reared him when his mother died. Early he won renown by delivering his father's people from the grim King Claudas who, for more than twenty years, had laid waste the fair land of Benwick; then, when there was peace in his own land, he passed into Britain, to Arthur's court, where the King received him gladly, and made him Knight of the Round Table and took him for his trustiest friend. And so it was that, when Guenevere was to be brought to Canterbury, to be married to the King, Launcelot was chief of the knights sent to wait upon her, and of this came the sorrow of later days. For, from the moment he saw her, Sir Launcelot loved Guenevere, for her sake remaining wifeless all his days, and in all things being her faithful knight. But busy-bodies and mischief-makers spoke evil of Sir Launcelot and the Queen, and from their talk came the undoing of the King and the downfall of his great work. But that was after long years, and after many true knights had lived their lives, honouring the King and Queen, and doing great deeds whereby the fame of Arthur and his Order passed through all the world. CHAPTER IX THE ADVENTURE OF THE CHAPEL PERILOUS Now on a day, as he rode through the forest, Sir Launcelot met a damsel weeping bitterly, and seeing him, she cried, "Stay, Sir Knight! By your knighthood I require you to aid me in my distress." Immediately Sir Launcelot checked his horse and asked in what she needed his service. "Sir," said the maiden, "my brother lies at the point of death, for this day he fought with the stout knight, Sir Gilbert, and sorely they wounded each other; and a wise woman, a sorceress, has said that nothing may staunch my brother's wounds unless they be searched with the sword and bound up with a piece of the cloth from the body of the wounded knight who lies in the ruined chapel hard by. And well I know you, my lord Sir Launcelot, and that, if ye will not help me, none may." "Tell me your brother's name," said Sir Launcelot. "Sir Meliot de Logris," answered the damsel. "A Knight of our Round Table," said Sir Launcelot; "the more am I bound to your service. Only tell me, gentle damsel, where I may find this Chapel Perilous." So she directed him, and, riding through forest byeways, Sir Launcelot came presently upon a little ruined chapel, standing in the midst of a churchyard, where the tombs showed broken and neglected under the dark yews. In front of the porch, Sir Launcelot paused and looked, for thereon hung, upside down, dishonoured, the shield of many a good knight whom Sir Launcelot had known. As he stood wondering, suddenly there pressed upon him from all sides thirty stout knights, all giants and fully armed, their drawn swords in their hands and their shields advanced. With threatening looks, they spoke to him saying: "Sir Launcelot, it were well ye turned back before evil befell you." But Sir Launcelot, though he feared to have to do with thirty such warriors, answered boldly: "I turn not back for high words. Make them good by your deeds." Then he rode upon them fiercely, whereupon instantly they scattered and disappeared, and, sword in hand, Sir Launcelot entered the little chapel. All was dark within, save that a little lamp hung from the roof, and by its dim light he could just espy how on a bier before the altar there lay, stark and cold, a knight sheathed in armour. And drawing nearer, Sir Launcelot saw that the dead man lay on a blood-stained mantle, his naked sword by his side, but that his left hand had been lopped off at the wrist by a mighty sword-cut. Then Sir Launcelot boldly seized the sword and with it cut off a piece of the bloody mantle. Immediately the earth shook and the walls of the chapel rocked, and in fear Sir Launcelot turned to go. But, as he would have left the chapel, there stood before him in the doorway a lady, fair to look upon and beautifully arrayed, who gazed earnestly upon him, and said: "Sir Knight, put away from you that sword lest it be your death." But Sir Launcelot answered her: "Lady, what I have said, I do; and what I have won, I keep." "It is well," said the lady. "Had ye cast away the sword your life days were done. And now I make but one request. Kiss me once." "That may I not do," said Sir Launcelot. Then said the lady: "Go your way, Launcelot; ye have won, and I have lost. Know that, had ye kissed me, your dead body had lain even now on the altar bier. For much have I desired to win you; and to entrap you, I ordained this chapel. Many a knight have I taken, and once Sir Gawain himself hardly escaped, but he fought with Sir Gilbert and lopped off his hand, and so got away. Fare ye well; it is plain to see that none but our lady, Queen Guenevere, may have your services." With that, she vanished from his sight. So Sir Launcelot mounted his horse and rode away from that evil place till he met Sir Meliot's sister, who led him to her brother where he lay, pale as the earth, and bleeding fast. And when he saw Sir Launcelot, he would have risen to greet him; but his strength failed him, and he fell back on his couch. Sir Launcelot searched his wounds with the sword, and bound them up with the blood-stained cloth, and immediately Sir Meliot was sound and well, and greatly he rejoiced. Then Sir Meliot and his sister begged Sir Launcelot to stay and rest, but he departed on his adventures, bidding them farewell until he should meet them again at Arthur's court. As for the sorceress of the Chapel Perilous, it is said she died of grief that all her charms had failed to win for her the good knight Sir Launcelot. CHAPTER X SIR LAUNCELOT AND THE FALCON Sir Launcelot rode on his way, by marsh and valley and hill, till he chanced upon a fair castle, and saw fly from it, over his head, a beautiful falcon, with the lines still hanging from her feet. And as he looked, the falcon flew into a tree where she was held fast by the lines becoming entangled about the boughs. Immediately, from the castle there came running a fair lady, who cried: "O Launcelot, Launcelot! As ye are the noblest of all knights, I pray you help me to recover my falcon. For if my husband discover its loss, he will slay me in his anger." "Who is your husband, fair lady?" asked Sir Launcelot. "Sir Phelot, a knight of Northgalis, and he is of a hasty temper; wherefore, I beseech you, help me." "Well, lady," said Sir Launcelot, "I will serve you if I may; but the tree is hard to climb, for the boughs are few, and, in truth, I am no climber. But I will do my best." So the lady helped Sir Launcelot to unarm, and he led his horse to the foot of the tree, and springing from its back, he caught at the nearest bough, and drew himself up into the branches. Then he climbed till he reached the falcon and, tying her lines to a rotten bough, broke it off, and threw down bird and bough to the lady below. Forthwith, Sir Phelot came from amongst the trees and said: "Ah! Sir Launcelot! Now at length I have you as I would; for I have long sought your life." And Sir Launcelot made answer: "Surely ye would not slay me, an unarmed man; for that were dishonour to you. Keep my armour if ye will; but hang my sword on a bough where I may reach it, and then do with me as ye can." But Sir Phelot laughed mockingly and said: "Not so, Sir Launcelot. I know you too well to throw away my advantage; wherefore, shift as ye may." "Alas!" said Sir Launcelot, "that ever knight should be so unknightly. And you, madam, how could ye so betray me?" "She did but as I commanded her," said Sir Phelot. Then Launcelot looked about him to see how he might help himself in these straits, and espying above his head a great bare branch, he tote it down. Then, ever watching his advantage, he sprang to the ground on the far side of his horse, so that the horse was between him and Sir Phelot. Sir Phelot rushed upon him with his sword, but Sir Launcelot parried it with the bough, with which he dealt his enemy such a blow on the head that Sir Phelot sank to the ground in a swoon. Then Sir Launcelot seized his sword where it lay beside his armour, and stooping over the fallen knight, unloosed his helm. When the lady saw him do that, she shrieked and cried: "Spare his life! spare his life, noble knight, I beseech you!" But Sir Launcelot answered sternly: "A felon's death for him who does felon's deeds. He has lived too long already," and with one blow, he smote off his head. Then he armed himself, and mounting upon his steed, rode away, leaving the lady to weep beside her lord. BOOK III SIR TRISTRAM CHAPTER XI OF THE BIRTH OF SIR TRISTRAM In the days of Arthur, there ruled over the kingdom of Liones the good knight Sir Meliodas; and his Queen was the fair Elizabeth, sister of King Mark of Cornwall. Now there was a lady, an enchantress, who had no good-will towards King Meliodas and his Queen; so one day, when the King was hunting, she brought it to pass by her charms that Meliodas chased a hart till he found himself, far from all his men, alone by an old castle, and there he was taken prisoner by the lady's knights. When King Meliodas did not return home, the Queen was nigh crazed with grief. Attended only by one of the ladies of her court, she ran out into the forest to seek her lord. Long and far she wandered, until she could go no further, but sank down at the foot of a great tree, and there, in the midst of the forest, was her little son born. When the Queen knew that she must die, she kissed the babe and said: "Ah! little son, sad has been thy birth, wherefore thy name shall be Tristram; but thou shalt grow to be a brave knight and a strong." Then she charged her gentlewoman to take care of the child and to commend her to King Meliodas; and after that she died. All too late came many of the barons seeking their Queen, and sorrowfully they bore her back to the castle where presently the King arrived, released by the skill of Merlin from the evil spells of the enchantress. Great indeed was his grief for the death of his Queen. He caused her to be buried with all the pomp and reverence due to so good and fair a lady, and long and bitterly he mourned her loss and all the people with him. But at the end of seven years, King Meliodas took another wife. Then, when the Queen had sons of her own, it angered her to think that in the days to come, her stepson Tristram, and none other, should rule the fair land of Liones. The more she thought of it, the more she hated him till, at the last, she was resolved to do away with him. So she filled a silver goblet with a pleasant drink in which she had mixed poison, and she set it in the room where Tristram played with the young princes, his half-brothers. Now the day was hot, and presently, being heated with his play, the young prince, the Queen's eldest son, drank of the poisoned goblet; and immediately he died. Much the Queen grieved, but more than ever she hated her stepson Tristram, as if, through him, her son had died. Presently, again she mixed poison and set it in a goblet; and that time, King Meliodas, returning thirsty from the chase, took the cup and would have drunk of it, only the Queen cried to him to forbear. Then the King recalled to mind how his young son had drunk of a seeming pleasant drink and died on the instant; and seizing the Queen by the hand, he cried: "False traitress! tell me at once what is in that cup, or I will slay thee!" Then the Queen cried him mercy and told him all her sin. But in his wrath the King would have no mercy, but sentenced her to be burnt at the stake, which, in those days, was the doom of traitors. The day having come when the Queen should suffer for her fault, she was led out and bound to a stake in the presence of all the court, and the faggots were heaped about her. Then the young prince Tristram kneeled before the King and asked of him a favour: and the King, loving him much, granted him his request. "Then," said Tristram, "I require you to release the Queen, my stepmother, and to take her again to your favour." Greatly the King marvelled, and said: "Ye should of right hate her, seeing that she sought your life." But Tristram answered: "I forgive her freely." "I give you then her life," said the King; "do ye release her from the stake." So Tristram unloosed the chains which bound the Queen and led her back to the castle, and from that day the Queen loved him well; but as for King Meliodas, though he forgave her and suffered her to remain at court, yet never again would he have aught to do with her. CHAPTER XII HOW TRISTRAM FOUGHT WITH SIR MARHAUS OF IRELAND Now King Meliodas, though he had pardoned the Queen, would keep his son Tristram no longer at the court, but sent him into France. There Tristram learnt all knightly exercises, so that there was none could equal him as harper or hunter; and after seven years, being by then a youth of nineteen, he returned to his own land of Liones. It chanced, in those days, that King Anguish of Ireland sent to Cornwall, demanding the tribute paid him in former times by that land. Then Mark, the Cornish King, called together his barons and knights to take counsel; and by their advice, he made answer that he would pay no tribute, and bade King Anguish send a stout knight to fight for his right if he still dared claim aught of the land of Cornwall. Forthwith there came from Ireland Sir Marhaus, brother of the Queen of Ireland. Now Sir Marhaus was Knight of the Round Table and in his time there were few of greater renown. He anchored his ships under the Castle of Tintagil, and sent messengers daily to King Mark, bidding him pay the tribute or find one to fight in his cause. Then was King Mark sore perplexed, for not one of his knights dared encounter Sir Marhaus. Criers were sent through all the land, proclaiming that, to any knight that would take the combat upon him, King Mark would give such gifts as should enrich him for life. In time, word of all that had happened came to Liones, and immediately Tristram sought his father, desiring his permission to go to the court of his uncle, King Mark, to take the battle upon him. Thus it came to pass that, with his father's good leave, Tristram presented himself before King Mark, asking to be made knight that he might do battle for the liberties of Cornwall. Then when Mark knew that it was his sister's son, he rejoiced greatly, and having made Tristram knight, he sent word to Sir Marhaus that there was found to meet him a champion of better birth than Sir Marhaus' self. So it was arranged that the combat should take place on a little island hard by, where Sir Marhaus had anchored his ships. Sir Tristram, with his horse and arms, was placed on board a ship, and when the island was gained, he leaped on shore, bidding his squire put off again and only return when he was slain or victorious. Now, when Sir Marhaus saw that Tristram was but a youth, he cried aloud to him: "Be advised, young Sir, and go back to your ship. What can ye hope to do against me, a proven knight of Arthur's Table?" Then Tristram made answer: "Sir and most famous champion, I have been made knight to do battle with you, and I promise myself to win honour thereby, I who have never before encountered a proven knight." "If ye can endure three strokes of my sword, it shall be honour enough," said Sir Marhaus. Then they rushed upon each other, and at the first encounter each unhorsed the other, and Sir Marhaus' spear pierced Sir Tristram's side and made a grievous wound. Drawing their swords, they lashed at each other, and the blows fell thick as hail till the whole island re-echoed with the din of onslaught. So they fought half a day, and ever it seemed that Sir Tristram grew fresher and nimbler while Sir Marhaus became sore wearied. And at the last, Sir Tristram aimed a great blow at the head of his enemy, and the sword crashed through the helmet and bit into the skull so that a great piece was broken away from the edge of Tristram's sword. Then Sir Marhaus flung away sword and shield, and when he might regain his feet, fled shrieking to his ships. "Do ye flee?" cried Tristram. "I am but newly made knight; but rather than flee, I would be hewn piecemeal." Then came Gouvernail, Sir Tristram's squire, and bore his master back to land, where Mark and all the Cornish lords came to meet him and convey him to the castle of Tintagil. Far and wide they sent for surgeons to dress Sir Tristram's wound, but none might help him, and ever he grew weaker. At the last, a wise woman told King Mark that in that land alone whence came the poisoned spear could Sir Tristram find cure. Then the King gave orders and a ship was made ready with great stores of rich furnishings, to convey Sir Tristram to Ireland, there to heal him of his wound. CHAPTER XIII THE FAIR ISOLT Thus Tristram sailed to Ireland, and when he drew nigh the coast, he called for his harp, and sitting up on his couch on the deck, played the merriest tune that was ever heard in that land. And the warders on the castle wall, hearing him, sent and told King Anguish how a ship drew near with one who harped as none other might. Then King Anguish sent knights to convey the stranger into the castle. So when he was brought into the King's presence, Tristram declared that he was Sir Tramtrist of Liones, lately made knight, and wounded in his first battle; for which cause he was come to Ireland, to seek healing. Forthwith the King made him welcome, and placed him in the charge of his daughter, Isolt. Now Isolt was famed for her skill in surgery, and, moreover, she was the fairest lady of that time, save only Queen Guenevere. So she searched and bandaged Sir Tristram's wound, and presently it was healed. But still Sir Tristram abode at King Anguish's court, teaching the Fair Isolt to harp, and taking great pleasure in her company. And ever the princess doubted whether Sir Tristram were not a renowned knight and ever she liked him better. So the time passed merrily with feastings and in the jousts, and in the lists Sir Tristram won great honour when he was recovered of his wound. At last it befell upon a day that Sir Tristram had gone to the bath and left his sword lying on the couch. And the Queen, entering, espied it, and taking it up, drew the sword from the sheath and fell to admiring the mighty blade. Presently she saw that the edge was notched, and while she pondered how great a blow must have broken the good steel, suddenly she bethought her of the piece which had been found in the head of her brother, Sir Marhaus. Hastening to her chamber, she sought in a casket for the fragment, and returning, placed it by the sword edge, where it fitted as well as on the day it was first broken. Then she cried to her daughter: "This, then, is the traitor knight who slew my brother, Sir Marhaus"; and snatching up the sword, she rushed upon Sir Tristram where he sat in his bath, and would have killed him, but that his squire restrained her. Having failed of her purpose, she sought her husband, King Anguish, and told him all her story: how the knight they had harboured was he who had slain Sir Marhaus. Then the King, sore perplexed, went to Sir Tristram's chamber, where he found him fully armed, ready to get to horse. And Tristram told him all the truth, how in fair fight he had slain Sir Marhaus. "Ye did as a knight should," said King Anguish; "and much it grieves me that I may not keep you at my court; but I cannot so displease my Queen or barons." "Sir," said Tristram, "I thank you for your courtesy, and will requite it as occasion may offer. Moreover, here I pledge my word, as I am good knight and true, to be your daughter's servant, and in all places and at all times to uphold her quarrel. Wherefore I pray you that I may take my leave of the princess." Then, with the King's permission, Sir Tristram went to the Fair Isolt and told her all his story; "And here," said he, "I make my vow ever to be your true knight, and at all times and in all places to uphold your quarrel." "And on my part" answered the Fair Isolt, "I make promise that never these seven years will I marry any man, save with your leave and as ye shall desire." Therewith they exchanged rings, the Fair Isolt grieving sore the while. Then Sir Tristram strode into the court and cried aloud, before all the barons: "Ye knights of Ireland, the time is come when I must depart. Therefore, if any man have aught against me, let him stand forth now, and I will satisfy him as I may." Now there were many present of the kin of Sir Marhaus, but none dared have ado with Sir Tristram; so, slowly he rode away, and with his squire took ship again for Cornwall. CHAPTER XIV HOW KING MARK SENT SIR TRISTRAM TO FETCH HIM A WIFE When Sir Tristram had come back to Cornwall, he abode some time at the court of King Mark. Now in those days the Cornish knights were little esteemed, and none less than Mark himself, who was a coward, and never adventured himself in fair and open combat, seeking rather to attack by stealth and have his enemy at an advantage. But the fame of Sir Tristram increased daily, and all men spoke well of him. So it came to pass that King Mark, knowing himself despised, grew fearful and jealous of the love that all men bore his nephew; for he seemed in their praise of him to hear his own reproach. He sought, therefore, how he might rid himself of Tristram even while he spoke him fair and made as if he loved him much, and at the last he bethought him how he might gain his end and no man be the wiser. So one day, he said to Tristram: "Fair nephew, I am resolved to marry, and fain would I have your aid." "In all things, I am yours to command," answered Sir Tristram. "I pray you, then," said King Mark, "bring me to wife the Fair Isolt of Ireland. For since I have heard your praises of her beauty, I may not rest unless I have her for my Queen." And this he said thinking that, if ever Sir Tristram set foot in Ireland, he would be slain. But Tristram, nothing mistrusting, got together a company of gallant knights, all fairly arrayed as became men sent by their King on such an errand; and with them he embarked on a goodly ship. Now it chanced that when he had reached the open sea, a great storm arose and drove him back on to the coast of England, and landing with great difficulty he set up his pavilion hard by the city of Camelot. Presently, word was brought him by his squire that King Anguish with his company lay hard by, and that the King was in sore straits; for he was charged with the murder of a knight of Arthur's court, and must meet in combat Sir Blamor, one of the stoutest knights of the Round Table. Then Sir Tristram rejoiced, for he saw in this opportunity of serving King Anguish the means of earning his good will. So he betook himself to the King's tent, and proffered to take upon him the encounter, for the kindness shown him by King Anguish in former days. And the King gratefully accepting of his championship, the next day Sir Tristram encountered with Sir Blamor, overthrew him, and so acquitted the Irish King of the charge brought against him. Then in his joy, King Anguish begged Sir Tristram to voyage with him to his own land, bidding Tristram ask what boon he would and he should have it. So rejoicing in his great fortune, Sir Tristram sailed once again for the Irish land. CHAPTER XV HOW SIR TRISTRAM AND THE FAIR ISOLT DRANK OF THE MAGIC POTION Then King Anguish made haste to return to Ireland, taking Sir Tristram with him. And when he was come there and had told all his adventures, there was great rejoicing over Sir Tristram, but of none more than of the Fair Isolt. So when Sir Tristram had stayed there some while, King Anguish reminded him of the boon he should ask and of his own willingness to grant it. "Sir King," replied Sir Tristram, "now will I ask it. Grant me your daughter, the Fair Isolt, that I may take her to Cornwall, there to become the wife of my uncle, King Mark." Then King Anguish grieved when he heard Sir Tristram's request, and said: "Far more gladly would I give her to you to wife." "That may not be," replied Sir Tristram; "my honour forbids." "Take her then," said King Anguish, "she is yours to wed or to give to your uncle, King Mark, as seems good to you." So a ship was made ready and there entered it the Fair Isolt and Sir Tristram, and Gouvernail, his squire, and Dame Bragwaine, who was maid to the princess. But before they sailed, the Queen gave in charge to Gouvernail and Dame Bragwaine a phial of wine which King Mark and Isolt should drink together on their wedding-day; "For," said the Queen, "such is the magic virtue of this wine, that, having drunk of it, they may never cease from loving one another." Now it chanced, one day, that Sir Tristram sat and harped to the Fair Isolt; and the weather being hot, he became thirsty. Then looking round the cabin he beheld a golden flask, curiously shaped and wrought; and laughing, he said to the Fair Isolt: "See, madam, how my man and your maid care for themselves; for here is the best wine that ever I tasted. I pray you, now, drink to me." So with mirth and laughter, they pledged each other, and thought that never before had they tasted aught so good. But when they had made an end of drinking, there came upon them the might of the magic charm; and never from that day, for good or for ill, might they cease from their love. And so much woe was wrought; for, mindful of his pledge to his uncle, Sir Tristram brought Isolt in all honour into the land of Cornwall where she was wedded with pomp and ceremony to King Mark, the craven King, who hated his nephew even more than before, because he had returned in safety and made good his promise as became an honourable knight. And from that day he never ceased seeking the death of Sir Tristram. CHAPTER XVI OF THE END OF SIR TRISTRAM Then again Sir Tristram abode at King Mark's court, ever rendering the Fair Isolt loyal and knightly service; for King Mark would imperil his life for none, no matter what the need. Now among the Cornish knights, there was much jealousy of Sir Tristram de Liones, and chief of his enemies was his own cousin, Sir Andred. With lying words, Sir Andred sought to stir up King Mark against his nephew, speaking evil of the Queen and of Sir Tristram. Now Mark was afraid openly to accuse Sir Tristram, so he set Sir Andred to spy upon him. At last, it befell one day that Sir Andred saw Sir Tristram coming, alone and unarmed, from the Queen's presence, and with twelve other knights, he fell upon him and bound him. Then these felon knights bore Sir Tristram to a little chapel standing upon a great rock which jutted out into the sea. There they would have slain him, unarmed and bound. But Sir Tristram, perceiving their intent, put forth suddenly all his strength, burst his bonds, and wresting a sword from Sir Andred, cut him down; and so he did with six other knights. Then while the rest, being but cowards, gave back a little, he shut to and bolted the doors against them, and sprang from the window on to the sea-washed rocks below. There he lay as one dead, until his squire, Gouvernail, coming in a little boat, took up his master, dressed his wounds, and carried him to the coast of England. So Sir Tristram was minded to remain in that country for a time. Then, one day, as he rode through the forest near Camelot, there came running to him a fair lady who cried: "Sir Tristram, I claim your aid for the truest knight in all the world, and that is none other than King Arthur." "With a good heart," said Sir Tristram; "but where may I find him?" "Follow me," said the lady, who was none other than the Lady of the Lake herself, and ever mindful of the welfare of King Arthur. So he rode after her till he came to a castle, and in front of it he saw two knights who beset at once another knight, and when Sir Tristram came to the spot, the two had borne King Arthur to the ground and were about to cut off his head. Then Sir Tristram called to them to leave their traitor's work and look to themselves; with the word, one he pierced through with his spear and the other he cut down, and setting King Arthur again upon his horse, he rode with him until they met with certain of Arthur's knights. But when King Arthur would know his name, Tristram would give none, but said only that he was a poor errant knight; and so they parted. But Arthur, when he was come back to Camelot, sent for Sir Launcelot and other of his knights, bidding them seek for such an one as was Sir Tristram and bring him to the court. So they departed, each his own way, and searched for many days, but in vain. Then it chanced, at last, as Sir Launcelot rode on his way, he espied Sir Tristram resting beside a tomb; and, as was the custom of knights errant, he called upon him to joust. So the two ran together and each broke his spear. Then they sprang to the ground and fought with their swords, and each thought that never had he encountered so stout or so skilled a knight. So fiercely they fought that, perforce, at last they must rest. Then said Sir Launcelot: "Fair Knight, I pray you tell me your name, for never have I met so good a knight." "In truth," said Sir Tristram, "I am loth to tell my name." "I marvel at that," said Sir Launcelot; "for mine I will tell you freely. I am Launcelot du Lac." Then was Sir Tristram filled at once with joy and with sorrow; with joy that at last he had encountered the noblest knight of the Round Table, with sorrow that he had done him such hurt, and without more ado he revealed his name. Now Sir Launcelot, who ever delighted in the fame of another, had long desired to meet Sir Tristram de Liones, and rejoicing to have found him, he knelt right courteously and proffered him his sword, as if he would yield to him. But Tristram would not have it so, declaring that, rather, he should yield to Sir Launcelot. So they embraced right heartily, and when Sir Launcelot questioned him, Sir Tristram acknowledged that it was he who had come to King Arthur's aid. Together, then, they rode to Camelot, and there Sir Tristram was received with great honour by King Arthur, who made him Knight of the Round Table. Presently, to Tristram at Camelot, there came word that King Mark had driven the Fair Isolt from court, and compelled her to have her dwelling in a hut set apart for lepers. Then Sir Tristram was wroth indeed, and mounting his horse, rode forth that same hour, and rested not till he had found the lepers' hut, whence he bore the Queen to the castle known as the Joyous Garde; and there he held her, in safety and honour, in spite of all that King Mark could do. And all men honoured Sir Tristram, and felt sorrow for the Fair Isolt; while as for King Mark, they scorned him even more than before. But to Sir Tristram, it was grief to be at enmity with his uncle who had made him knight, and at last he craved King Arthur's aid to reconcile him to Mark. So then the King, who loved Sir Tristram, sent messengers to Cornwall to Mark, bidding him come forthwith to Camelot; and when the Cornish King was arrived, Arthur required him to set aside his enmity to Tristram, who had in all things been his loyal nephew and knight. And King Mark, his head full of hate, but fearful of offending his lord, King Arthur, made fair proffers of friendship, begging Sir Tristram to return to Cornwall with him, and promising to hold him in love and honour. So they were reconciled, and when King Mark returned to Cornwall, thither Sir Tristram escorted the Fair Isolt, and himself abode there, believing his uncle to mean truly and honourably by him. But under a seeming fair exterior, King Mark hated Sir Tristram more than ever, and waited only to have him at an advantage. At length he contrived the opportunity he sought. For he hid him in the Queen's chamber at a time when he knew Sir Tristram would come there unarmed, to harp to the Fair Isolt the music that she loved. So as Sir Tristram, all unsuspecting, bent over his harp, Mark leaped from his lurking place and dealt him such a blow from behind that, on the instant, he fell dead at the feet of the Fair Isolt. So perished the good knight, Sir Tristram de Liones Nor did the Fair Isolt long survive him, for refusing all comfort, she pined away, and died within a few days, and was laid in a tomb beside that of her true knight. But the felon King paid the price of his treachery with his life; for Sir Launcelot himself avenged the death of his friend and the wrongs of the Fair Isolt. BOOK IV KING ARTHUR'S NEPHEWS CHAPTER XVII SIR GAWAIN AND THE LADY Among the knights at King Arthur's court were his nephews, the sons of his sister, Queen Bellicent, and of that King Lot of Orkney, who had joined the league against Arthur in the first years of his reign. Of each, many tales are told; of Sir Gawain and Sir Gareth to their great renown, but of Sir Mordred to his shame. For Sir Gawain and Sir Gareth were knights of great prowess; but Sir Mordred was a coward and a traitor, envious of other men's fame, and a tale-bearer. Now Sir Gawain was known as the Ladies' Knight, and this is how he came by the name. It was at Arthur's marriage-feast, when Gawain had just been made knight, that a strange thing befell. There entered the hall a white hart, chased by a hound, and when it had run round the hall, it fled through the doorway again, still followed by the hound. Then, by Merlin's advice, the quest of the hart was given to Gawain as a new-made knight, to follow it and see what adventures it would bring him. So Sir Gawain rode away, taking with him three couples of greyhounds for the pursuit. At the last, the hounds caught the hart, and killed it just as it reached the court-yard of a castle. Then there came forth from the castle a knight, and he was grieved and wroth to see the hart slain, for it was given him by his lady; so, in his anger, he killed two of the hounds. At that moment Sir Gawain entered the court-yard, and an angry man was he when he saw his greyhounds slain. "Sir Knight," said he, "ye would have done better to have taken your vengeance on me rather than on dumb animals which but acted after their kind." "I will be avenged on you also," cried the knight; and the two rushed together, cutting and thrusting that it was wonderful they might so long endure. But at the last the knight grew faint, and crying for mercy, offered to yield to Sir Gawain. "Ye had no mercy on my hounds," said Sir Gawain. "I will make you all the amends in my power," answered the knight. But Sir Gawain would not be turned from his purpose, and unlacing the vanquished knight's helmet, was about to cut off his head, when a lady rushed out from the castle and flung herself on the body of the fallen knight. So it chanced that Sir Gawain's sword descending smote off the lady's head. Then was Sir Gawain grieved and sore ashamed for what he had done, and said to the knight: "I repent for what I have done; and here I give you your life. Go only to Camelot, to King Arthur's court, and tell him ye are sent by the knight who follows the quest of the white hart." "Ye have slain my lady," said the other, "and now I care not what befalls me." So he arose and went to King Arthur's court. Then Sir Gawain prepared to rest him there for the night; but scarcely had he lain down when there fell upon him four knights, crying: "New-made knight, ye have shamed your knighthood, for a knight without mercy is without honour." Then was Sir Gawain borne to the earth, and would have been slain, but that there came forth from the castle four ladies who besought the knights to spare his life; so they consented and bound him prisoner. The next morning Sir Gawain was brought again before the knights and their dames; and because he was King Arthur's nephew, the ladies desired that he should be set free, only they required that he should ride again to Camelot, the murdered lady's head hanging from his neck, and her dead body across his saddle-bow; and that when he arrived at the court he should confess his misdeeds. So Sir Gawain rode sadly back to Camelot, and when he had told his tale, King Arthur was sore displeased. And Queen Guenevere held a court of her ladies to pass sentence on Sir Gawain for his ungentleness. These then decreed that, his life long, he must never refuse to fight for any lady who desired his services, and that ever he should be gentle and courteous and show mercy to all. From that time forth, Sir Gawain never failed in aught that dame or damsel asked of him, and so he won and kept the title of the Ladies' Knight. CHAPTER XVIII THE ADVENTURES OF SIR GARETH Gareth was the youngest of the sons of Lot and Bellicent, and had grown up long after Gawain and Mordred left their home for King Arthur's court; so that when he came before the King, all humbly attired, he was known not even by his own brothers. King Arthur was keeping Pentecost at Kink Kenadon on the Welsh border and, as his custom was, waited to begin the feast until some adventure should befall. Presently there was seen approaching a youth, who, to the wonderment of all that saw, leaned upon the shoulders of two men, his companions; and yet as he passed up the hall, he seemed a goodly youth, tall and broad-shouldered. When he stood before the King, suddenly he drew himself up, and after due greeting, said: "Sir King, I would ask of you three boons; one to be granted now and two hereafter when I shall require them." And Arthur, looking upon him, was pleased, for his countenance was open and honest. So he made answer; "Fair son, ask of me aught that is honourable and I will grant it." Then the youth said: "For this present, I ask only that ye will give me meat and drink for a year and a day." "Ye might have asked and had a better gift," replied the King; "tell me now your name." "At this time, I may not tell it," said the youth. Now King Arthur trusted every man until he proved himself unworthy, and in this youth he thought he saw one who should do nobly and win renown; so laughing, he bade him keep his own counsel since so he would, and gave him in charge to Sir Kay, the Seneschal. Now Sir Kay was but harsh to those whom he liked not, and from the first he scorned the young man; "For none," said he, "but a low-born lout would crave meat and drink when he might have asked for a horse and arms." But Sir Launcelot and Sir Gawain took the youth's part. Neither knew him for Gareth of the Orkneys, but both believed him to be a youth of good promise who, for his own reasons, would pass in disguise for a season. So Gareth lived the year among the kitchen-boys, all the time mocked and scorned by Sir Kay, who called him Fairhands because his hands were white and shapely. But Launcelot and Gawain showed him all courtesy, and failed not to observe how, in all trials of strength, he excelled his comrades, and that he was ever present to witness the feats of the knights in the tournaments. So the year passed, and again King Arthur was keeping the feast of Pentecost with his knights, when a damsel entered the hall and asked his aid: "For," said she, "my sister is closely besieged in her castle by a strong knight who lays waste all her lands. And since I know that the knights of your court be the most renowned in the world, I have come to crave help of your mightiest." "What is your sister's name, and who is he that oppresses her?" asked the King. "The Red Knight, he is called," replied the damsel. "As for my sister I will not say her name, only that she is a high-born lady and owns broad lands." Then the King frowned and said: "Ye would have aid but will say no name. I may not ask knight of mine to go on such an errand." Then forth stepped Gareth from among the serving men at the hall end and said: "Sir King, I have eaten of your meat in your kitchen this twelvemonth since, and now I crave my other two boons." "Ask and have," replied the King. "Grant me then the adventure of this damsel, and bid Sir Launcelot ride after me to knight me at my desire, for of him alone would I be made knight." "It shall be so," answered the King. "What!" cried the damsel, "I ask for a knight and ye give me a kitchen-boy. Shame on you, Sir King." And in great wrath she fled from the hall, mounted her palfrey and rode away. Gareth but waited to array himself in the armour which he had kept ever in readiness for the time when he should need it, and mounting his horse, rode after the damsel. But when Sir Kay knew what had happened, he was wroth, and got to horse to ride after Gareth and bring him back. Even as Gareth overtook the damsel, so did Kay come up with him and cried: "Turn back, Fairhands! What, sir, do ye not know me?" "Yes," answered Gareth, "I know you for the most discourteous knight in Arthur's court." Then Sir Kay rode upon him with his lance, but Gareth turned it aside with his sword and pierced Sir Kay through the side so that he fell to the ground and lay there without motion. So Gareth took Sir Kay's shield and spear and was about to ride away, when seeing Sir Launcelot draw near, he called upon him to joust. At the first encounter, Sir Launcelot unhorsed Gareth, but quickly helped him to his feet. Then, at Gareth's desire, they fought together with swords, and Gareth did knightly till, at length, Sir Launcelot said, laughing: "Why should we fight any longer? Of a truth ye are a stout knight." "If that is indeed your thought, I pray you make me knight," cried Gareth. So Sir Launcelot knighted Gareth, who, bidding him farewell, hastened after the damsel, for she had ridden on again while the two knights talked. When she saw him coming, she cried: "Keep off! ye smell of the kitchen!" "Damsel," said Sir Gareth, "I must follow until I have fulfilled the adventure." "Till ye accomplish the adventure, Turn-spit? Your part in it shall soon be ended." "I can only do my best," answered Sir Gareth. Now as they rode through the forest, they met with a knight sore beset by six thieves, and him Sir Gareth rescued. The knight then bade Gareth and the damsel rest at his castle, and entertained them right gladly until the morn, when the two rode forth again. Presently, they drew near to a deep river where two knights kept the ford. "How now, kitchen-knave? Will ye fight or escape while ye may?" cried the damsel. "I would fight though there were six instead of two," replied Sir Gareth. Therewith he encountered the one knight in mid-stream and struck him such a blow on the head that he fell, stunned, into the water and was drowned. Then, gaining the land, Gareth cleft in two both helmet and head of the other knight, and turned to the damsel, saying: "Lead on; I follow." But the damsel mocked him, saying: "What a mischance is this that a kitchen-boy should slay two noble knights! Be not over-proud, Turn-spit. It was but luck, if indeed ye did not attack one knight from behind." "Say what you will, I follow," said Sir Gareth. So they rode on again, the damsel in front and Sir Gareth behind, till they reached a wide meadow where stood many fair pavilions; and one, the largest, was all of blue, and the men who stood about it were clothed in blue, and bore shields and spears of that colour; and of blue, too, were the trappings of the horses. Then said the damsel: "Yonder is the Blue Knight, the goodliest that ever ye have looked upon, and five hundred knights own him lord." "I will encounter him," said Sir Gareth; "for if he be good knight and true as ye say, he will scarce set on me with all his following; and man to man, I fear him not." "Fie!" said the damsel, "for a dirty knave, ye brag loud. And even if ye overcome him, his might is as nothing to that of the Red Knight who besieges my lady sister. So get ye gone while ye may." "Damsel," said Sir Gareth, "ye are but ungentle so to rebuke me; for, knight or knave, I have done you good service, nor will I leave this quest while life is mine." Then the damsel was ashamed, and, looking curiously at Gareth, she said: "I would gladly know what manner of man ye are. For I heard you call yourself kitchen-knave before Arthur's self, but ye have ever answered patiently though I have chidden you shamefully; and courtesy comes only of gentle blood." Thereat Sir Gareth but laughed, and said: "He is no knight whom a maiden can anger by harsh words." So talking, they entered the field, and there came to Sir Gareth a messenger from the Blue Knight to ask him if he came in peace or in war. "As your lord pleases," said Sir Gareth. So when the messenger had brought back this word, the Blue Knight mounted his horse, took his spear in his hand, and rode upon Sir Gareth. At their first encounter their lances shivered to pieces, and such was the shock that their horses fell dead. So they rushed on each other with sword and shield, cutting and slashing till the armour was hacked from their bodies; but at last, Sir Gareth smote the Blue Knight to the earth. Then the Blue Knight yielded, and at the damsel's entreaty, Sir Gareth spared his life. So they were reconciled, and at the request of the Blue Knight, Sir Gareth and the damsel abode that night in his tents. As they sat at table, the Blue Knight said: "Fair damsel, are ye not called Linet?" "Yes," answered she, "and I am taking this noble knight to the relief of my sister, the Lady Liones." "God speed you, Sir," said the Blue Knight, "for he is a stout knight whom ye must meet. Long ago might he have taken the lady, but that he hoped that Sir Launcelot or some other of Arthur's most famous knights, coming to her rescue, might fall beneath his lance. If ye overthrow him, then are ye the peer of Sir Launcelot and Sir Tristram." "Sir Knight," answered Gareth, "I can but strive to bear me worthily as one whom the great Sir Launcelot made knight." So in the morning they bade farewell to the Blue Knight, who vowed to carry to King Arthur word of all that Gareth had achieved; and they rode on, till, in the evening, they came to a little ruined hermitage where there awaited them a dwarf, sent by the Lady Liones, with all manner of meats and other store. In the morning, the dwarf set out again to bear word to his lady that her rescuer was come. As he drew near the castle, the Red Knight stopped him, demanding whence he came. "Sir," said the dwarf, "I have been with my lady's sister, who brings with her a knight to the rescue of my lady." "It is lost labour," said the Red Knight; "even though she brought Launcelot or Tristram, I hold myself a match for them." "He is none of these," said the dwarf, "but he has overthrown the knights who kept the ford, and the Blue Knight yielded to him." "Let him come," said the Red Knight; "I shall soon make an end of him, and a shameful death shall he have at my hands, as many a better knight has had." So saying, he let the dwarf go. Presently, there came riding towards the castle Sir Gareth and the damsel Linet, and Gareth marvelled to see hang from the trees some forty knights in goodly armour, their shields reversed beside them. And when he inquired of the damsel, she told him how these were the bodies of brave knights who, coming to the rescue of the Lady Liones, had been overthrown and shamefully done to death by the Red Knight. Then was Gareth shamed and angry, and he vowed to make an end of these evil practices. So at last they drew near to the castle walls, and saw how the plain around was covered with the Red Knight's tents, and the noise was that of a great army. Hard by was a tall sycamore tree, and from it hung a mighty horn, made of an elephant's tusk. Spurring his horse, Gareth rode to it, and blew such a blast that those on the castle walls heard it; the knights came forth from their tents to see who blew so bold a blast, and from a window of the castle the Lady Liones looked forth and waved her hand to her champion. Then, as Sir Gareth made his reverence to the lady, the Red Knight called roughly to him to leave his courtesy and look to himself; "For," said he, "she is mine, and to have her, I have fought many a battle." "It is but vain labour," said Sir Gareth, "since she loves you not. Know, too, Sir Knight, that I have vowed to rescue her from you." "So did many another who now hangs on a tree," replied the Red Knight, "and soon ye shall hang beside them." Then both laid their spears in rest, and spurred their horses. At the first encounter, each smote the other full in the shield, and the girths of the saddles bursting, they were borne to the earth, where they lay for awhile as if dead. But presently they rose, and setting their shields before them, rushed upon each other with their swords, cutting and hacking till the armour lay on the ground in fragments. So they fought till noon and then rested; but soon they renewed the battle, and so furiously they fought, that often they fell to the ground together. Then, when the bells sounded for evensong, the knights rested again a while, unlacing their helms to breathe the evening air. But looking up to the castle windows, Gareth saw the Lady Liones gazing earnestly upon him; then he caught up his helmet, and calling to the Red Knight, bade him make ready for the battle; "And this time," said he, "we will make an end of it." "So be it," said the Red Knight. Then the Red Knight smote Gareth on the hand that his sword flew from his grasp, and with another blow he brought him grovelling to the earth. At the sight of this, Linet cried aloud, and hearing her, Gareth, with a mighty effort, threw off the Red Knight, leaped to his sword and got it again within his hand. Then he pressed the Red Knight harder than ever, and at the last bore him to the earth, and unlacing his helm, made ready to slay him; but the Red Knight cried aloud: "Mercy; I yield." At first, remembering the evil deaths of the forty good knights, Gareth was unwilling to spare him; but the Red Knight besought him to have mercy, telling him how, against his will, he had been bound by a vow to make war on Arthur's knights. So Sir Gareth relented, and bade him set forth at once for Kink Kenadon and entreat the King's pardon for his evil past. And this the Red Knight promised to do. Then amidst much rejoicing, Sir Gareth was borne into the castle. There his wounds were dressed by the Lady Liones, and there he rested until he recovered his strength. And having won her love, when Gareth returned to Arthur's court, the Lady Liones rode with him, and they two were wed with great pomp in the presence of the whole Fellowship of the Round Table; the King rejoicing much that his nephew had done so valiantly. So Sir Gareth lived happily with Dame Liones, winning fame and the love of all true knights. As for Linet, she came again to Arthur's court and wedded Sir Gareth's younger brother, Sir Gaheris. BOOK V SIR GERAINT CHAPTER XIX THE ADVENTURES OF GERAINT It befell, one Whitsunday, that Arthur was holding his court at Caerleon, when word was brought to him of a splendid white stag that ranged the Forest of Dean, and forthwith the King proclaimed a hunt for the morrow. So, with the dawn, there was much trampling of hoofs and baying of hounds as all the knights got to horse; but Queen Guenevere herself, though she had said she would ride with the hunt, slept late, and when she called her maidens to her, it was broad day. Then, with much haste, she arrayed herself, and taking one of her ladies with her, rode to a little rising ground in the forest, near which, as she well knew, the hunt must pass. Presently, as she waited, there came riding by the gallant knight, Geraint of Devon. He was arrayed neither for the chase nor for the fight, but wore a surcoat of white satin and about him a loose scarf of purple, with a golden apple at each corner. And when the Queen had answered his salutation, she said: "How is it, Prince, that ye be not ridden with the hunters?" "Madam," answered he, "with shame I say it; I slept too late." Smiling, the Queen said: "Then are we both in the same case, for I also arose too late. But tarry with me, and soon ye will hear the baying of the hounds; for often I have known them break covert here." Then as they waited on the little woodland knoll, there came riding past a knight full armed, a lady with him, and behind them a dwarf, misshapen and evil-looking, and they passed without word or salutation to the Queen. Then said Guenevere to Geraint: "Prince, know ye yonder knight?" "Nay, madam," said he; "his arms I know not, and his face I might not see." Thereupon the Queen turned to her attendant and said: "Ride after them quickly and ask the dwarf his master's name." So the maiden did as she was bidden; but when she inquired of the dwarf, he answered her roughly: "I will not tell thee my master's name." "Since thou art so churlish," said she, "I will even ask him himself." "That thou shalt not," he cried, and struck her across the face with his whip. So the maiden, alarmed and angered, rode back to the Queen and told her all that had happened. "Madam," cried Geraint, "the churl has wronged your maiden and insulted your person. I pray you, suffer me to do your errand myself." With the word, he put spurs to his horse and rode after the three. And when he had come up with the dwarf, he asked the knight's name as the maiden had done, and the dwarf answered him as he had answered the Queen's lady. "I will speak with thy master himself," said Geraint. "Thou shalt not, by my faith!" said the dwarf. "Thou art not honourable enough to speak with my lord." "I have spoken with men of as good rank as he," answered Geraint, and would have turned his horse's head that he might ride after the knight; but the dwarf struck him across the face such a blow that the blood spurted forth over his purple scarf. Then, in his wrath, Geraint clapped hand to sword, and would have slain the churl, but that he bethought him how powerless was such a misshapen thing. So refraining himself, he rode back to the Queen and said: "Madam, for the time the knight has escaped me. But, with your leave, I will ride after him, and require of him satisfaction for the wrong done to yourself and to your maiden. It must be that I shall come presently to a town where I may obtain armour. Farewell; if I live, ye shall have tidings of me by next even." "Farewell," said the Queen; "I shall ever hold your good service in remembrance." So Geraint rode forth on his quest, and followed the road to the ford of the Usk, where he crossed, and then went on his way until he came to a town, at the further end of which rose a mighty castle. And as he entered the town, he saw the knight and the lady, and how, as they rode through the streets, from every window the folk craned their necks to see them pass, until they entered the castle and the gate fell behind them. Then was Geraint satisfied that they would not pass thence that night, and turned him about to see where he could obtain the use of arms that, the next day, he might call the knight to account. Now it seemed that the whole town was in a ferment. In every house, men were busy polishing shields, sharpening swords, and washing armour, and scarce could they find time to answer questions put to them; so at the last, finding nowhere in the town to rest, Geraint rode in the direction of a ruined palace, which stood a little apart from the town, and was reached by a marble bridge spanning a deep ravine. Seated on the bridge was an old man, hoary-headed, and clothed in the tattered remains of what had once been splendid attire, who gave Geraint courteous greeting. "Sir," said Geraint, "I pray you, know ye where I may find shelter for this night?" "Come with me," said the old man, "and ye shall have the best my old halls afford." So saying, he led Geraint into a great stone-paved court-yard, surrounded by buildings, once strong fortifications, but then half burned and ruinous. There he bade Geraint dismount, and led the way into an upper chamber, where sat an aged dame, and with her a maiden the fairest that ever Geraint had looked upon, for all that her attire was but a faded robe and veil. Then the old man spoke to the maiden, saying: "Enid, take the good knight's charger to a stall and give him corn. Then go to the town and buy us provision for a feast to-night." Now it pleased not Geraint that the maiden should thus do him service; but when he made to accompany her, the old man, her father, stayed him and kept him in converse until presently she was returned from the town and had made all ready for the evening meal. Then they sat them down to supper, the old man and his wife with Geraint between them; and the fair maid, Enid, waited upon them, though it irked the Prince to see her do such menial service. So as they ate, they talked, and presently Geraint asked of the cause why the palace was all in ruins. "Sir knight," said the old man, "I am Yniol, and once I was lord of a broad earldom. But my nephew, whose guardian I had been, made war upon me, affirming that I had withheld from him his dues; and being the stronger, he prevailed, and seized my lands and burnt my halls, even as ye see. For the townsfolk hold with him, because that, with his tournaments and feastings, he brings many strangers their way." "What then is all the stir in the town even now?" asked Geraint. "To-morrow," said the Earl, "they hold the tournament of the Sparrow-Hawk. In the midst of the meadow are set up two forks, and on the forks a silver rod, and on the rod the form of a Sparrow-Hawk. Two years has it been won by the stout knight Edeyrn, and if he win it the morrow, it shall be his for aye, and he himself known as the Sparrow-Hawk." "Tell me," cried Geraint, "is that the knight that rode this day with a lady and a dwarf to the castle hard by?" "The same," said Yniol; "and a bold knight he is." Then Geraint told them of the insult offered that morning to Queen Guenevere and her maiden, and how he had ridden forth to obtain satisfaction. "And now, I pray you," said Geraint, "help me to come by some arms, and in to-morrow's lists will I call this Sparrow-Hawk to account." "Arms have I," answered the Earl, "old and rusty indeed, yet at your service. But, Sir Knight, ye may not appear in to-morrow's tournament, for none may contend unless he bring with him a lady in whose honour he jousts." Then cried Geraint: "Lord Earl, suffer me to lay lance in rest in honour of the fair maiden, your daughter. And if I fall to-morrow, no harm shall have been done her, and if I win, I will love her my life long, and make her my true wife." Now Enid, her service ended, had left them to their talk; but the Earl, rejoicing that so noble a knight should seek his daughter's love, promised that, with the maiden's consent, all should be as the Prince desired. So they retired to rest that night, and the next day at dawn, Geraint arose, and, donning the rusty old armour lent him by Earl Yniol, rode to the lists; and there amongst the humbler sort of onlookers, he found the old Earl and his wife and with them their fair daughter. Then the heralds blew their trumpets, and Edeyrn bade his lady-love take the Sparrow-Hawk, her due as fairest of the fair. "Forbear," cried Geraint; "here is one fairer and nobler for whom I claim the prize of the tournament." "Do battle for it, then!" cried Edeyrn. So the two took their lances and rushed upon one another with a crash like thunder, and each broke his spear. Thus they encountered once and again; but at the last Geraint bore down upon Edeyrn with such force that he carried him from his horse, saddle and all. Then he dismounted, and the two rushed upon each other with their swords. Long they fought, the sparks flying and their breath coming hard, till, exerting all his strength, Geraint dealt the other such a blow as cleft his helmet and bit to the bone. Then Edeyrn flung away his sword and yielded him. "Thou shalt have thy life," said Geraint, "upon condition that, forthwith, thou goest to Arthur's court, there to deliver thyself to our Queen, and make such atonement as shall be adjudged thee, for the insult offered her yester morn." "I will do so," answered Edeyrn; and when his wounds had been dressed he got heavily to horse and rode forth to Caerleon. Then the young Earl, Yniol's nephew, adjudged the Sparrow-Hawk to Geraint, as victor in the tourney, and prayed him to come to his castle to rest and feast. But Geraint, declining courteously, said that it behoved him to go there where he had rested the night before. "Where may that have been?" asked the Earl; "for though ye come not to my castle, yet would I see that ye fare as befits your valour." "I rested even with Yniol, your uncle," answered Geraint. The young Earl mused awhile, and then he said: "I will seek you, then, in my uncle's halls, and bring with me the means to furnish forth a feast." And so it was. Scarcely had Prince Geraint returned to the ruined hall and bathed and rested him after his labours, when the young Earl arrived, and with him forty of his followers bearing all manner of stores and plenishings. And that same hour, the young Earl was accorded with Yniol, his uncle, restoring to him the lands of which he had deprived him, and pledging his word to build up again the ruined palace. When they had gone to the banquet, then came to them Enid, attired in beautiful raiment befitting her rank; and the old Earl led her to Geraint, saying: "Prince, here is the maiden for whom ye fought, and freely I bestow her upon you." So Geraint took her hand before them all and said: "She shall ride with me to Caerleon, and there will I wed her before Arthur's court." Then to Enid he said: "Gentle maiden, bear with me when I pray you to don the faded robe and veil in which first I saw you." And Enid, who was ever gentle and meek, did as he desired, and that evening they rode to Caerleon. So when they drew near the King's palace, word was brought to Guenevere of their approach. Then the Queen went forth to greet the good knight, and when she had heard all his story, she kissed the maiden, and leading her into her own chamber, arrayed her right royally for her marriage with the Prince. And that evening they were wed amidst great rejoicing, in the presence of all the knights and ladies of the court, the King himself giving Enid to her husband. Many happy days they spent at Caerleon, rejoicing in the love and good-will of Arthur and his Queen. CHAPTER XX GERAINT AND ENID Geraint and the fair Enid abode more than a year at Arthur's court; Enid winning daily more and more the love of all by her gentleness and goodness, and Geraint being ever amongst the foremost in the tournament. But presently there came word of robber raids upon the borders of Devon; wherefore the Prince craved leave of Arthur to return to his own land, there to put down wrong and oppression, and maintain order and justice. And the King bade him go and secure to every man his due. So Geraint passed to his own land, Enid going with him; and soon he had driven the oppressors from their strongholds and established peace and order, so that the poor man dwelt in his little cot secure in his possessions. But when all was done, and there was none dared defy him, Geraint abode at home, neglectful of the tournament and the chase, and all those manly exercises in which he had once excelled, content if he had but the companionship of his wife; so that his nobles murmured because he withdrew himself from their society, and the common people jeered at him for a laggard. Now these evil rumours came to Enid's ears, and it grieved her that she should be the cause, however unwillingly, of her husband's dishonour; and since she could not bring herself to speak to her lord of what was in her heart, daily she grew more sorrowful, till the Prince, aware of her altered demeanour, became uneasy, not knowing its source. So time went by till it chanced, one summer morning, that with the first rays of the sun, Enid awoke from her slumbers, and, rising, gazed upon her husband as he lay, and marvelled at his strength. "Alas!" said she, "to be the cause that my lord suffers shame! Surely I should find courage to tell him all, were I indeed true wife to him!" Then, by ill chance, her tears falling upon him awoke him, so that he heard her words, but brokenly, and seeing her weep and hearing her accuse herself, it came into his thought that, for all his love and care for her, she was weary of him, nay, even that perhaps she loved him not at all. In anger and grief he called to his squire and bade him saddle his charger and a palfrey for Enid; and to her he said: "Put on thy meanest attire, and thou shalt ride with me into the wilderness. It seems that I have yet to win me fame; but before thou seest home again, thou shalt learn if indeed I am fallen so low as thou deemest." And Enid, wondering and troubled, answered, "I know naught of thy meaning, my lord." "Ask me nothing," said Geraint. So sorrowfully and in silence Enid arrayed herself, choosing for her apparel the faded robe and veil in which first her lord had seen her. Then the squire brought them their horses; but when he would have mounted and ridden after, Geraint forbade him. And to Enid the Prince said: "Ride before me and turn not back, no matter what thou seest or hearest. And unless I speak to thee, say not a word to me." So they rode forward along the least frequented road till they came to a vast forest, which they entered. There Enid, as she rode in front, saw four armed men lurking by the road, and one said to the other: "See, now is our opportunity to win much spoil at little cost; for we may easily overcome this doleful knight, and take from him his arms and lady." And Enid hearing them, was filled with fear and doubt; for she longed to warn her lord of his danger, yet feared to arouse his wrath, seeing he had bidden her keep silence. Then said she to herself: "Better to anger him, even to the slaying of me, than have the misery of seeing him perish." So she waited till Geraint drew near, and said: "Lord, there lie in wait for thee four men fully armed, to slay and rob thee." Then he answered her in anger: "Did I desire thy silence or thy warning? Look, then, and whether thou desirest my life or my death, thou shalt see that I dread not these robbers." Then, as the foremost of the four rode upon him, Geraint drove upon him with his spear with such force that the weapon stood out a cubit behind him; and so he did with the second, and the third, and the fourth. Then, dismounting from his horse, he stripped the dead felons of their armour, bound it upon their horses, and tying the bridle reins together, bade Enid drive the beasts before her. "And," said he, "I charge thee, at thy peril, speak no word to me." So they went forward; and presently Enid saw how three horsemen, well armed and well mounted, rode towards them. And one said to the other: "Good fortune, indeed! Here are four horses and four suits of armour for us, and but one knight to deal with; a craven too, by the way he hangs his head." Then Enid thought within herself how her lord was wearied with his former combat, and resolved to warn him even at her own peril. So she waited till he was come up with her, and said: "Lord, there be three men riding towards us, and they promise themselves rich booty at small cost." Wrathfully spoke Geraint: "Their words anger me less than thy disobedience"; and immediately rushing upon the mid-most of the three knights, he bore him from his horse; then he turned upon the other two who rode against him at the same moment, and slew them both. As with the former caitiffs, so now Geraint stripped the three of their armour, bound it upon the horses, and bade Enid drive these forward with the other four. Again they rode on their way, and, for all his anger, it smote Geraint to the heart to see the gentle lady labouring to drive forward the seven horses. So he bade her stay, for they would go no farther then, but rest that night as best they might in the forest; and scarcely had they dismounted and tethered the horses before Geraint, wearied with his encounters, fell asleep; but Enid remained watching, lest harm should come to her lord while he slept. With the first ray of light, Geraint awoke, and his anger against Enid was not passed; so, without more ado, he set her on her palfrey and bade her drive the horses on in front as before, charging her that, whatever befell, that day at least, she should keep silence. Soon they passed from the forest into open land, and came upon a river flowing through broad meadows where the mowers toiled. Then, as they waited to let the horses drink their fill, there drew near a youth, bearing a basket of bread and meat and a blue pitcher covered over with a bowl. So when the youth saluted them, Geraint stayed him, asking whence he came. "My lord," said the lad, "I am come from the town hard by, to bring the mowers their breakfast." "I pray thee, then," said the Prince, "give of the food to this lady, for she is faint." "That will I gladly," answered the youth, "and do ye also partake, noble sir"; and he spread the meal for them on the grass while they dismounted. So when they had eaten and were refreshed, the youth gathered up the basket and pitcher, saying he would return to the town for food for the mowers. "Do so," said the Prince, "and when thou art come there, take for me the best lodging that thou mayst. And for thy fair service, take a horse and armour, whichsoever thou wilt." "My lord, ye reward me far beyond my deserts," cried the youth. "Right gladly will I make all ready against your arrival, and acquaint my master, the Earl, of your coming." So Geraint and Enid followed after the youth to the town, and there they found everything prepared for their comfort, even as he had promised; for they were lodged in a goodly chamber well furnished with all that they might require. Then said Geraint to Enid: "Abide at one end of the room and I will remain at the other. And call the woman of the house if thou desirest her aid and comfort in aught." "I thank thee, lord," answered Enid patiently; but she called for no service, remaining silent and forlorn in the farthest corner of the great chamber. Presently there came to the house the Earl, the youth's master, and with him twelve goodly knights to wait upon him. And Geraint welcomed them right heartily, bidding the host bring forth his best to furnish a feast. So they sat them down at the table, each in his degree according to his rank, and feasted long and merrily; but Enid remained the while shrinking into her corner if perchance she might escape all notice. As they sat at the banquet, the Earl asked Prince Geraint what quest he followed. "None but mine own inclination and the adventure it may please heaven to send," said Geraint. Then the Earl, whose eye had oft sought Enid as she sat apart, said: "Have I your good leave to cross the room and speak to your fair damsel? For she joins us not in the feast." "Ye have it freely," answered the Prince. So the Earl arose, and approaching Enid, bowed before her, and spoke to her in low tones, saying: "Damsel, sad life is yours, I fear, to journey with yonder man." "To travel the road he takes is pleasant enough to me," answered Enid. "But see what slights he puts upon you! To suffer you to journey thus, unattended by page or maiden, argues but little love or reverence for you." "It is as nothing, so that I am with him," said Enid. "Nay, but," said the Earl, "see how much happier a life might be yours. Leave this churl, who values you not, and all that I have, land and riches, and my love and service for ever shall be yours." "Ye cannot tempt me, with aught that ye can offer, to be false to him to whom I vowed my faith," said she. "Ye are a fool!" said the Earl in a fierce whisper. "One word to these my knights, and yonder is a dead man. Then who shall hinder me that I take you by force? Nay, now, be better advised, and I vow you my whole devotion for all time." Then was Enid filled with dread of the man and his might, and seeking but to gain time, she said: "Suffer me to be for this present, my lord, and to-morrow ye shall come and take me as by force. Then shall my name not suffer loss." "So be it," said he; "I will not fail you." With that he left her, and taking his leave of Geraint, departed with his followers. Never a word of what the Earl had said did Enid tell her husband that night; and on the departure of his guests, the Prince, unheedful of her, flung him on the couch, and soon slept, despite his grief and wrath. But Enid watched again that night, and, before cock-crow, arose, set all his armour ready in one place, and then, though fearful of his wrath, stepped to his side and touching him gently, said: "Awake, my lord, and arm you, and save me and yourself." Then she told him of all the Earl had said and of the device she had used to save them both. Then wrathfully he rose and armed himself, bidding her rouse the host to saddle and bring forth the horses. When all was ready, Prince Geraint asked the man his reckoning. "Ye owe but little," said the host. "Take then the seven horses and the suits of armour," said Geraint. "Why, noble sir," cried the host, "I scarce have spent the value of one." "The richer thou," answered Geraint. "Now show me the road from the town." So the man guided them from the town, and scarce was he returned when Earl Durm--for so was the Earl named--hammered at the door, with forty followers at his back. "Where is the knight who was here erewhile?" "He is gone hence, my lord," answered the host. "Fool and villain!" cried the Earl, "why didst thou suffer him to escape? Which way went he?" And the man, fearful and trembling, directed the Earl the road Geraint had gone. So it came to pass, as they rode on their way, Enid in front, the Prince behind, that it seemed to Enid she heard the beat of many horse-hoofs. And, as before, she broke Geraint's command, caring little for aught that might befall her in comparison of loss to him. "My lord," said she, "seest thou yonder knight pursuing thee and many another with him?" "Yea, in good truth, I see him," said Geraint, "and I see, too, that never wilt thou obey me." Then he turned him about and, laying lance in rest, bore straight down upon Earl Durm, who foremost rushed upon him; and such was the shock of their encounter, that Earl Durm was borne from his saddle and lay without motion as one dead. And Geraint charged fiercely upon the Earl's men, unhorsing some and wounding others; and the rest, having little heart for the fight after their master's overthrow, turned and fled. Then Geraint signed to Enid to ride on as before, and so they journeyed the space of another hour while the summer sun beat upon them with ever increasing force. Now the Prince had received a grievous hurt in the encounter with Earl Durm and his men; but such was his spirit that he heeded it not, though the wound bled sore under his armour. Presently, as they rode, there came to them the sound of wailing, and by the wayside they saw a lady weeping bitterly over a knight who lay dead on the ground. "Lady," said Geraint, "what has befallen you?" "Noble knight," she replied, "as we rode through the forest, my husband and I, three villains set upon him at once, and slew him." "Which way went they?" asked Geraint. "Straight on by this high-road that ye follow even now," answered she. Then Geraint bade Enid remain with the lady while he rode on to take vengeance on the miscreants. And Enid waited fearfully the long while he was gone, and her heart rejoiced when she saw him returning. But soon her joy was turned to sorrow, for his armour was all dented and covered with blood and his face ghastly; and even as he reached her side, he fell from his horse, prone on the ground. Then Enid strove to loosen his armour, and having found the wound, she staunched it as best she might and bound it with her veil. And taking his head on her lap, she chafed his hands and tried with her own body to shield him from the sun, her tears falling fast the while. So she waited till, perchance, help might come that way; and presently, indeed, she heard the tramp of horses, and a troop came riding by with the Earl Limours at their head. And when the Earl saw the two fallen knights and the weeping women beside them, he stayed his horse, and said: "Ladies, what has chanced to you?" Then she whose husband had been slain said: "Sir, three caitiffs set on my husband at once and slew him. Then came this good knight and went in pursuit of them, and as I think, slew them; but when he came back, he fell from his horse, sore wounded as ye see, and, I fear me, by now he is dead." "Nay, gentle sir," cried Enid; "it cannot be that he is dead. Only, I beseech you, suffer two of your men to carry him hence to some place of shelter where he may have help and tendance." "I misdoubt me, it is but labour wasted," said the Earl; "nevertheless, for the sake of your fair face, it shall be as ye desire." Then he ordered two of his men to carry Geraint to his halls and two more to stay behind and bury the dead knight, while he caused the two women to be placed on led horses; and so they rode to his castle. When they were arrived there, the two spearmen who had carried Geraint, placed him on a settle in the hall, and Enid crouched by his side, striving if by any means she might bring him back to life. And gradually Geraint recovered, though still he lay as in a swoon, hearing indeed what passed around him, but dimly, as from a distance. Soon there came into the hall many servitors, who brought forth the tables and set thereon all manner of meats, haunches of venison and boars' heads and great pasties, together with huge flagons of wine. Then when all was set, there came trooping to the board the whole company of Earl Limours' retainers; last of all came the Earl himself and took his place on the raised dais. Suddenly, as he feasted and made merry, he espied Enid, who, mistrusting him utterly, would fain have escaped his eye. And when he saw her, he cried: "Lady, cease wasting sorrow on a dead man and come hither. Thou shalt have a seat by my side; ay, and myself, too, and my Earldom to boot." "I thank you, lord," she answered meekly, "but, I pray you, suffer me to be as I am." "Thou art a fool," said Limours; "little enough he prized thee, I warrant, else had he not put thy beauty to such scorn, dressing it in faded rags! Nay, be wise; eat and drink, and thou wilt think the better of me and my fair proffer." "I will not," cried Enid; "I will neither eat nor drink, till my lord arise and eat with me." "Thou vowest more than thou canst perform. He is dead already. Nay, thou shalt drink." With the word, he strode to her and thrust into her hand a goblet brimming with wine, crying, "Drink." "Nay, lord," she said, "I beseech you, spare me and be pitiful." "Gentleness avails nothing with thee," cried the Earl in wrath; "thou hast scorned my fair courtesy. Thou shalt taste the contrary." So saying, he smote her across the face. Then Enid, knowing all her helplessness, uttered an exceeding bitter cry, and the sound roused Geraint. Grasping his sword, with one bound he was upon the Earl and, with one blow, shore his neck in two. Then those who sat at meat fled shrieking, for they believed that the dead had come to life. But Geraint gazed upon Enid and his heart smote him, thinking of the sorrow he had brought upon her. "Lady and sweet wife," he cried, "for the wrong I have done thee, pardon me. For, hearing thy words not three days since at morn, I doubted thy love and thy loyalty. But now I know thee and trust thee beyond the power of words to shake my faith." "Ah! my lord," cried Enid, "fly, lest they return and slay thee." "Knowest thou where is my charger?" "I will bring thee to it." So they found the war-horse and Geraint mounted it, setting Enid behind him; thus they went forth in the direction of the nearest town, that they might find rest and succour. Then, as they rode, there came forth from a glade of the forest a knight, who, seeing Geraint, at once laid lance in rest as if he would ride upon him. And Enid, fearing for her husband, shrieked aloud, crying: "Noble knight, whosoever ye be, encounter not with a man nigh wounded to the death." Immediately the knight raised his lance and looking more attentively upon, them, he exclaimed: "What! is it Prince Geraint? Pardon me, noble knight, that I knew you not at once. I am that Edeyrn whom once ye overthrew and spared. At Arthur's court, whither ye sent me, I was shown kindness and courtesy little deserved, and now am I knight of Arthur's Round Table. But how came ye in such a case?" Then Geraint told him of his encounter with the three caitiffs, and how he had afterwards been borne to the castle of Earl Limours. "To do justice on that same felon is Arthur himself here even now," cried Edeyrn. "His camp is hard by." Then Geraint told Edeyrn how Limours lay dead in his own halls, justly punished for the many wrongs he had done, and how his people were scattered. "Come then yourself to greet the King and tell him what has chanced." So he led the way to Arthur's camp, where it lay in the forest hard by. Then were they welcomed by the King himself and a tent assigned to them, where Geraint rested until his wounds were healed. Never again, from that time forth, had Geraint a doubt of the love and truth of Enid; and never from that time had she to mourn that he seemed to set small store by his knightly fame. For after he was cured, they returned to their own land, and there Geraint upheld the King's justice, righting wrong and putting down robbery and oppression, so that the people blessed him and his gentle wife. Year by year, his fame grew, till his name was known through all lands; and at last, when his time was come, he died a knightly death, as he had lived a knightly life, in the service of his lord, King Arthur. BOOK VI THE LADY OF THE FOUNTAIN CHAPTER XXI THE LADY OF THE FOUNTAIN King Arthur was holding his court at Caerleon-upon-Usk, and it was the time of the evening banquet, when there entered the hall the good knight, Sir Kynon. A brave warrior was he, and of good counsel, but he seemed in weary plight as, after due salutation to all, he took his place at the Round Table. So it was that all were eager to hear of his adventure, yet none would question him until he had eaten and drunk. But when he was refreshed, the King said to him: "Whence come ye, Sir Kynon? For it would seem that ye have met with hard adventure." "Sir King," answered Kynon, "it has been with me as never before; for I have encountered with, and been overthrown by, a single knight." All were filled with wonder at his words, for never before had Sir Kynon been worsted in any meeting, man to man. Then said the King: "The stoutest of us must some time meet his match; yet did ye bear you valiantly, I doubt not. Tell us now, I pray you, of your adventures." "Noble lord," said Kynon, "I had determined to journey into other lands; for I would seek new and untried adventures. So I passed into a far land, and it chanced, one day, that I found myself in the fairest valley I had ever seen. Through it there flowed a mighty river, which I followed, until I came, as evening fell, to a castle, the largest and strongest I have ever seen. At the castle gate I espied a man of right noble mien, who greeted me courteously, and bade me enter. So as we sat at supper, he inquired of my journey and the quest I followed, and I told him how I sought but adventure, and whether, perchance, I might encounter one stronger than myself. Then the lord of the castle smiled and said: 'I can bring you to such an one, if ye would rather that I showed you your disadvantage than your advantage.' And when I questioned him further, he replied: 'Sleep here this night, and to-morrow I will show you such an one as ye seek.' So I rested that night, and with the dawn I rose and took my leave of the lord of the castle, who said to me: 'If ye will persevere in your quest, follow the path to the head of the glade, and ascend the wooded steep until ye come to an open space in the forest, with but one great tree in its midst. Under the tree is a fountain, and beside it a marble slab to which is chained a silver bowl. Take a bowlful of water and dash it upon the slab, and presently there will appear a knight spurring to encounter with you. If ye flee, he will pursue, but if ye overcome him, there exists none in this world whom ye need fear to have ado with.' "Forthwith I departed, and following these directions, I came at last to such a space as he described, with the tree and fountain in its midst. So I took the bowl and dashed water from the fountain upon the marble slab, and, on the instant, came a clap of thunder so loud as near deafened me, and a storm of hailstones the biggest that ever man saw. Scarce was I recovered from my confusion, when I saw a knight galloping towards me. All in black was he, and he rode a black horse. Not a word we spoke, but we dashed against each other, and at the first encounter I was unhorsed. Still not a word spoke the Black Knight, but passing the butt-end of his lance through my horse's reins, rode away, leaving me shamed and on foot. So I made my way back to the castle, and there I was entertained again that night right hospitably, none questioning me as to my adventure. The next morning, when I rose, there awaited me a noble steed, ready saddled and bridled, and I rode away and am returned hither. And now ye know my story and my shame." Then were all grieved for the discomfiture of Sir Kynon, who had ever borne himself boldly and courteously to all; and they strove to console him as best they might. Presently there rose from his siege the good knight Sir Owain of Rheged, and said: "My lord, I pray you, give me leave to take upon me this adventure. For I would gladly seek this wondrous fountain and encounter with this same Black Knight." So the King consented, and on the morrow Sir Owain armed him, mounted his horse, and rode forth the way Sir Kynon had directed him. So he journeyed many a day until at last he reached the valley of which Sir Kynon had told, and presently he came to the strong castle and, at the gate, met the lord thereof, even as Sir Kynon had done. And the lord of the castle gave him a hearty welcome and made him good cheer, asking nothing of his errand till they were seated about the board. Then, when questioned, Sir Owain declared his quest, that he sought the knight who guarded the fountain. So the lord of the castle, failing to dissuade Sir Owain from the adventure, directed him how he might find the forest glade wherein was the wondrous fountain. With the dawn, Sir Owain rose, mounted his horse, and rode forward until he had found the fountain. Then he dashed water on the marble slab and instantly there burst over him the fearful hailstorm, and through it there came pricking towards him the Black Knight on the black steed. In the first onset, they broke their lances and then, drawing sword, they fought blade to blade. Sore was the contest, but at the last Owain dealt the Black Knight so fierce a blow that the sword cut through helmet and bone to the very brain. Then the Black Knight knew that he had got his death-wound, and turning his horse's head, fled as fast as he might, Sir Owain following close behind. So they came, fast galloping, to the gate of a mighty castle, and instantly the portcullis was raised and the Black Knight dashed through the gateway. But Sir Owain, following close behind, found himself a prisoner, fast caught between two gates; for as the Black Knight passed through the inner of the two gates, it was closed before Sir Owain could follow. For the moment none noticed Sir Owain, for all were busied about the Black Knight, who drew not rein till he was come to the castle hall; then as he strove to dismount, he fell from his saddle, dead. All this Sir Owain saw through the bars of the gate that held him prisoner; and he judged that his time was come, for he doubted not but that the people of the castle would hold his life forfeit for the death of their lord. So as he waited, suddenly there stood at his side a fair damsel, who, laying finger on lip, motioned to him to follow her. Much wondering, he obeyed, and climbed after her up a dark winding staircase, that led from the gateway into a tiny chamber high in the tower. There she set food and wine before him, bidding him eat; then when he was refreshed, she asked him his name and whence he came. "Truly," answered he, "I am Owain of Rheged, knight of King Arthur's Round Table, who, in fair fight, have wounded, I doubt not to the death, the Black Knight that guards the fountain and, as I suppose, the lord of this castle. Wherefore, maiden, if ye intend me evil, lead me where I may answer for my deed, boldly, man to man." "Nay," answered the damsel eagerly, "in a good hour ye are come. Well I know your name, for even here have we heard of your mighty deeds; and by good fortune it may be that ye shall release my lady." "Who is your lady?" asked Sir Owain. "None other than the rightful Chatelaine of this castle and Countess of broad lands besides; but this year and more has the Black Knight held her prisoner in her own halls because she would not listen to his suit." "Then lead me to your lady forthwith," cried Sir Owain; "right gladly will I take her quarrel upon me if there be any that will oppose me." So she led him to the Countess' bower, and there he made him known to the fair lady and proffered her his services. And she that had long deemed there was no deliverance for her, accepted them right gladly. So taking her by the hand, he led her down to the hall, and there, standing at the door, he proclaimed her the lawful lady of that castle and all its lands, and himself ready to do battle in her cause. But none answered his challenge, for those that had held with the Black Knight, deprived of their leader, had lost heart, whereas they that for their loyalty to their lady had been held in subjection, gathered fast about Sir Owain, ready to do battle. So in short space, Sir Owain drove forth the lawless invaders of the Countess' lands, and called together her vassals that they might do homage to her anew. Thus he abode in the castle many days, seeking in all that he might to do her service, until through all her lands order was restored, and her right acknowledged. But when all was done, Sir Owain yet tarried in the lady's castle; for he loved her much, but doubted ever of her favour. So one day, Luned, the damsel who had come to his aid on the day that he slew the Black Knight, said to him: "Alas! Sir Knight, the time must come when ye will leave us. And who will then defend my lady's fountain, which is the key to all her lands? For who holds the fountain, holds the land also." "I will never fail your lady while there is breath in my body," cried Sir Owain. "Then were it well that ye stayed here ever," answered Luned. "Gladly would I," answered Sir Owain, "if that I might." "Ye might find a way if your wits were as sharp as your sword," she answered, and laughing, left him, but herself sought her lady. Long he pondered her words, and he was still deep in thought, when there came to him the Countess, and said: "Sir Knight, I hear that ye must leave us." "Nay, my lady," answered Sir Owain, "I will stay as long as ye require my services." "There must ever be one to guard the fountain, and he who guards the fountain, is lord of these lands," answered the lady softly. Then Sir Owain found words at last, and bending the knee, he said: "Lady, if ye love me, I will stay and guard you and your lands; and if ye love me not, I will go into my own country, and yet will I come again whensoever ye have need of me. For never loved I any but you." Then the Countess bade him stay, and calling her vassals together, she commanded all to do homage to him, and took him for her husband in presence of them all. Thus Sir Owain won the Lady of the Fountain. BOOK VII SIR PEREDUR CHAPTER XXII THE ADVENTURES OF SIR PEREDUR At one time there was in the North of Britain a great Earl named Evrawc. A stout knight he was, and few were the tournaments at which he was not to be found in company with six of his sons; the seventh only, who was too young to bear arms, remaining at home with his mother. But at the last, after he had won the prize at many a tourney, Earl Evrawc was slain, and his six sons with him; and then the Countess fled with Peredur, her youngest, to a lonely spot in the midst of a forest, far from the dwellings of men; for she was minded to bring him up where he might never hear of jousts and feats of arms, that so at least one son might be left to her. So Peredur was reared amongst women and decrepit old men, and even these were strictly commanded never to tell the boy aught of the great world beyond the forest, or what men did therein. None the less, he grew up active and fearless, as nimble and sure-footed as the goats, and patient of much toil. Then, one day, when Peredur was grown a tall, strong youth, there chanced what had never chanced before; for there came riding through the forest, hard by where Peredur dwelt with his mother, a knight in full armour, none other, indeed, than the good knight, Sir Owain himself. And seeing him, Peredur cried out: "Mother, what is that, yonder?" "An angel, my son," said his mother. "Then will I go and become an angel with him," said Peredur; and before any one could stay him, he was gone. When Sir Owain saw him approaching, he reined in his horse, and after courteous salutation, said: "I pray thee, fair youth, tell me, hast thou seen a knight pass this way?" "I know not what a knight may be," answered Peredur. "Why, even such an one as I," answered Sir Owain. "If ye will tell me what I ask you, I will tell you what ye ask me," said Peredur; and when Owain, laughing, consented, Peredur touched the saddle, demanding, "What is this?" "Surely, a saddle," replied Sir Owain; and, in like manner, Peredur asked him of all the parts of his armour, and Owain answered him patiently and courteously. Then when he had ended his questions, Peredur said: "Ride forward; for yesterday I saw from a distance such an one as ye are, ride through the forest." Sir Peredur returned to his mother, and exclaimed: "Mother, that was no angel, but a noble knight"; and hearing his words, his mother fell into a swoon. But Peredur hastened to the spot where were tethered the horses that brought them firewood and food from afar, and from them he chose a bony piebald, which seemed the strongest and in the best condition. Then he found a pack and fastened it on the horse's back, in some way to resemble a saddle, and strove with twigs to imitate the trappings he had seen upon Sir Owain's horse. When his preparations were complete, he returned to the Countess, who, by then, was recovered from her swoon; and she saw that all her trouble had been in vain, and that the time was come when she must part with her son. "Thou wilt ride forth, my son?" she asked. "Yea, with your leave," he answered. "Hear, then, my counsel," said she; "go thy way to Arthur's court, for there are the noblest and truest knights. And wheresoever thou seest a church, fail not to say thy prayers, and whatsoever woman demands thy aid, refuse her not." So, bidding his mother farewell, Peredur mounted his horse, and took in his hand a long, sharp-pointed stake. He journeyed many days till, at last, he had come to Caerleon, where Arthur held his court, and dismounting at the door, he entered the hall. Even as he did so, a stranger knight, who had passed in before him, seized a goblet and, dashing the wine in the face of Queen Guenevere, held the goblet aloft and cried: "If any dare dispute this goblet with me or venture to avenge the insult done to Arthur's Queen, let him follow me to the meadow without, where I will await him." And for sheer amazement at this insolence, none moved save Peredur, who cried aloud: "I will seek out this man and do vengeance upon him." Then a voice exclaimed: "Welcome, goodly Peredur, thou flower of knighthood"; and all turned in surprise to look upon a little misshapen dwarf, who, a year before, had craved and obtained shelter in Arthur's court, and since then had spoken no word. But Kay the Seneschal, in anger that a mere boy, and one so strangely equipped as Peredur, should have taken up the Queen's quarrel when proven knights had remained mute, struck the dwarf, crying: "Thou art ill-bred to remain mute a year in Arthur's court, and then to break silence in praise of such a fellow." Then Peredur, who saw the blow, cried, as he left the hall: "Knight, hereafter ye shall answer to me for that blow." Therewith, he mounted his piebald and rode in haste to the meadow. And when the knight espied him, he cried to him: "Tell me, youth, saw'st thou any coming after me from the court?" "I am come myself," said Peredur. "Hold thy peace," answered the knight angrily, "and go back to the court and say that, unless one comes in haste, I will not tarry, but will ride away, holding them all shamed." "By my faith," said Peredur, "willingly or unwillingly, thou shalt answer to me for thine insolence; and I will have the goblet of thee, ay, and thy horse and armour to boot." With that, in a rage, the knight struck Peredur a violent blow between the neck and the shoulder with the butt-end of his lance. "So!" cried Peredur, "not thus did my mother's servants play with me; and thus will I play with thee"; and drove at him with his pointed stake that it entered the eye of the knight, who forthwith fell dead from his horse. Then Peredur dismounted and began wrenching at the fastenings of the dead man's armour, for he saw in the adventure the means of equipping himself as a knight should ride; but knowing not the trick of the fastenings, his efforts were in vain. While he yet struggled, there rode up Sir Owain who had followed in hot haste from the court; and when he saw the fallen knight, he was amazed that a mere lad, unarmed and unskilled in knightly exercises, should thus have prevailed. "Fair youth," said he, "what would ye?" "I would have this knight's iron coat, but I cannot stir it for all my efforts." "Nay, young Sir," said Sir Owain, "leave the dead his arms, and take mine and my horse, which I give you right gladly; and come with me to the King to receive the order of knighthood, for, by my faith, ye have shown yourself worthy of it." "I thank you, noble Sir," answered Peredur, "and gladly I accept your gift; but I will not go with you now. Rather will I seek other adventures and prove me further first; nor will I seek the King's presence until I have encountered with the tall knight that so misused the dwarf, and have called him to account. Only, I pray you, take this goblet to Queen Guenevere, and say to my lord, King Arthur, that, in all places and at all times, I am his true vassal, and will render him such service as I may." Then, with Sir Owain's help, Peredur put on the armour, and mounting his horse, after due salutation, rode on his way. So, for many days, Peredur followed his adventures, and many a knight he met and overthrew. To all he yielded grace, requiring only that they should ride to Caerleon, there to give themselves up to the King's pleasure, and say that Peredur had sent them. At last he came to a fair castle that rose from the shores of a lake, and there he was welcomed by a venerable old man who pressed him to make some stay. So, as they sat at supper, the old man asked Peredur many questions of himself and his adventure, gazing earnestly on him the while; and, at last, he said: "I know thee who thou art. Thou art my sister's son. Stay now with me, and I will teach thee the arts and courtesy and noble bearing of a gentle knight, and give thee the degree when thou art accomplished in all that becomes an honourable knight." Thereto Peredur assented gladly, and remained with his uncle until he had come to a perfect knowledge of chivalry; after that, he received the order of knighthood at the old man's hands, and rode forth again to seek adventures. Presently he came to the city of Caerleon, but though Arthur was there with all his court, Sir Peredur chose to make himself known to none; for he had not yet avenged the dwarf on Sir Kay. Now it chanced, as he walked through the city, he saw at her casement a beautiful maiden whose name was Angharad; and at once he knew that he had seen the damsel whom he must love his life long. So he sought to be acquainted with her, but she scorned him, thinking him but some unproved knight, since he consorted not with those of Arthur's court; and, at last, finding he might in no wise win her favour at that time, he made a vow that never would he speak to Christian man or woman until he had gained her love, and forthwith rode away again. After long journeyings, he came one night to a castle, and, knocking, gained admittance and courteous reception from the lady who owned it. But it seemed to Sir Peredur that there hung over all a gloom, none caring to talk or make merry, though there was no lack of the consideration due to a guest. Then when the evening hour was come, they took their places at the board, Peredur being set at the Countess' right hand; and two nuns entered and placed before the lady a flagon of wine and six white loaves, and that was all the fare. Then the Countess gave largely of the food to Sir Peredur, keeping little for herself and her attendants; but this pleased not the knight, who, heedless of his oath, said: "Lady, permit me to fare as do the others," and he took but a small portion of that which she had given him. Then the Countess, blushing as with shame, said to him: "Sir Knight, if we make you poor cheer, far otherwise is our desire, but we are in sore straits." "Madam," answered Peredur courteously, "for your welcome I thank you heartily; and, I pray you, if there is aught in which a knight may serve you, tell me your trouble." Then the Countess told him how she had been her father's one child, and heir to his broad lands; and how a neighbouring baron had sought her hand; but she, misliking him, had refused his suit, so that his wrath was great. Then, when her father died, he had made war upon her, overrunning all her lands till nothing was left to her but the one castle. Long since, all the provision stored therein was consumed, and she must have yielded her to the oppressor but for the charity of the nuns of a neighbouring monastery, who had secretly supplied her with food when, for fear, her vassals had forsaken her. But that day the nuns had told her that no longer could they aid her, and there was naught left save to submit to the invader. This was the story that, with many tears, the Countess related to Peredur. "Lady," said he, "with your permission, I will take upon me your quarrel, and to-morrow I will seek to encounter this felon." The Countess thanked him heartily and they retired to rest for that night. In the morning betimes, Sir Peredur arose, donned his armour and, seeking the Countess, desired that the portcullis might be raised, for he would sally forth to seek her oppressor. So he rode out from the castle and saw in the morning light a plain covered with the tents of a great host. With him he took a herald to proclaim that he was ready to meet any in fair fight, in the Countess' quarrel. Forthwith, in answer to his challenge, there rode forward the baron himself, a proud and stately knight mounted on a great black horse. The two rushed together, and, at the first encounter, Sir Peredur unhorsed his opponent, bearing him over the crupper with such force that he lay stunned, as one dead. Then, Peredur, drawing his sword, dismounted and stood over the fallen knight, who, when he was recovered a little, asked his mercy. "Gladly will I grant it," answered Peredur, "but on these conditions. Ye shall disband this host, restore to the Countess threefold all of which ye have deprived her, and, finally, ye shall submit yourself unto her as her vassal." All this the baron promised to do, and Peredur remained with the Countess in her castle until she was firmly established in that which was rightfully hers. Then he bade her farewell, promising his aid if ever she should need his services, and so rode forth again. And as he rode, at times he was troubled, thinking on the scorn with which the fair Angharad had treated him, and reproaching himself bitterly for having broken his vow of silence. So he journeyed many days, and at length, one morn, dismounting by a little woodland stream, he stood lost in thought, heedless of his surroundings. Now, as it chanced, Arthur and a company of his knights were encamped hard by; for, returning from an expedition, the King had been told of Peredur and how he had taken upon him the Queen's quarrel, and forthwith had ridden out in search of him. When the King espied Sir Peredur standing near the brook, he said to the knights about him: "Know ye yonder knight?" "I know him not," said Sir Kay, "but I will soon learn his name." So he rode up to Sir Peredur and spoke to him, demanding his name. When Peredur answered not, though questioned more than once, Sir Kay in anger, struck him with the butt-end of his spear. On the instant, Sir Peredur caught him with his lance under the jaw, and, though himself unmounted, hurled Kay from the saddle. Then when Kay returned not, Sir Owain mounted his horse and rode forth to learn what had happened, and by the brook he found Sir Kay sore hurt, and Peredur ready mounted to encounter any who sought a quarrel. But at once Sir Owain recognised Sir Peredur and rejoiced to see him; and when he found Sir Peredur would speak no word, being himself an honourable knight, he thought no evil, but urged him to ride back with him to Arthur's camp. And Sir Peredur, still speaking never a word, went with Sir Owain, and all respected his silence save Kay, who was long healing of the injuries he had received, and whose angry words none heeded. So they returned to Caerleon and soon, through the city, were noised the noble deeds of Sir Peredur, each new-comer bringing some fresh story of his prowess. Then when Angharad learnt how true and famous was the knight whom she had lightly esteemed, she was sore ashamed; and seeing him ever foremost in the tournament and courteous to all in deed, though speaking not a word; she thought that never had there been so noble a knight, or one so worthy of a lady's love. Thus in the winning of her favour, Sir Peredur was released from his vow, and his marriage was celebrated with much pomp before the King and Queen. Long and happily he lived, famed through all Britain as one of the most valiant and faithful knights of King Arthur's Round Table. BOOK VIII THE HOLY GRAIL CHAPTER XXIII THE COMING OF SIR GALAHAD Many times had the Feast of Pentecost come round, and many were the knights that Arthur had made since first he founded the Order of the Round Table; yet no knight had appeared who dared claim the seat named by Merlin the Siege Perilous. At last, one vigil of the great feast, a lady came to Arthur's court at Camelot and asked Sir Launcelot to ride with her into the forest hard by, for a purpose not then to be revealed. Launcelot consenting, they rode together until they came to a nunnery hidden deep in the forest; and there the lady bade Launcelot dismount, and led him into a great and stately room. Presently there entered twelve nuns and with them a youth, the fairest that Launcelot had ever seen. "Sir," said the nuns, "we have brought up this child in our midst, and now that he is grown to manhood, we pray you make him knight, for of none worthier could he receive the honour." "Is this thy own desire?" asked Launcelot of the young squire; and when he said that so it was, Launcelot promised to make him knight after the great festival had been celebrated in the church next day. So on the morrow, after they had worshipped, Launcelot knighted Galahad--for that was the youth's name--and asked him if he would ride at once with him to the King's court; but the young knight excusing himself, Sir Launcelot rode back alone to Camelot, where all rejoiced that he was returned in time to keep the feast with the whole Order of the Round Table. Now, according to his custom, King Arthur was waiting for some marvel to befall before he and his knights sat down to the banquet. Presently a squire entered the hall and said: "Sir King, a great wonder has appeared. There floats on the river a mighty stone, as it were a block of red marble, and it is thrust through by a sword, the hilt of which is set thick with precious stones." On hearing this, the King and all his knights went forth to view the stone and found it as the squire had said; moreover, looking closer, they read these words: "None shall draw me hence, but only he by whose side I must hang; and he shall be the best knight in all the world." Immediately, all bade Launcelot draw forth the sword, but he refused, saying that the sword was not for him. Then, at the King's command, Sir Gawain made the attempt and failed, as did Sir Percivale after him. So the knights knew the adventure was not for them, and returning to the hall, took their places about the Round Table. No sooner were they seated than an aged man, clothed all in white, entered the hall, followed by a young knight in red armour, by whose side hung an empty scabbard. The old man approached King Arthur and bowing low before him, said: "Sir, I bring you a young knight of the house and lineage of Joseph of Arimathea, and through him shall great glory be won for all the land of Britain." Greatly did King Arthur rejoice to hear this, and welcomed the two right royally. Then when the young knight had saluted the King, the old man led him to the Siege Perilous and drew off its silken cover; and all the knights were amazed, for they saw that where had been engraved the words, "The Siege Perilous," was written now in shining gold: "This is the Siege of the noble prince, Sir Galahad." Straightway the young man seated himself there where none other had ever sat without danger to his life; and all who saw it said, one to another: "Surely this is he that shall achieve the Holy Grail." Now the Holy Grail was the blessed dish from which Our Lord had eaten the Last Supper, and it had been brought to the land of Britain by Joseph of Arimathea; but because of men's sinfulness, it had been withdrawn from human sight, only that, from time to time, it appeared to the pure in heart. When all had partaken of the royal banquet, King Arthur bade Sir Galahad come with him to the river's brink; and showing him the floating stone with the sword thrust through it, told him how his knights had failed to draw forth the sword. "Sir," said Galahad, "it is no marvel that they failed, for the adventure was meant for me, as my empty scabbard shows." So saying, lightly he drew the sword from the heart of the stone, and lightly he slid it into the scabbard at his side. While all yet wondered at this adventure of the sword, there came riding to them a lady on a white palfrey who, saluting King Arthur, said: "Sir King, Nacien the hermit sends thee word that this day shall great honour be shown to thee and all thine house; for the Holy Grail shall appear in thy hall, and thou and all thy fellowship shall be fed therefrom." And to Launcelot she said: "Sir Knight, thou hast ever been the best knight of all the world; but another has come to whom thou must yield precedence." Then Launcelot answered humbly: "I know well I was never the best." "Ay, of a truth thou wast and art still, of sinful men," said she, and rode away before any could question her further. So, that evening, when all were gathered about the Round Table, each knight in his own siege, suddenly there was heard a crash of thunder, so mighty that the hall trembled, and there flashed into the hall a sun-beam, brighter far than any that had ever before been seen; and then, draped all in white samite, there glided through the air what none might see, yet what all knew to be the Holy Grail. And all the air was filled with sweet odours, and on every one was shed a light in which he looked fairer and nobler than ever before. So they sat in an amazed silence, till presently King Arthur rose and gave thanks to God for the grace given to him and to his court. Then up sprang Sir Gawain and made his avow to follow for a year and a day the Quest of the Holy Grail, if perchance he might be granted the vision of it. Immediately other of the knights followed his example, binding themselves to the Quest of the Holy Grail until, in all, one hundred and fifty had vowed themselves to the adventure. Then was King Arthur grieved, for he foresaw the ruin of his noble Order. And turning to Sir Gawain, he said: "Nephew ye have done ill, for through you I am bereft of the noblest company of knights that ever brought honour to any realm in Christendom. Well I know that never again shall all of you gather in this hall, and it grieves me to lose men I have loved as my life and through whom I have won peace and righteousness for all my realm." So the King mourned and his knights with him, but their oaths they could not recall. CHAPTER XXIV HOW SIR GALAHAD WON THE RED-CROSS SHIELD Great woe was there in Camelot next day when, after worship in the Cathedral, the knights who had vowed themselves to the Quest of the Holy Grail got to horse and rode away. A goodly company it was that passed through the streets, the townfolk weeping to see them go; Sir Launcelot du Lac and his kin, Sir Galahad of whom all expected great deeds, Sir Bors and Sir Percivale, and many another scarcely less famed than they. So they rode together that day to the Castle of Vagon, where they were entertained right hospitably, and the next day they separated, each to ride his own way and see what adventures should befall him. So it came to pass that, after four days' ride, Sir Galahad reached an abbey. Now Sir Galahad was still clothed in red armour as when he came to the King's court, and by his side hung the wondrous sword; but he was without a shield. They of the abbey received him right heartily, as also did the brave King Bagdemagus, Knight of the Round Table, who was resting there. When they had greeted each other, Sir Galahad asked King Bagdemagus what adventure had brought him there. "Sir," said Bagdemagus, "I was told that in this abbey was preserved a wondrous shield which none but the best knight in the world might bear without grievous harm to himself. And though I know well that there are better knights than I, to-morrow I purpose to make the attempt. But, I pray you, bide at this monastery awhile until you hear from me; and if I fail, do ye take the adventure upon you." "So be it," said Sir Galahad. The next day, at their request, Sir Galahad and King Bagdemagus were led into the church by a monk and shown where, behind the altar, hung the wondrous shield, whiter than snow save for the blood-red cross in its midst. Then the monk warned them of the danger to any who, being unworthy, should dare to bear the shield. But King Bagdemagus made answer: "I know well that I am not the best knight in the world, yet will I try if I may bear it." So he hung it about his neck, and, bidding farewell, rode away with his squire. The two had not journeyed far before they saw a knight approach, armed all in white mail and mounted upon a white horse. Immediately he laid his spear in rest and, charging King Bagdemagus, pierced him through the shoulder and bore him from his horse; and standing over the wounded knight, he said: "Knight, thou hast shown great folly, for none shall bear this shield save the peerless knight, Sir Galahad." Then, taking the shield, he gave it to the squire and said: "Bear this shield to the good Knight Galahad and greet him well from me." "What is your name?" asked the squire, "That is not for thee or any other to know." "One thing, I pray you," said the squire; "why may this shield be borne by none but Sir Galahad without danger?" "Because it belongs to him only," answered the stranger knight, and vanished. Then the squire took the shield and, setting King Bagdemagus on his horse, bore him back to the abbey where he lay long, sick unto death. To Galahad the squire gave the shield and told him all that had befallen. So Galahad hung the shield about his neck and rode the way that Bagdemagus had gone the day before; and presently he met the White Knight, whom he greeted courteously, begging that he would make known to him the marvels of the red-cross shield. "That will I gladly," answered the White Knight. "Ye must know, Sir Knight, that this shield was made and given by Joseph of Arimathea to the good King Evelake of Sarras, that, in the might of the holy symbol, he should overthrow the heathen who threatened his kingdom. But afterwards, King Evelake followed Joseph to this land of Britain where they taught the true faith unto the people who before were heathen. Then when Joseph lay dying, he bade King Evelake set the shield in the monastery where ye lay last night, and foretold that none should wear it without loss until that day when it should be taken by the knight, ninth and last in descent from him, who should come to that place the fifteenth day after receiving the degree of knighthood. Even so has it been with you, Sir Knight." So saying, the unknown knight disappeared and Sir Galahad rode on his way. CHAPTER XXV THE ADVENTURES OF SIR PERCIVALE After he had left his fellows, Sir Percivale rode long through the forest until, one evening, he reached a monastery where he sought shelter for the night. The next morning, he went into the chapel to hear mass and there he espied the body of an old, old man, laid on a richly adorned couch. At first it seemed as if the aged man were dead, but presently, raising himself in his bed, he took off his crown, and, delivering it to the priest, bade him place it on the altar. So when the service was concluded, Sir Percivale asked who the aged king might be. Then he was told that it was none other than King Evelake who accompanied Joseph of Arimathea to Britain. And on a certain occasion, the King had approached the Holy Grail nigher than was reverent and, for his impiety, God had punished him with blindness. Thereupon he repented and, entreating God earnestly, had obtained his petition that he should not die until he had seen the spotless knight who should be descended from him in the ninth degree. (This his desire was fulfilled later when Sir Galahad came thither; after which, he died and was buried by the good knight.) The next day, Sir Percivale continued his journey and presently met with twenty knights who bore on a bier the body of a dead knight. When they espied Sir Percivale, they demanded of him who he was and whence he came. So he told them, whereupon they all shouted, "Slay him! slay him!" and setting upon him all at once, they killed his horse and would have slain him but that the good knight, Sir Galahad, passing that way by chance, came to his rescue and put his assailants to flight. Then Galahad rode away as fast as he might, for he would not be thanked, and Sir Percivale was left, horseless and alone, in the forest. So Sir Percivale continued his journey on foot as well as he might; and ever the way became lonelier, until at last he came to the shores of a vast sea. There Sir Percivale abode many days, without food and desolate, doubting whether he should ever escape thence. At last it chanced that, looking out to sea, Sir Percivale descried a ship and, as it drew nearer, he saw how it was all hung with satin and velvet. Presently, it reached the land and out of it there stepped a lady of marvellous beauty, who asked him how he came there; "For know," said she, "ye are like to die here by hunger or mischance." "He whom I serve will protect me," said Sir Percivale. "I know well whom ye desire most to see," said the lady. "Ye would meet with the Red Knight who bears the red-cross shield." "Ah! lady, I pray you tell me where I may find him," cried Sir Percivale. "With a good will," said the damsel; "if ye will but promise me your service when I shall ask for it, I will lead you to the knight, for I met him of late in the forest." So Sir Percivale promised gladly to serve her when she should need him. Then the lady asked him how long he had fasted. "For three days," answered Sir Percivale. Immediately she gave orders to her attendants forthwith to pitch a tent and set out a table with all manner of delicacies, and of these she invited Sir Percivale to partake. "I pray you, fair lady," said Sir Percivale, "who are ye that show me such kindness?" "Truly," said the lady, "I am but a hapless damsel, driven forth from my inheritance by a great lord whom I have chanced to displease. I implore you, Sir Knight, by your vows of knighthood, to give me your aid." Sir Percivale promised her all the aid he could give, and then she bade him lie down and sleep, and herself took off his helmet, and unclasped his sword-belt. So Sir Percivale slept, and when he waked, there was another feast prepared, and he was given the rarest and the strongest wines that ever he had tasted. Thus they made merry and, when the lady begged Percivale to rest him there awhile, promising him all that ever he could desire if he would vow himself to her service, almost he forgot the quest to which he was vowed, and would have consented, but that his eye fell upon his sword where it lay. Now in the sword-hilt there was set a red cross and, seeing it, Percivale called to mind his vow, and, thinking on it, he signed him with the cross on his forehead. Instantly, the tent was overthrown and vanished in thick smoke; and she who had appeared a lovely woman disappeared from his sight in semblance of a fiend. Then was Sir Percivale sore ashamed that almost he had yielded to the temptings of the Evil One, and earnestly, he prayed that his sin might be forgiven him. Thus he remained in prayer far into the night, bewailing his weakness; and when the dawn appeared, a ship drew nigh the land. Sir Percivale entered into it, but could find no one there; so commending himself to God, he determined to remain thereon, and was borne over the seas for many days, he knew not whither. CHAPTER XXVI THE ADVENTURES OF SIR BORS Among the knights vowed to the Quest of the Holy Grail was Sir Bors, one of the kin of Sir Launcelot, a brave knight and pious. He rode through the forest many a day, making his lodging most often under a leafy tree, though once on his journey he stayed at a castle, that he might do battle for its lady against a felon knight who would have robbed and oppressed her. So, on a day, as he rode through the forest, Sir Bors came to the parting of two ways. While he was considering which he should follow, he espied two knights driving before them a horse on which was stretched, bound and naked, none other than Sir Bors' own brother, Sir Lionel; and, from time to time, the two false knights beat him with thorns so that his body was all smeared with blood, but, so great was his heart, Sir Lionel uttered never a word. Then, in great wrath, Sir Bors laid his lance in rest and would have fought the felon knights to rescue his brother, but that, even as he spurred his horse, there came a bitter cry from the other path and, looking round, he saw a lady being dragged by a knight into the darkest part of the forest where none might find and rescue her. When she saw Sir Bors, she cried to him: "Help me! Sir Knight, help me! I beseech you by your knighthood." Then Sir Bors was much troubled, for he would not desert his brother; but bethinking him that ever a woman must be more helpless than a man, he wheeled his horse, rode upon her captor and beat him to the earth. The damsel thanked him earnestly and told him how the knight was her own cousin, who had that day carried her off by craft from her father's castle. As they talked, there came up twelve knights who had been seeking the lady everywhere; so to their care Sir Bors delivered her, and rode with haste in the direction whither his brother had been borne. On the way, he met with an old man, dressed as a priest, who asked him what he sought. When Sir Bors had told him, "Ah! Bors," said he, "I can give you tidings indeed. Your brother is dead"; and parting the bushes, he showed him the body of a dead man, to all seeming Sir Lionel's self. Then Sir Bors grieved sorely, misdoubting almost whether he should not have rescued his own brother rather than the lady; and at the last, he dug a grave and buried the dead man; after which he rode sorrowfully on his way. When he had ridden many days, he met with a yeoman whom he asked if there were any adventures in those parts. "Sir," said the man, "at the castle; hard by, they hold a great tournament." Sir Bors thanked him and rode along the way pointed out to him; and presently, as he passed a hermitage, whom should he see sitting at its door but his brother, Sir Lionel, whom he had believed dead. Then in great joy, he leaped from his horse, and running to Lionel, cried: "Fair brother, how came ye hither?" "Through no aid of yours," said Sir Lionel angrily; "for ye left me bound and beaten, to ride to the rescue of a maiden. Never was brother so dealt with by brother before. Keep you from me as ye may!" When Sir Bors understood that his brother would slay him, he knelt before him entreating his pardon. Sir Lionel took no heed, but mounting his horse and taking his lance, cried: "Keep you from me, traitor! Fight, or die!" And Sir Bors moved not; for to him it seemed a sin most horrible that brother should fight with brother. Then Sir Lionel, in his rage, rode his horse at him, bore him to the ground and trampled him under the horse's hoofs, till Bors lay beaten to the earth in a swoon. Even so, Sir Lionel's anger was not stayed; for, alighting, he drew his sword and would have smitten off his brother's head, but that the holy hermit, hearing the noise of conflict, ran out of the hermitage and threw himself upon Sir Bors. "Gentle knight," he cried, "have mercy upon him and on thyself; for of the sin of slaying thy brother, thou couldst never be quit." "Sir Priest," said Lionel, "if ye leave him not, I shall slay you too." "It were a lesser sin than to slay thy brother," answered the hermit. "So be it," cried Lionel, and with one blow, struck off the hermit's head. Then he would have worked his evil will upon his brother too, but that, even as he was unlacing Sir Bors' helm to cut off his head, there rode up the good knight Sir Colgrevance, a fellow of the Round Table. When he saw the dead hermit and was aware how Lionel sought the life of Bors, he was amazed, and springing from his horse, ran to Lionel and dragged him back from his brother. "Do ye think to hinder me?" said Sir Lionel. "Let come who will, I will have his life." "Ye shall have to do with me first," cried Colgrevance. Therewith, they took their swords, and, setting their shields before them, rushed upon each other. Now Sir Colgrevance was a good knight, but Sir Lionel was strong and his anger added to his strength. So long they fought that Sir Bors had time to recover from his swoon, and raising himself with pain on his elbow, saw how the two fought for his life; and as it seemed, Sir Lionel would prevail, for Sir Colgrevance grew weak and weary. Sir Bors tried to get to his feet, but, so weak he was, he could not stand; and Sir Colgrevance, seeing him stir, called on him to come to his aid, for he was in mortal peril for his sake. But even as he called, Sir Lionel cut him to the ground and, as one possessed, rushed upon his brother to slay him. Sir Bors entreated him for mercy, and when he would not, sorrowfully he took his sword, saying: "Now, God forgive me, though I defend my life against my brother." Immediately there was heard a voice saying, "Flee, Bors, and touch not thy brother"; and at the same time, a fiery cloud burned between them, so that their shields glowed with the flame, and both knights fell to the earth. But the voice came again, saying, "Bors, leave thy brother and take thy way to the sea. There thou shalt meet Sir Percivale." Then Sir Bors made ready to obey, and, turning to Lionel, said: "Dear brother, I pray you forgive me for aught in which I have wronged you." "I forgive you," said Lionel, for he was too amazed and terrified to keep his anger. So Sir Bors continued his journey, and at the last, coming to the sea shore, he espied a ship, draped all with white samite, and entering thereon, he saw Sir Percivale, and much they rejoiced them in each other's company. CHAPTER XXVII THE ADVENTURES OF SIR LAUNCELOT After Sir Launcelot had parted from his fellows at the Castle of Vagon, he rode many days through the forest without adventure, till he chanced upon a knight close by a little hermitage in the wood. Immediately, as was the wont of errant knights, they prepared to joust, and Launcelot, whom none before had overthrown, was borne down, man and horse, by the stranger knight. Thereupon a nun, who dwelt in the hermitage, cried: "God be with thee, best knight in all this world," for she knew the victor for Sir Galahad. But Galahad, not wishing to be known, rode swiftly away; and presently Sir Launcelot got to horse again and rode slowly on his way, shamed and doubting sorely in his heart whether this quest were meant for him. When night fell, he came to a great stone cross which stood at the parting of the way and close by a little ruined chapel. So Sir Launcelot, being minded to pass the night there, alighted, fastened his horse to a tree and hung his shield on a bough. Then he drew near to the little chapel, and wondered to see how, all ruinous though it was, yet within was an altar hung with silk and a great silver candlestick on it; but when he sought entrance, he could find none and, much troubled in his mind, he returned to his horse where he had left it, and unlacing his helm and ungirding his sword, laid him down to rest. Then it seemed to Sir Launcelot that, as he lay between sleeping and waking, there passed him two white palfreys bearing a litter wherein was a sick knight, who cried: "Sweet Lord, when shall I be pardoned all my transgressions, and when shall the holy vessel come to me, to cure me of my sickness?" And instantly it seemed that the great candlestick came forth of itself from the chapel, floating through the air before a table of silver on which was the Holy Grail. Thereupon the sick knight raised himself, and on his bended knees he approached so nigh that he kissed the holy vessel; and immediately he cried: "I thank Thee, sweet Lord, that I am healed of my sickness." And all the while Sir Launcelot, who saw this wonder, felt himself held that he could not move. Then a squire brought the stranger knight his weapons, in much joy that his lord was cured. "Who think ye that this knight may be who remains sleeping when the holy vessel is so near?" said the knight. "In truth," said the squire, "he must be one that is held by the bond of some great sin. I will take his helm and his sword, for here have I brought you all your armour save only these two." So the knight armed him from head to foot, and taking Sir Launcelot's horse, rode away with his squire. On the instant, Sir Launcelot awoke amazed, not knowing whether he had dreamed or not; but while he wondered, there came a terrible voice, saying: "Launcelot, arise and leave this holy place." In shame, Sir Launcelot turned to obey, only to find horse and sword and shield alike vanished. Then, indeed, he knew himself dishonoured. Weeping bitterly, he made the best of his way on foot, until he came to a cell where a hermit was saying prayer. Sir Launcelot knelt too, and, when all was ended, called to the hermit, entreating him for counsel. "With good will," said the hermit. So Sir Launcelot made himself known and told the hermit all, lamenting how his good fortune was turned to wretchedness and his glory to shame; and truly, the hermit was amazed that Sir Launcelot should be in such case. "Sir," said he, "God has given you manhood and strength beyond all other knights; the more are ye bounden to his service." "I have sinned," said Sir Launcelot; "for in all these years of my knighthood, I have done everything for the honour and glory of my lady and naught for my Maker; and little thank have I given to God for all his benefits to me." Then the holy man gave Sir Launcelot good counsel and made him rest there that night; and the next day he gave him a horse, a sword and a helmet, and bade him go forth and bear himself knightly as the servant of God. CHAPTER XXVIII HOW SIR LAUNCELOT SAW THE HOLY GRAIL For many days after he had left the hermitage, Sir Launcelot rode through the forest, but there came to him no such adventures as had befallen him on other quests to the increase of his fame. At last, one night-tide, he came to the shores of a great water and there he lay down to sleep; but as he slept, a voice called on him: "Launcelot, arise, put on thine armour and go on thy way until thou comest to a ship. Into that thou shalt enter." Immediately, Sir Launcelot started from his sleep to obey and, riding along the shore, came presently to a ship beached on the strand; no sooner had he entered it, than the ship was launched--how, he might not know. So the ship sailed before the wind for many a day. No mortal was on it, save only Sir Launcelot, yet were all his needs supplied. Then, at last, the ship ran ashore at the foot of a great castle; and it was midnight. Sir Launcelot waited not for the dawn, but, his sword gripped in his hand, sprang ashore, and then, right before him, he saw a postern where the gate stood open indeed, but two grisly lions kept the way. And when Sir Launcelot would have rushed upon the great beasts with his sword, it was struck from his hand, and a voice said: "Ah! Launcelot, ever is thy trust in thy might rather than thy Maker!" Sore ashamed, Sir Launcelot took his sword and thrust it back into the sheath, and going forward, he passed unhurt through the gateway, the lions that kept it falling back from his path. So without more adventure, Launcelot entered into the castle; and there he saw how every door stood open, save only one, and that was fast barred, nor, with all his force, might he open it. Presently from the chamber within came the sound of a sweet voice in a holy chant, and then in his heart Launcelot knew that he was come to the Holy Grail. So, kneeling humbly, he prayed that to him might be shown some vision of that he sought. Forthwith the door flew open and from the chamber blazed a light such as he had never known before; but when he made to enter, a voice cried: "Launcelot, forbear," and sorrowfully he withdrew. Then where he knelt, far even from the threshold of the wondrous room, he saw a silver table and, on it, covered with red samite, the Holy Grail. At sight of that which he had sought so long, his joy became so great that, unmindful of the warning, he advanced into the room and drew nigh even to the Table itself. Then on the instant there burst between him and it a blaze of light, and he fell to the ground. There he lay, nor might he move nor utter any sound; only he was aware of hands busy about him which bore him away from the chamber. For four-and-twenty days, Sir Launcelot lay as in a trance. At the end of that time, he came to himself, and found those about him that had tended him in his swoon. These, when they had given him fresh raiment, brought him to the aged King--Pelles was his name--that owned that castle. The King entertained him right royally, for he knew of the fame of Sir Launcelot; and long he talked with him of his quest and of the other knights who followed it, for he was of a great age and knew much of men. At the end of four days, he spoke to Sir Launcelot, bidding him return to Arthur's court; "For," said he, "your quest is ended here, and all that ye shall see of the Holy Grail, ye have seen." So Launcelot rode on his way, grieving for the sin that hindered him from the perfect vision of the Holy Grail, but thanking God for that which he had seen. So in time he came to Camelot, and told to Arthur all that had befallen him. CHAPTER XXIX THE END OF THE QUEST After he had rescued Sir Percivale from the twenty knights who beset him, Sir Galahad rode on his way till night-fall, when he sought shelter at a little hermitage. Thither there came in the night a damsel who desired to speak with Sir Galahad; so he arose and went to her, "Galahad," said she, "arm you and mount your horse and follow me, for I am come to guide you in your quest." So they rode together until they had come to the sea-shore, and there the damsel showed Galahad a great ship into which he must enter. Then she bade him farewell, and he, going on to the ship, found there already the good knights Sir Bors and Sir Percivale, who made much joy of the meeting. They abode in that ship until they had come to the castle of King Pelles, who welcomed them right gladly. Then, as they all sat at supper that night, suddenly the hall was filled with a great light, and the holy vessel appeared in their midst, covered all in white samite. While they all rejoiced, there came a voice saying: "My Knights whom I have chosen, ye have seen the holy vessel dimly. Continue your journey to the city of Sarras and there the perfect Vision shall be yours." Now in the city of Sarras had dwelt long time Joseph of Arimathea, teaching its people the true faith, before ever he came into the land of Britain; but when Sir Galahad and his fellows came there after long voyage, they found it ruled by a heathen king named Estorause, who cast them into a deep dungeon. There they were kept a year, but at the end of that time, the tyrant died. Then the great men of the land gathered together to consider who should be their king; and, while they were in council, came a voice bidding them take as their king the youngest of the three knights whom Estorause had thrown into prison. So in fear and wonder they hastened to the prison, and releasing the three knights, made Galahad king as the voice had bidden them. Thus Sir Galahad became King of the famous city of Sarras, in far Babylon. He had reigned a year when, one morning early, he and the other two knights, his fellows, went into the chapel, and there they saw, kneeling in prayer, an aged man, robed as a bishop, and round him hovered many angels. The knights fell on their knees in awe and reverence, whereupon he that seemed a bishop turned to them and said: "I am Joseph of Arimathea, and I am come to show you the perfect Vision of the Holy Grail." On the instant there appeared before them, without veil or cover, the holy vessel, in a radiance of light such as almost blinded them. Sir Bors and Sir Percivale, when at length they were recovered from the brightness of that glory, looked up to find that the holy Joseph and the wondrous vessel had passed from their sight. Then they went to Sir Galahad where he still knelt as in prayer, and behold, he was dead; for it had been with him even as he had prayed; in the moment when he had seen the vision, his soul had gone back to God. So the two knights buried him in that far city, themselves mourning and all the people with them. And immediately after, Sir Percivale put off his arms and took the habit of a monk, living a devout and holy life until, a year and two months later, he also died and was buried near Sir Galahad. Then Sir Bors armed him, and bidding farewell to the city, sailed away until, after many weeks, he came again to the land of Britain. There he took horse, and stayed not till he had come to Camelot. Great was the rejoicing of Arthur and all his knights when Sir Bors was once more among them. When he had told all the adventures which had befallen him and the good knights, his companions, all who heard were filled with amaze. But the King, he caused the wisest clerks in the land to write in great hooks this Quest of the Holy Grail, that the fame of it should endure unto all time. BOOK IX THE FAIR MAID OF ASTOLAT CHAPTER XXX THE FAIR MAID OF ASTOLAT At last, the Quest of the Holy Grail was ended, and by ones and twos the knights came back to Camelot, though many who had set out so boldly were never seen again about the Round Table. Great was the joy of King Arthur when Sir Launcelot and Sir Bors returned, for, so long had they been away, that almost he had feared that they had perished. In their honour there was high festival for many days in London, where Arthur then had his court; and the King made proclamation of a great tournament that he would hold at Camelot, when he and the King of Northgalis would keep the lists against all comers. So, one fair morning of spring, King Arthur made ready to ride to Camelot and all his knights with him, save Launcelot, who excused himself, saying that an old wound hindered him from riding. But when the King, sore vexed, had departed, the Queen rebuked Sir Launcelot, and bade him go and prove his great prowess as of old. "Madam," said Sir Launcelot, "in this, as in all else, I obey you; at your bidding I go, but know that in this tournament I shall adventure me in other wise than ever before." The next day, at dawn, Sir Launcelot mounted his horse, and, riding forth unattended, journeyed all that day till, as evening fell, he reached the little town of Astolat, and there, at the castle, sought lodgement for that night. The old Lord of Astolat was glad at his coming, judging him at once to be a noble knight, though he knew him not, for it was Sir Launcelot's will to remain unknown. So they went to supper, Sir Launcelot and the old lord, his son, Sir Lavaine, and his daughter Elaine, whom they of the place called the Fair Maid of Astolat. As they sat at meat, the Baron asked Sir Launcelot if he rode to the tournament. "Yea," answered Launcelot; "and right glad should I be if, of your courtesy, ye would lend me a shield without device." "Right willingly," said his host; "ye shall have my son, Sir Tirre's shield. He was but lately made knight and was hurt in his first encounter, so his shield is bare enough. If ye will take with you my young son, Sir Lavaine, he will be glad to ride in the company of so noble a knight and will do you such service as he may." "I shall be glad indeed of his fellowship," answered Sir Launcelot courteously. Now it seemed to the fair Elaine that never had she beheld so noble a knight as this stranger; and seeing that he was as gentle and courteous as he was strong, she said to him: "Fair Knight, will ye wear my favour at this tournament? For never have I found knight yet to wear my crimson sleeve, and sure am I that none other could ever win it such honour." "Maiden," said Sir Launcelot, "right gladly would I serve you in aught; but it has never been my custom to wear lady's favour." "Then shall it serve the better for disguise," answered Elaine. Sir Launcelot pondered her words, and at last he said: "Fair maiden, I will do for you what I have done for none, and will wear your favour." So with great glee, she brought it him, a crimson velvet sleeve embroidered with great pearls, and fastened it in his helmet. Then Sir Launcelot begged her to keep for him his own shield until after the tournament, when he would come for it again and tell them his name. The next morn, Sir Launcelot took his departure with Sir Lavaine and, by evening, they were come to Camelot. Forthwith Sir Lavaine led Sir Launcelot to the house of a worthy burgher, where he might stay in privacy, undiscovered by those of his acquaintance. Then, when at dawn the trumpets blew, they mounted their horses and rode to a little wood hard by the lists, and there they abode some while; for Sir Launcelot would take no part until he had seen which side was the stronger. So they saw how King Arthur sat high on a throne to overlook the combat, while the King of Northgalis and all the fellowship of the Round Table held the lists against their opponents led by King Anguish of Ireland and the King of Scots. Then it soon appeared that the two Kings with all their company could do but little against the Knights of the Round Table, and were sore pressed to maintain their ground. Seeing this, Sir Launcelot said to Sir Lavaine: "Sir Knight, will ye give me your aid if I go to the rescue of the weaker side? For it seems to me they may not much longer hold their own unaided." "Sir," answered Lavaine, "I will gladly follow you and do what I may." So the two laid their lances in rest and charged into the thickest of the fight and, with one spear, Sir Launcelot bore four knights from the saddle. Lavaine, too, did nobly, for he unhorsed the bold Sir Bedivere and Sir Lucan the Butler. Then with their swords they smote lustily on the left hand and on the right, and those whom they had come to aid rallying to them, they drove the Knights of the Round Table back a space. So the fight raged furiously, Launcelot ever being in the thickest of the press and performing such deeds of valour that all marvelled to see him, and would fain know who was the Knight of the Crimson Sleeve. But the knights of Arthur's court felt shame of their discomfiture, and, in especial, those of Launcelot's kin were wroth that one should appear who seemed mightier even than Launcelot's self. So they called to each other and, making a rally, directed all their force against the stranger knight who had so turned the fortunes of the day. With lances in rest, Sir Lionel, Sir Bors, and Sir Ector, bore down together upon Sir Launcelot, and Sir Bors' spear pierced Sir Launcelot and brought him to the earth, leaving the spear head broken off in his side. This Sir Lavaine saw, and immediately, with all his might, he rode upon the King of Scots, unhorsed him and took his horse to Sir Launcelot. Now Sir Launcelot felt as if he had got his death-wound, but such was his spirit that he was resolved to do some great deed while yet his strength remained. So, with Lavaine's aid, he got upon the horse, took a spear and, laying it in rest, bore down, one after the other, Sir Bors, Sir Lionel, and Sir Ector. Next he flung him into the thickest of the fight, and before the trumpets sounded the signal to cease, he had unhorsed thirty good knights. Then the Kings of Scotland and Ireland came to Sir Launcelot and said: "Sir Knight, we thank you for the service done us this day. And now, we pray you, come with us to receive the prize which is rightly yours; for never have we seen such deeds as ye have done this day." "My fair lords," answered Sir Launcelot, "for aught that I have accomplished, I am like to pay dearly; I beseech you, suffer me to depart." With these words, he rode away full gallop, followed by Sir Lavaine; and when he had come to a little wood, he called Lavaine to him, saying: "Gentle Knight, I entreat you, draw forth this spear head, for it nigh slayeth me." "Oh! my dear lord," said Lavaine, "I fear sore to draw it forth lest ye die." "If ye love me, draw it out," answered Launcelot. So Lavaine did as he was bidden, and, with a deathly groan, Sir Launcelot fell in a swoon to the ground. When he was a little recovered, he begged Lavaine to help him to his horse and lead him to a hermitage hard by where dwelt a hermit who, in bygone days, had been known to Launcelot for a good knight and true. So with pain and difficulty they journeyed to the hermitage, Lavaine oft fearing that Sir Launcelot would die. And when the hermit saw Sir Launcelot, all pale and besmeared with blood, he scarce knew him for the bold Sir Launcelot du Lac; but he bore him within and dressed his wound and bade him be of good cheer, for he should recover. So there Sir Launcelot abode many weeks and Sir Lavaine with him; for Lavaine would not leave him, such love had he for the good knight he had taken for his lord. Now when it was known that the victorious knight had departed from the field sore wounded, Sir Gawain vowed to go in search of him. So it chanced that, in his wanderings, he came to Astolat, and there he had a hearty welcome of the Lord of Astolat, who asked him for news of the tournament. Then Sir Gawain related how two stranger knights, bearing white shields, had won great glory, and in especial one, who wore in his helm a crimson sleeve, had surpassed all others in knightly prowess. At these words, the fair Elaine cried aloud with delight. "Maiden," said Gawain, "know ye this knight?" "Not his name," she replied; "but full sure was I that he was a noble knight when I prayed him to wear my favour." Then she showed Gawain the shield which she had kept wrapped in rich broideries, and immediately Sir Gawain knew it for Launcelot's. "Alas!" cried he, "without doubt it was Launcelot himself that we wounded to the death. Sir Bors will never recover the woe of it." Then, on the morrow, Sir Gawain rode to London to tell the court how the stranger knight and Launcelot were one; but the Fair Maid of Astolat rose betimes, and having obtained leave of her father, set out to search for Sir Launcelot and her brother Lavaine. After many journeyings, she came, one day, upon Lavaine exercising his horse in a field, and by him she was taken to Sir Launcelot. Then, indeed, her heart was filled with grief when she saw the good knight to whom she had given her crimson sleeve thus laid low; so she abode in the hermitage, waiting upon Sir Launcelot and doing all within her power to lessen his pain. After many weeks, by the good care of the hermit and the fair Elaine, Sir Launcelot was so far recovered that he might bear the weight of his armour and mount his horse again. Then, one morn, they left the hermitage and rode all three, the Fair Maid, Sir Launcelot, and Sir Lavaine, to the castle of Astolat, where there was much joy of their coming. After brief sojourn, Sir Launcelot desired to ride to court, for he knew there would be much sorrow among his kinsmen for his long absence. But when he would take his departure, Elaine cried aloud: "Ah! my lord, suffer me to go with you, for I may not bear to lose you." "Fair child," answered Sir Launcelot gently, "that may not be. But in the days to come, when ye shall love and wed some good knight, for your sake I will bestow upon him broad lands and great riches; and at all times will I hold me ready to serve you as a true knight may." Thus spoke Sir Launcelot, but the fair Elaine answered never a word. So Sir Launcelot rode to London where the whole court was glad of his coming; but from the day of his departure, the Fair Maid drooped and pined until, when ten days were passed, she felt that her end was at hand. So she sent for her father and two brothers, to whom she said gently: "Dear father and brethren, I must now leave you." Bitterly they wept, but she comforted them all she might, and presently desired of her father a boon. "Ye shall have what ye will," said the old lord; for he hoped that she might yet recover. Then first she required her brother, Sir Tirre, to write a letter, word for word as she said it; and when it was written, she turned to her father and said: "Kind father, I desire that, when I am dead, I may be arrayed in my fairest raiment, and placed on a bier; and let the bier be set within a barge, with one to steer it until I be come to London. Then, perchance, Sir Launcelot will come and look upon me with kindness." So she died, and all was done as she desired; for they set her, looking as fair as a lily, in a barge all hung with black, and an old dumb man went with her as helmsman. Slowly the barge floated down the river until it had come to Westminster; and as it passed under the palace walls, it chanced that King Arthur and Queen Guenevere looked forth from a window. Marvelling much at the strange sight, together they went forth to the quay, followed by many of the knights. Then the King espied the letter clasped in the dead maiden's hand, and drew it forth gently and broke the seal. And thus the letter ran: "Most noble Knight, Sir Launcelot, I, that men called the Fair Maid of Astolat, am come hither to crave burial at thy hands for the sake of the unrequited love I gave thee. As thou art peerless knight, pray for my soul." Then the King bade fetch Sir Launcelot, and when he was come, he showed him the letter. And Sir Launcelot, gazing on the dead maiden, was filled with sorrow. "My lord Arthur," he said, "for the death of this dear child I shall grieve my life long. Gentle she was and loving, and much was I beholden to her; but what she desired I could not give." "Yet her request now thou wilt grant, I know," said the King; "for ever thou art kind and courteous to all." "It is my desire," answered Sir Launcelot. So the Maid of Astolat was buried in the presence of the King and Queen and of the fellowship of the Round Table, and of many a gentle lady who wept, that time, the fair child's fate. Over her grave was raised a tomb of white marble, and on it was sculptured the shield of Sir Launcelot; for, when he had heard her whole story, it was the King's will that she that in life had guarded the shield of his noblest knight, should keep it also in death. BOOK X QUEEN GUENEVERE CHAPTER XXXI HOW MORDRED PLOTTED AGAINST SIR LAUNCELOT Before Merlin passed from the world of men, imprisoned in the great stone by the evil arts of Vivien, he had uttered many marvellous prophecies, and one that boded ill to King Arthur; for he foretold that, in the days to come, a son of Arthur's sister should stir up bitter war against the King, and at last a great battle should be fought in the West, when many a brave knight should find his doom. Now, among the nephews of Arthur, was one most dishonourable; his name was Mordred. No knightly deed had he ever done, and he hated to hear the good report of others because he himself was a coward and envious. But of all the Round Table there was none that Mordred hated more than Sir Launcelot du Lac, whom all true knights held in most honour; and not the less did Mordred hate Launcelot that he was the knight whom Queen Guenevere had in most esteem. So, at last, his jealous rage passing all bounds, he spoke evil of the Queen and of Launcelot, saying that they were traitors to the King. Now Sir Gawain and Sir Gareth, Mordred's brothers, refused to give ear to these slanders, holding that Sir Launcelot, in his knightly service of the Queen, did honour to King Arthur also; but by ill-fortune another brother, Sir Agravaine, had ill-will to the Queen, and professed to believe Mordred's evil tales. So the two went to King Arthur with their ill stories. Now when Arthur had heard them, he was wroth; for never would he lightly believe evil of any, and Sir Launcelot was the knight whom he loved above all others. Sternly then he bade them begone and come no more to him with unproven tales against any, and, least of all, against Sir Launcelot and their lady, the Queen. The two departed, but in their hearts was hatred against Launcelot and the Queen, more bitter than ever for the rebuke they had called down upon themselves; and they resolved, from that time forth, diligently to watch if, perchance, they might find aught to turn to evil account against Sir Launcelot. Not long after, it seemed to them that the occasion had come. For King Arthur having ridden forth to hunt far from Carlisle, where he then held court, the Queen sent for Sir Launcelot to speak with him in her bower. Then Agravaine and Mordred got together twelve knights, friends of Sir Gawain, their brother, and persuaded them to come with them for they should do the King a service. So with the twelve knights they watched and waited in a little room until they saw Sir Launcelot, all unarmed, pass into the Queen's chamber; and when the door was closed upon him, they came forth, and Sir Agravaine and Sir Mordred thundered on the door, crying so that all the court might hear: "Thou traitor, Sir Launcelot, come forth from the Queen's chamber. Come forth, for thy treason against the King is known to all!" Then Sir Launcelot and the Queen were amazed and filled with shame that such a clamour should be raised where the Queen was. While they waited and listened in dismay, Sir Mordred and Sir Agravaine took up the cry again, the twelve knights echoing it: "Traitor Launcelot, come forth and meet thy doom; for thy last hour is come." Then Sir Launcelot, wroth more for the Queen than for himself, exclaimed: "This shameful cry will kill me; better death than such dishonour. Lady, as I have ever been your true knight, since the day when my lord, King Arthur, knighted me, pray for me if now I meet my death." Then he went to the door and cried to those without: "Fair lords, cease this outcry. I will open the door, and then ye shall do with me as ye will." With the word, he set open the door, but only by so much that one knight could enter at a time. So a certain Sir Colgrevance of Gore, a knight of great stature, pushed into the room and thrust at Sir Launcelot with all his might; but Sir Launcelot, with the arm round which he had wrapped his cloak, turned aside the sword and, with his bare hand, dealt Colgrevance such a blow on the helmet that he fell grovelling to the earth. Then Sir Launcelot thrust to and barred the door, and stripping the fallen knight of his armour, armed himself in haste with the aid of the Queen and her ladies. All this while, Sir Agravaine and Sir Mordred continued their outcry; so when he was armed, Sir Launcelot called to them to cease their vile cries and the next day he would meet any or all of them in arms and knightly disprove their vile slander. Now there was not one among those knights who dared meet Sir Launcelot in the open field, so they were resolved to slay him while they had the advantage over him. When Sir Launcelot understood their evil purpose, he set wide the door and rushed upon them. At the first blow he slew Sir Agravaine, and soon eleven other knights lay cold on the earth beside him. Only Mordred escaped, for he fled with all his might; but, even so, he was sore wounded. Then Sir Launcelot spoke to the Queen. "Madam," said he, "here may I no longer stay, for many a foe have I made me this night. And when I am gone, I know not what evil may be spoken of you for this night's work. I pray you, then, suffer me to lead you to a place of safety." "Ye shall run no more risk for my sake," said the Queen; "only go hence in haste before more harm befall you. But as for me, here I abide. I will flee for no traitor's outcry." So Sir Launcelot, seeing that at that time there was naught he might do for Queen Guenevere, withdrew with all his kin to a little distance from Carlisle, and awaited what should befall. CHAPTER XXXII THE TRIAL OF THE QUEEN When Mordred escaped Sir Launcelot, he got to horse, all wounded as he was, and never drew rein till he had found King Arthur, to whom he told all that had happened. Then great was the King's grief. Despite all that Mordred could say, he was slow to doubt Sir Launcelot, whom he loved, but his mind was filled with forebodings; for many a knight had been slain, and well he knew that their kin would seek vengeance on Sir Launcelot, and the noble fellowship of the Round Table be utterly destroyed by their feuds. All too soon, it proved even as the King had feared. Many were found to hold with Sir Mordred; some because they were kin to the knights that had been slain, some from envy of the honour and worship of the noble Sir Launcelot; and among them even were those who dared to raise their voice against the Queen herself, calling for judgment upon her as leagued with a traitor against the King, and as having caused the death of so many good knights. Now in those days the law was that if any one were accused of treason by witnesses, or taken in the act, that one should die the death by burning, be it man or woman, knight or churl. So then the murmurs grew to a loud clamour that the law should have its course, and that King Arthur should pass sentence on the Queen. Then was the King's woe doubled; "For," said he, "I sit as King to be a rightful judge and keep all the law; wherefore I may not do battle for my own Queen, and now there is none other to help her." So a decree was issued that Queen Guenevere should be burnt at the stake outside the walls of Carlisle. Forthwith, King Arthur sent for his nephew, Sir Gawain, and said to him: "Fair nephew, I give it in charge to you to see that all is done as has been decreed." But Sir Gawain answered boldly: "Sir King, never will I be present to see my lady the Queen die. It is of ill counsel that ye have consented to her death." Then the King bade Gawain send his two young brothers, Sir Gareth and Sir Gaheris, to receive his commands, and these he desired to attend the Queen to the place of execution. So Gareth made answer for both: "My Lord the King, we owe you obedience in all things, but know that it is sore against our wills that we obey you in this; nor will we appear in arms in the place where that noble lady shall die"; then sorrowfully they mounted their horses, and rode to Carlisle. When the day appointed had come, the Queen was led forth to a place without the walls of Carlisle, and there she was bound to the stake to be burnt to death. Loud were her ladies' lamentations, and many a lord was found to weep at that grievous sight of a Queen brought so low; yet was there none who dared come forward as her champion, lest he should be suspected of treason. As for Gareth and Gaheris, they could not bear the sight and stood with their faces covered in their mantles. Then, just as the torch was to be applied to the faggots, there was a sound as of many horses galloping, and the next instant a band of knights rushed upon the astonished throng, their leader cutting down all who crossed his path until he had reached the Queen, whom he lifted to his saddle and bore from the press. Then all men knew that it was Sir Launcelot, come knightly to rescue the Queen, and in their hearts they rejoiced. So with little hindrance they rode away, Sir Launcelot and all his kin with the Queen in their midst, till they came to the castle of the Joyous Garde where they held the Queen in safety and all reverence. But of that day came a kingdom's ruin, for among the slain were Gawain's brothers, Sir Gareth and Sir Gaheris. Now Sir Launcelot loved Sir Gareth as if he had been his own younger brother, and himself had knighted him; but, in the press, he struck at him and killed him, not seeing that he was unarmed and weaponless; and in like wise, Sir Gaheris met his death. So when word was brought to King Arthur of what had passed, Sir Gawain asked straightway how his brothers had fared. "Both are slain," said the messenger. "Alas! my dear brothers!" cried Sir Gawain; "how came they by their death?" "They were both slain by Sir Launcelot." "That will I never believe," cried Sir Gawain; "for my brother, Sir Gareth, had such love for Sir Launcelot that there was naught Sir Launcelot could ask him that he would not do." But the man said again: "He is slain, and by Sir Launcelot." Then, from sheer grief, Sir Gawain fell swooning to the ground. When he was recovered, he said: "My Lord and uncle, is it even as this man says, that Sir Launcelot has slain my brother Sir Gareth?" "Alas!" said the King, "Launcelot rode upon him in the press and slew him, not seeing who he was or that he was unarmed." "Then," cried Gawain fiercely, "here I make my avow. Never, while my life lasts, will I leave Sir Launcelot in peace until he has rendered me account for the slaying of my brother." From that day forth, Sir Gawain would not suffer the King to rest until he had gathered all his host and marched against the Joyous Garde. Thus began the war which broke up the fellowship of the Round Table. CHAPTER XXXIII HOW SIR GAWAIN DEFIED SIR LAUNCELOT Now it came to the ears of the Pope in Rome that King Arthur was besieging Sir Launcelot in his castle of the Joyous Garde, and it grieved him that there should be strife between two such goodly knights, the like of whom was not to be found in Christendom. So he called to him the Bishop of Rochester, and bade him carry word to Britain, both to Arthur and to Sir Launcelot, that they should be reconciled, the one to the other, and that King Arthur should receive again Queen Guenevere. Forthwith Sir Launcelot desired of King Arthur assurance of liberty and reverence for the Queen, as also safe conduct for himself and his knights, that he might bring Dame Guenevere, with due honour, to the King at Carlisle; and thereto the King pledged his word. So Launcelot set forth with the Queen, and behind them rode a hundred knights arrayed in green velvet, the housings of the horses of the same all studded with precious stones; thus they passed through the city of Carlisle, openly, in the sight of all, and there were many who rejoiced that the Queen was come again and Sir Launcelot with her, though they of Gawain's party scowled upon him. When they were come into the great hall where Arthur sat, with Sir Gawain and other great lords about him, Sir Launcelot led Guenevere to the throne and both knelt before the King; then, rising, Sir Launcelot lifted the Queen to her feet, and thus he spoke to King Arthur, boldly and well before the whole court: "My lord, Sir Arthur, I bring you here your Queen, than whom no truer nor nobler lady ever lived; and here stand I, Sir Launcelot du Lac, ready to do battle with any that dare gainsay it"; and with these words Sir Launcelot turned and looked upon the lords and knights present in their places, but none would challenge him in that cause, not even Sir Gawain, for he had ever affirmed that Dame Guenevere was a true and honourable lady. Then Sir Launcelot spoke again: "Now, my Lord Arthur, in my own defence it behoves me to say that never in aught have I been false to you. That I slew certain knights is true; but I hold me guiltless, seeing that they brought death upon themselves. For no sooner had I gone to the Queen's bower, as she had commanded me, than they beset the door, with shameful outcry, that all the court might hear, calling me traitor and felon knight." "And rightly they called you," cried Sir Gawain fiercely. "My lord, Sir Gawain," answered Sir Launcelot, "in their quarrel they proved not themselves right, else had not I, alone, encountered fourteen knights and come forth unscathed." Then said King Arthur: "Sir Launcelot, I have ever loved you above all other knights, and trusted you to the uttermost; but ill have ye done by me and mine." "My lord," said Launcelot, "that I slew Sir Gareth I shall mourn as long as life lasts. As soon would I have slain my own nephew, Sir Bors, as have harmed Sir Gareth wittingly; for I myself made him knight, and loved him as my brother." "Liar and traitor," cried Sir Gawain, "ye slew him, defenceless and unarmed." "It is full plain, Sir Gawain," said Launcelot, "that never again shall I have your love; and yet there has been old kindness between us, and once ye thanked me that I saved your life." "It shall not avail you now," said Sir Gawain; "traitor ye are, both to the King and to me. Know that, while life lasts, never will I rest until I have avenged my brother Sir Gareth's death upon you." "Fair nephew," said the King, "cease your brawling. Sir Launcelot has come under surety of my word that none shall do him harm. Elsewhere, and at another time, fasten a quarrel upon him, if quarrel ye must." "I care not," cried Sir Gawain fiercely. "The proud traitor trusts so in his own strength that he thinks none dare meet him. But here I defy him and swear that, be it in open combat or by stealth, I shall have his life. And know, mine uncle and King, if I shall not have your aid, I and mine will leave you for ever, and, if need be, fight even against you." "Peace," said the King; and to Sir Launcelot: "We give you fifteen days in which to leave this kingdom." Then Sir Launcelot sighed heavily and said: "Full well I see that no sorrow of mine for what is past availeth me." Then he went to the Queen where she sat, and said: "Madam, the time is come when I must leave this fair realm that I have loved. Think well of me, I pray you, and send for me if ever there be aught in which a true knight may serve lady." Therewith he turned him about and, without greeting to any, passed through the hall, and with his faithful knights rode to the Joyous Garde, though ever thereafter, in memory of that sad day, he called it the Dolorous Garde. There he called about him his friends and kinsmen, saying: "Fair Knights, I must now pass into my own lands." Then they all, with one voice, cried that they would go with him. So he thanked them, promising them all fair estates and great honour when they were come to his kingdom; for all France belonged to Sir Launcelot. Yet was he loth to leave the land where he had followed so many glorious adventures, and sore he mourned to part in anger from King Arthur. "My mind misgives me," said Sir Launcelot, "but that trouble shall come of Sir Mordred, for he is envious and a mischief-maker, and it grieves me that never more I may serve Sir Arthur and his realm." So Sir Launcelot sorrowed; but his kinsmen were wroth for the dishonour done him, and making haste to depart, by the fifteenth day they were all embarked to sail overseas to France. CHAPTER XXXIV HOW KING ARTHUR AND SIR GAWAIN WENT TO FRANCE From the day when Sir Launcelot brought the Queen to Carlisle, never would Gawain suffer the King to be at rest; but always he desired him to call his army together that they might go to attack Sir Launcelot in his own land. Now King Arthur was loth to war against Sir Launcelot; and seeing this, Sir Gawain upbraided him bitterly. "I see well it is naught to you that my brother, Sir Gareth, died fulfilling your behest. Little ye care if all your knights be slain, if only the traitor Launcelot escape. Since, then, ye will not do me justice nor avenge your own nephew, I and my fellows will take the traitor when and how we may. He trusts in his own might that none can encounter with him; let see if we may not entrap him." Thus urged, King Arthur called his army together and bade collect a great fleet; for rather would he fight openly with Sir Launcelot than that Sir Gawain should bring such dishonour upon himself as to slay a noble knight treacherously. So with a great host, the King passed overseas to France, leaving Sir Mordred to rule Britain in his stead. When Launcelot heard that King Arthur and Sir Gawain were coming against him, he withdrew into the strong castle of Benwick; for unwilling indeed was he to fight with the King, or to do an injury to Sir Gareth's brother. The army passed through the land, laying it waste, and presently encamped about the castle, laying close siege to it; but so thick were the walls, and so watchful the garrison, that in no way could they prevail against it. One day, there came to Sir Launcelot seven brethren, brave knights of Wales, who had joined their fortunes to his, and said: "Sir Launcelot, bid us sally forth against this host which has invaded and laid waste your lands, and we will scatter it; for we are not wont to cower behind walls." "Fair lords," answered Launcelot, "it is grief to me to war on good Christian knights, and especially on my lord, King Arthur. Have but patience and I will send to him and see if, even now, there may not be a treaty of peace between us; for better far is peace than war." So Sir Launcelot sought out a damsel and, mounting her upon a palfrey, bade her ride to King Arthur's camp and require of the King to cease warring on his lands, proffering fair terms of peace. When the damsel came to the camp, there met her Sir Lucan the Butler, "Fair damsel," said Sir Lucan, "do ye come from Sir Launcelot?" "Yea, in good truth," said the damsel; "and, I pray you, lead me to King Arthur." "Now, may ye prosper in your errand," said Sir Lucan. "Our King loves Sir Launcelot dearly and wishes him well; but Sir Gawain will not suffer him to be reconciled to him." So when the damsel had come before the King, she told him all her tale, and much she said of Sir Launcelot's love and good-will to his lord the King, so that the tears stood in Arthur's eyes. But Sir Gawain broke in roughly: "My Lord and uncle, shall it be said of us that we came hither with such a host to hie us home again, nothing done, to be the scoff of all men?" "Nephew," said the King, "methinks Sir Launcelot offers fair and generously. It were well if ye would accept his proffer. Nevertheless, as the quarrel is yours, so shall the answer be." "Then, damsel," said Sir Gawain, "say unto Sir Launcelot that the time for peace is past. And tell him that I, Sir Gawain, swear by the faith I owe to knighthood that never will I forego my revenge." So the damsel returned to Sir Launcelot and told him all. Sir Launcelot's heart was filled with grief nigh unto breaking; but his knights were enraged and clamoured that he had endured too much of insult and wrong, and that he should lead them forth to battle. Sir Launcelot armed him sorrowfully, and presently the gates were set open and he rode forth, he and all his company. But to all his knights he had given commandment that none should seek King Arthur; "For never," said he, "will I see the noble King, who made me knight, either killed or shamed." Fierce was the battle between those two hosts. On Launcelot's side, Sir Bors and Sir Lavaine and many another did right well; while on the other side, King Arthur bore him as the noble knight he was, and Sir Gawain raged through the battle, seeking to come at Sir Launcelot. Presently, Sir Bors encountered with King Arthur, and unhorsed him. This Sir Launcelot saw and, coming to the King's side, he alighted and, raising him from the ground, mounted him upon his own horse. Then King Arthur, looking upon Launcelot, cried: "Ah! Launcelot, Launcelot! That ever there should be war between us two!" and tears stood in the King's eyes. "Ah! my Lord Arthur," cried Sir Launcelot, "I pray you stay this war." As they spoke thus, Sir Gawain came upon them, and, miscalling Sir Launcelot traitor and coward, had almost ridden upon him before Launcelot could provide him of another horse. Then the two hosts drew back, each on its own side, to see the battle between Sir Launcelot and Sir Gawain; for they wheeled their horses, and departing far asunder, rushed again upon each other with the noise of thunder, and each bore the other from his horse. Then they put their shields before them and set on each other with their swords; but while ever Sir Gawain smote fiercely, Sir Launcelot was content only to ward off blows, because he would not, for Sir Gareth's sake, do any harm to Sir Gawain. But the more Sir Launcelot forbore him, the more furiously Sir Gawain struck, so that Sir Launcelot had much ado to defend himself, and at the last smote Gawain on the helm so mightily that he bore him to the ground. Then Sir Launcelot stood back from Sir Gawain. But Gawain cried: "Why do ye draw back, traitor knight? Slay me while ye may, for never will I cease to be your enemy while my life lasts." "Sir," said Launcelot, "I shall withstand you as I may; but never will I smite a fallen knight." Then he spoke to King Arthur: "My Lord, I pray you, if but for this day, draw off your men. And think upon our former love if ye may; but, be ye friend or foe, God keep you." Thereupon Sir Launcelot drew off with his men into his castle, and King Arthur and his company to their tents. As for Sir Gawain, his squires bore him to his tent where his wounds were dressed. BOOK XI THE MORTE D'ARTHUR CHAPTER XXXV MORDRED THE TRAITOR So Sir Gawain lay healing of the grim wound which Sir Launcelot had given him, and there was peace between the two armies, when there came messengers from Britain bearing letters for King Arthur; and more evil news than they brought might not well be, for they told how Sir Mordred had usurped his uncle's realm. First, he had caused it to be noised abroad that King Arthur was slain in battle with Sir Launcelot, and, since there be many ever ready to believe any idle rumour and eager for any change, it had been no hard task for Sir Mordred to call the lords to a Parliament and persuade them to make him king. But the Queen could not be brought to believe that her lord was dead, so she took refuge in the Tower of London from Sir Mordred's violence, nor was she to be induced to leave her strong refuge for aught that Mordred could promise or threaten. This was the news that came to Arthur as he lay encamped about Sir Launcelot's castle of Benwick. Forthwith he bade his host make ready to move, and when they had reached the coast, they embarked and made sail to reach Britain with all possible speed. Sir Mordred, on his part, had heard of their sailing, and hasted to get together a great army. It was grievous to see how many a stout knight held by Mordred, ay, even many whom Arthur himself had raised to honour and fortune; for it is the nature of men to be fickle. Thus it was that, when Arthur drew near to Dover, he found Mordred with a mighty host, waiting to oppose his landing. Then there was a great sea-fight, those of Mordred's party going out in boats, great and small, to board King Arthur's ships and slay him and his men or ever they should come to land. Right valiantly did King Arthur bear him, as was his wont, and boldly his followers fought in his cause, so that at last they drove off their enemies and landed at Dover in spite of Mordred and his array. For that time Mordred fled, and King Arthur bade those of his party bury the slain and tend the wounded. So as they passed from ship to ship, salving and binding the hurts of the men, they came at last upon Sir Gawain, where he lay at the bottom of a boat, wounded to the death, for he had received a great blow on the wound that Sir Launcelot had given him. They bore him to his tent, and his uncle, the King, came to him, sorrowing beyond measure. "Methinks," said the King, "my joy on earth is done; for never have I loved any men as I have loved you, my nephew, and Sir Launcelot. Sir Launcelot I have lost, and now I see you on your death-bed." "My King," said Sir Gawain, "my hour is come, and I have got my death at Sir Launcelot's hand; for I am smitten on the wound he gave me. And rightly am I served, for of my willfulness and stubbornness comes this unhappy war. I pray you, my uncle, raise me in your arms and let me write to Sir Launcelot before I die." Thus, then, Sir Gawain wrote: "To Sir Launcelot, the noblest of all knights, I, Gawain, send greeting before I die. For I am smitten on the wound ye gave me before your castle of Benwick in France, and I bid all men bear witness that I sought my own death and that ye are innocent of it. I pray you, by our friendship of old, come again into Britain, and when ye look upon my tomb, pray for Gawain of Orkney. Farewell." So Sir Gawain died and was buried in the Chapel at Dover. CHAPTER XXXVI THE BATTLE IN THE WEST The day after the battle at Dover, King Arthur and his host pursued Sir Mordred to Barham Down where again there was a great battle fought, with much slaughter on both sides; but, in the end, Arthur was victorious, and Mordred fled to Canterbury. Now, by this time, many that Mordred had cheated by his lying reports, had drawn unto King Arthur, to whom at heart they had ever been loyal, knowing him for a true and noble king and hating themselves for having been deceived by such a false usurper as Sir Mordred. Then when he found that he was being deserted, Sir Mordred withdrew to the far West, for there men knew less of what had happened, and so he might still find some to believe in him and support him; and being without conscience, he even called to his aid the heathen hosts that his uncle, King Arthur, had driven from the land, in the good years when Launcelot was of the Round Table. King Arthur followed ever after; for in his heart was bitter anger against the false nephew who had wrought woe upon him and all his realm. At the last, when Mordred could flee no further, the two hosts were drawn up near the shore of the great western sea; and it was the Feast of the Holy Trinity. That night, as King Arthur slept, he thought that Sir Gawain stood before him, looking just as he did in life, and said to him: "My uncle and my King, God in his great love has suffered me to come unto you, to warn you that in no wise ye fight on the morrow; for if ye do, ye shall be slain, and with you the most part of the people on both sides. Make ye, therefore, treaty for a month, and within that time, Sir Launcelot shall come to you with all his knights, and ye shall overthrow the traitor and all that hold with him." Therewith, Sir Gawain vanished. Immediately, the King awoke and called to him the best and wisest of his knights, the two brethren, Sir Lucan the Butler and Sir Bedivere, and others, to whom he told his dream. Then all were agreed that, on any terms whatsoever, a treaty should be made with Sir Mordred, even as Sir Gawain had said; and, with the dawn, messengers went to the camp of the enemy, to call Sir Mordred to a conference. So it was determined that the meeting should take place in the sight of both armies, in an open space between the two camps, and that King Arthur and Mordred should each be accompanied by fourteen knights. Little enough faith had either in the other, so when they set forth to the meeting, they bade their hosts join battle if ever they saw a sword drawn. Thus they went to the conference. Now as they talked, it befell that an adder, coming out of a bush hard by, stung a knight in the foot; and he, seeing the snake, drew his sword to kill it and thought no harm thereby. But on the instant that the sword flashed, the trumpets blared on both sides and the two hosts rushed to battle. Never was there fought a fight of such bitter enmity; for brother fought with brother, and comrade with comrade, and fiercely they cut and thrust, with many a bitter word between; while King Arthur himself, his heart hot within him, rode through and through the battle, seeking the traitor Mordred. So they fought all day, till at last the evening fell. Then Arthur, looking around him, saw of his valiant knights but two left, Sir Lucan and Sir Bedivere, and these sore wounded; and there, over against him, by a great heap of the dead, stood Sir Mordred, the cause of all this ruin. Thereupon the King, his heart nigh broken with grief for the loss of his true knights, cried with a loud voice: "Traitor! now is thy doom upon thee!" and with his spear gripped in both hands, he rushed upon Sir Mordred and smote him that the weapon stood out a fathom behind. And Sir Mordred knew that he had his death-wound. With all the might that he had, he thrust him up the spear to the haft and, with his sword, struck King Arthur upon the head, that the steel pierced the helmet and bit into the head; then he fell back, stark and dead. Sir Lucan and Sir Bedivere went to the King where he lay, swooning from the blow, and bore him to a little chapel on the sea-shore. As they laid him on the ground, Sir Lucan fell dead beside the King, and Arthur, coming to himself, found but Sir Bedivere alive beside him. CHAPTER XXXVII THE PASSING OF ARTHUR So King Arthur lay wounded to the death, grieving, not that his end was come, but for the desolation of his kingdom and the loss of his good knights. And looking upon the body of Sir Lucan, he sighed and said: "Alas! true knight, dead for my sake! If I lived, I should ever grieve for thy death, but now mine own end draws nigh." Then, turning to Sir Bedivere, who stood sorrowing beside him, he said: "Leave weeping now, for the time is short and much to do. Hereafter shalt thou weep if thou wilt. But take now my sword Excalibur, hasten to the water side, and fling it into the deep. Then, watch what happens and bring me word thereof." "My Lord," said Sir Bedivere, "your command shall be obeyed"; and taking the sword, he departed. But as he went on his way, he looked on the sword, how wondrously it was formed and the hilt all studded with precious stones; and, as he looked, he called to mind the marvel by which it had come into the King's keeping. For on a certain day, as Arthur walked on the shore of a great lake, there had appeared above the surface of the water a hand brandishing a sword. On the instant, the King had leaped into a boat, and, rowing into the lake, had got the sword and brought it back to land. Then he had seen how, on one side the blade, was written, "Keep me," but on the other, "Throw me away," and, sore perplexed, he had shown it to Merlin, the great wizard, who said: "Keep it now. The time for casting away has not yet come." Thinking on this, it seemed to Bedivere that no good, but harm, must come of obeying the King's word; so hiding the sword under a tree, he hastened back to the little chapel. Then said the King: "What saw'st thou?" "Sir," answered Bedivere, "I saw naught but the waves, heard naught but the wind." "That is untrue," said King Arthur; "I charge thee, as thou art true knight, go again and spare not to throw away the sword." Sir Bedivere departed a second time, and his mind was to obey his lord; but when he took the sword in his hand, he thought: "Sin it is and shameful, to throw away so glorious a sword." Then, hiding it again, he hastened back to the King, "What saw'st thou?" said Sir Arthur. "Sir, I saw the water lap on the crags." Then spoke the King in great wrath: "Traitor and unkind! Twice hast thou betrayed me! Art dazzled by the splendour of the jewels, thou that, till now, hast ever been dear and true to me? Go yet again, but if thou fail me this time, I will arise and, with mine own hands, slay thee." Then Sir Bedivere left the King and, that time, he took the sword quickly from the place where he had hidden it and, forbearing even to look upon it, he twisted the belt about it and flung it with all his force into the water. A wondrous sight he saw, for, as the sword touched the water, a hand rose from out the deep, caught it, brandished it thrice, and drew it beneath the surface. Sir Bedivere hastened back to the King and told him what he had seen. "It is well," said Arthur; "now, bear me to the water's edge; and hasten, I pray thee, for I have tarried over-long and my wound has taken cold." So Sir Bedivere raised the King on his back and bore him tenderly to the lonely shore, where the lapping waves floated many an empty helmet and the fitful moonlight fell on the upturned faces of the dead. Scarce had they reached the shore when there hove in sight a barge, and on its deck stood three tall women, robed all in black and wearing crowns on their heads. "Place me in the barge," said the King, and softly Sir Bedivere lifted the King into it. And these three Queens wept sore over Arthur, and one took his head in her lap and chafed his hands, crying: "Alas! my brother, thou hast been over-long in coming and, I fear me, thy wound has taken cold." Then the barge began to move slowly from the land. When Sir Bedivere saw this, he lifted up his voice and cried with a bitter cry: "Ah! my Lord Arthur, thou art taken from me! And I, whither shall I go?" "Comfort thyself," said the King, "for in me is no comfort more. I pass to the Valley of Avilion, to heal me of my grievous wound. If thou seest me never again, pray for me." So the barge floated away out of sight, and Sir Bedivere stood straining his eyes after it till it had vanished utterly. Then he turned him about and journeyed through the forest until, at daybreak, he reached a hermitage. Entering it, he prayed the holy hermit that he might abide with him, and there he spent the rest of his life in prayer and holy exercise. But of King Arthur is no more known. Some men, indeed, say that he is not dead, but abides in the happy Valley of Avilion until such time as his country's need is sorest, when he shall come again and deliver it. Others say that, of a truth, he is dead, and that, in the far West, his tomb may be seen, and written on it these words: "Here lies Arthur, once King and King to be." CHAPTER XXXVIII THE DEATH OF SIR LAUNCELOT AND OF THE QUEEN When news reached Sir Launcelot in his own land of the treason of Mordred, he gathered his lords and knights together, and rested not till he had come to Britain to aid King Arthur. He landed at Dover, and there the evil tidings were told him, how the King had met his death at the hands of his traitor nephew. Then was Sir Launcelot's heart nigh broken for grief. "Alas!" he cried, "that I should live to know my King overthrown by such a felon! What have I done that I should have caused the deaths of the good knights, Sir Gareth, Sir Gaheris, and Sir Gawain, and yet that such a villain should escape my sword!" Then he desired to be led to Sir Gawain's tomb where he remained long in prayer and in great lamentation; after which he called to him his kinsmen and friends, and said to them: "My fair lords, I thank you all most heartily that, of your courtesy, ye came with me to this land. That we be come too late is a misfortune that might not be avoided, though I shall mourn it my life long. And now I will ride forth alone to find my lady the Queen in the West, whither men say she has fled. Wait for me, I pray you, for fifteen days, and then, if ye hear naught of me, return to your own lands." So Sir Launcelot rode forth alone, nor would he suffer any to follow him, despite their prayers and entreaties. Thus he rode some seven or eight days until, at the last, he came to a nunnery where he saw in the cloister many nuns waiting on a fair lady; none other, indeed, than Queen Guenevere herself. And she, looking up, saw Sir Launcelot, and at the sight, grew so pale that her ladies feared for her; but she recovered, and bade them go and bring Sir Launcelot to her presence. When he was come, she said to him: "Sir Launcelot, glad am I to see thee once again that I may bid thee farewell; for in this world shall we never meet again." "Sweet Madam," answered Sir Launcelot, "I was minded, with your leave, to bear you to my own country, where I doubt not but I should guard you well and safely from your enemies." "Nay, Launcelot," said the Queen, "that may not be; I am resolved never to look upon the world again, but here to pass my life in prayer and in such good works as I may. But thou, do thou get back to thine own land and take a fair wife; and ye both shall ever have my prayers." "Madam," replied Sir Launcelot, "ye know well that shall never be. And since ye are resolved to lead a life of prayer, I, too, will forsake the world if I can find hermit to share his cell with me; for ever your will has been mine." Long and earnestly he looked upon her as he might never gaze enough; then, getting to horse, he rode slowly away. Nor did they ever meet again in life. For Queen Guenevere abode in the great nunnery of Almesbury where Sir Launcelot had found her, and presently, for the holiness of her life, was made Abbess. But Sir Launcelot, after he had left her, rode on his way till he came to the cell where Sir Bedivere dwelt with the holy hermit; and when Sir Bedivere had told him all that had befallen, of the great battle in the West, and of the passing away of Arthur, Sir Launcelot flung down his arms and implored the holy hermit to let him remain there as the servant of God. So Sir Launcelot donned the serge gown and abode in the hermitage as the priest of God. Presently there came riding that way the good Sir Bors, Launcelot's nephew; for, when Sir Launcelot returned not to Dover, Sir Bors and many another knight went forth in search of him. There, then, Sir Bors remained and, within a half-year, there joined themselves to these three many who in former days had been fellows of the Round Table; and the fame of their piety spread far and wide. So six years passed and then, one night, Launcelot had a vision. It seemed to him that one said to him: "Launcelot, arise and go in haste to Almesbury. There shalt thou find Queen Guenevere dead, and it shall be for thee to bury her." Sir Launcelot arose at once and, calling his fellows to him, told them his dream. Immediately, with all haste, they set forth towards Almesbury and, arriving there the second day, found the Queen dead, as had been foretold in the vision. So with the state and ceremony befitting a great Queen, they buried her in the Abbey of Glastonbury, in that same church where, some say, King Arthur's tomb is to be found. Launcelot it was who performed the funeral rites and chanted the requiem; but when all was done, he pined away, growing weaker daily. So at the end of six weeks, he called to him his fellows, and bidding them all farewell, desired that his dead body should be conveyed to the Joyous Garde, there to be buried; for that in the church at Glastonbury he was not worthy to lie. And that same night he died, and was buried, as he had desired, in his own castle. So passed from the world the bold Sir Launcelot du Lac, bravest, most courteous, and most gentle of knights, whose peer the world has never seen ever shall. After Sir Launcelot's death, Sir Bors and the pious knights, his companions, took their way to the Holy Land, and there they died in battle against the Turk. So ends the story of King Arthur and his noble fellowship of the Round Table. 
7782	----	THE LAST TOURNAMENT BY ALFRED TENNYSON, D.C.L., POET-LAUREATE AUTHOR'S EDITION FROM ADVANCE SHEETS This poem forms one of the "Idyls of the King." Its place is between "Pelleas" and "Guinevere." BY ALFRED TENNYSON, POET LAUREATE Dagonet, the fool, whom Gawain in his moods Had made mock-knight of Arthur's Table Round, At Camelot, high above the yellowing woods, Danced like a wither'd leaf before the Hall. And toward him from the Hall, with harp in hand, And from the crown thereof a carcanet Of ruby swaying to and fro, the prize Of Tristram in the jousts of yesterday, Came Tristram, saying, "Why skip ye so, Sir Fool?" For Arthur and Sir Lancelot riding once Far down beneath a winding wall of rock Heard a child wail. A stump of oak half-dead, From roots like some black coil of carven snakes Clutch'd at the crag, and started thro' mid-air Bearing an eagle's nest: and thro' the tree Rush'd ever a rainy wind, and thro' the wind Pierced ever a child's cry: and crag and tree Scaling, Sir Lancelot from the perilous nest, This ruby necklace thrice around her neck, And all unscarr'd from beak or talon, brought A maiden babe; which Arthur pitying took, Then gave it to his Queen to rear: the Queen But coldly acquiescing, in her white arms Received, and after loved it tenderly, And named it Nestling; so forgot herself A moment, and her cares; till that young life Being smitten in mid-heaven with mortal cold Past from her; and in time the carcanet Vext her with plaintive memories of the child: So she, delivering it to Arthur, said, "Take thou the jewels of this dead innocence, And make them, an thou wilt, a tourney-prize." To whom the King, "Peace to thine eagle-borne Dead nestling, and this honor after death, Following thy will! but, O my Queen, I muse Why ye not wear on arm, or neck, or zone, Those diamonds that I rescued from the tarn, And Lancelot won, methought, for thee to wear." "Would rather ye had let them fall," she cried, "Plunge and be lost--ill-fated as they were, A bitterness to me!--ye look amazed, Not knowing they were lost as soon as given-- Slid from my hands, when I was leaning out Above the river--that unhappy child Past in her barge: but rosier luck will go With these rich jewels, seeing that they came Not from the skeleton of a brother-slayer, But the sweet body of a maiden babe. Perchance--who knows?--the purest of thy knights May win them for the purest of my maids." She ended, and the cry of a great jousts With trumpet-blowings ran on all the ways From Camelot in among the faded fields To furthest towers; and everywhere the knights Arm'd for a day of glory before the King. But on the hither side of that loud morn Into the hall stagger'd, his visage ribb'd From ear to ear with dogwhip-weals, his nose Bridge-broken, one eye out, and one hand off, And one with shatter'd fingers dangling lame, A churl, to whom indignantly the King, "My churl, for whom Christ died, what evil beast Hath drawn his claws athwart thy face? or fiend? Man was it who marr'd Heaven's image in thee thus?" Then, sputtering thro' the hedge of splinter'd teeth, Yet strangers to the tongue, and with blunt stump Pitch-blacken'd sawing the air, said the maim'd churl, "He took them and he drave them to his tower-- Some hold he was a table-knight of thine-- A hundred goodly ones--the Red Knight, he-- "Lord, I was tending swine, and the Red Knight Brake in upon me and drave them to his tower; And when I call'd upon thy name as one That doest right by gentle and by churl, Maim'd me and maul'd, and would outright have slain, Save that he sware me to a message, saying-- 'Tell thou the King and all his liars, that I Have founded my Round Table in the North, And whatsoever his own knights have sworn My knights have sworn the counter to it--and say My tower is full of harlots, like his court, But mine are worthier, seeing they profess To be none other than themselves--and say My knights are all adulterers like his own, But mine are truer, seeing they profess To be none other; and say his hour is come, The heathen are upon him, his long lance Broken, and his Excalibur a straw.'" Then Arthur turn'd to Kay the seneschal, "Take thou my churl, and tend him curiously Like a king's heir, till all his hurts be whole. The heathen--but that ever-climbing wave, Hurl'd back again so often in empty foam, Hath lain for years at rest--and renegades, Thieves, bandits, leavings of confusion, whom The wholesome realm is purged of otherwhere,-- Friends, thro' your manhood and your fealty,--now Make their last head like Satan in the North. My younger knights, new-made, in whom your flower Waits to be solid fruit of golden deeds, Move with me toward their quelling, which achieved, The loneliest ways are safe from shore to shore. But thou, Sir Lancelot, sitting in my place Enchair'd to-morrow, arbitrate the field; For wherefore shouldst thou care to mingle with it, Only to yield my Queen her own again? Speak, Lancelot, thou art silent: is it well?" * * * * * Thereto Sir Lancelot answer'd, "It is well: Yet better if the King abide, and leave The leading of his younger knights to me. Else, for the King has will'd it, it is well." * * * * * Then Arthur rose and Lancelot follow'd him, And while they stood without the doors, the King Turn'd to him saying, "Is it then so well? Or mine the blame that oft I seem as he Of whom was written, 'a sound is in his ears'-- The foot that loiters, bidden go,--the glance That only seems half-loyal to command,-- A manner somewhat fall'n from reverence-- Or have I dream'd the bearing of our knights Tells of a manhood ever less and lower? Or whence the fear lest this my realm, uprear'd, By noble deeds at one with noble vows, From flat confusion and brute violences, Reel back into the beast, and be no more?" * * * * * He spoke, and taking all his younger knights, Down the slope city rode, and sharply turn'd North by the gate. In her high bower the Queen, Working a tapestry, lifted up her head, Watch'd her lord pass, and knew not that she sigh'd. Then ran across her memory the strange rhyme Of bygone Merlin, "Where is he who knows? From the great deep to the great deep he goes." * * * * * But when the morning of a tournament, By these in earnest those in mockery call'd The Tournament of the Dead Innocence, Brake with a wet wind blowing, Lancelot, Round whose sick head all night, like birds of prey, The words of Arthur flying shriek'd, arose, And down a streetway hung with folds of pure White samite, and by fountains running wine, Where children sat in white with cups of gold, Moved to the lists, and there, with slow sad steps Ascending, fill'd his double-dragon'd chair. * * * * * He glanced and saw the stately galleries, Dame, damsel, each thro' worship of their Queen White-robed in honor of the stainless child, And some with scatter'd jewels, like a bank Of maiden snow mingled with sparks of fire. He lookt but once, and veil'd his eyes again. * * * * * The sudden trumpet sounded as in a dream To ears but half-awaked, then one low roll Of Autumn thunder, and the jousts began: And ever the wind blew, and yellowing leaf And gloom and gleam, and shower and shorn plume Went down it. Sighing weariedly, as one Who sits and gazes on a faded fire, When all the goodlier guests are past away, Sat their great umpire, looking o'er the lists. He saw the laws that ruled the tournament Broken, but spake not; once, a knight cast down Before his throne of arbitration cursed The dead babe and the follies of the King; And once the laces of a helmet crack'd, And show'd him, like a vermin in its hole, Modred, a narrow face: anon he heard The voice that billow'd round the barriers roar An ocean-sounding welcome to one knight, But newly-enter'd, taller than the rest, And armor'd all in forest green, whereon There tript a hundred tiny silver deer, And wearing but a holly-spray for crest, With ever-scattering berries, and on shield A spear, a harp, a bugle--Tristram--late From overseas in Brittany return'd, And marriage with a princess of that realm, Isolt the White--Sir Tristram of the Woods-- Whom Lancelot knew, had held sometime with pain His own against him, and now yearn'd to shake The burthen off his heart in one full shock With Tristram ev'n to death: his strong hands gript And dinted the gilt dragons right and left, Until he groan'd for wrath--so many of those, That ware their ladies' colors on the casque, Drew from before Sir Tristram to the bounds, And there with gibes and nickering mockeries Stood, while he mutter'd, "Craven chests! O shame! What faith have these in whom they sware to love? The glory of our Round Table is no more." * * * * * So Tristram won, and Lancelot gave, the gems, Not speaking other word than "Hast thou won? Art thou the purest, brother? See, the hand Wherewith thou takest this is red!" to whom Tristram, half plagued by Lancelot's languorous mood, Made answer, "Ay, but wherefore toss me this Like a dry bone cast to some hungry hound? Let be thy fair Queen's fantasy. Strength of heart And might of limb, but mainly use and skill, Are winners in this pastime of our King. My hand--belike the lance hath dript upon it-- No blood of mine, I trow; but O chief knight, Right arm of Arthur in the battlefield, Great brother, thou nor I have made the world; Be happy in thy fair Queen as I in mine." And Tristram round the gallery made his horse Caracole; then bow'd his homage, bluntly saying, "Fair damsels, each to him who worships each Sole Queen of Beauty and of love, behold This day my Queen of Beauty is not here." Then most of these were mute, some anger'd, one Murmuring "All courtesy is dead," and one, "The glory of our Round Table is no more." Then fell thick rain, plume droopt and mantle clung, And pettish cries awoke, and the wan day Went glooming down in wet and weariness: But under her black brows a swarthy dame Laught shrilly, crying "Praise the patient saints, Our one white day of Innocence hath past, Tho' somewhat draggled at the skirt. So be it. The snowdrop only, flow'ring thro' the year, Would make the world as blank as wintertide. Come--let us comfort their sad eyes, our Queen's And Lancelot's, at this night's solemnity With all the kindlier colors of the field." * * * * * So dame and damsel glitter'd at the feast Variously gay: for he that tells the tale Liken'd them, saying "as when an hour of cold Falls on the mountain in midsummer snows, And all the purple slopes of mountain flowers Pass under white, till the warm hour returns With veer of wind, and all are flowers again;" So dame and damsel cast the simple white, And glowing in all colors, the live grass, Rose-campion, bluebell, kingcup, poppy, glanced About the revels, and with mirth so loud Beyond all use, that, half-amazed, the Queen, And wroth at Tristram and the lawless jousts, Brake up their sports, then slowly to her bower Parted, and in her bosom pain was lord. * * * * * And little Dagonet on the morrow morn, High over all the yellowing Autumn-tide, Danced like a wither'd leaf before the hall. Then Tristram saying, "Why skip ye so, Sir Fool?" Wheel'd round on either heel, Dagonet replied, "Belike for lack of wiser company; Or being fool, and seeing too much wit Makes the world rotten, why, belike I skip To know myself the wisest knight of all." "Ay, fool," said Tristram, "but 'tis eating dry To dance without a catch, a roundelay To dance to." Then he twangled on his harp, And while he twangled little Dagonet stood, Quiet as any water-sodden log Stay'd in the wandering warble of a brook; But when the twangling ended, skipt again; Then being ask'd, "Why skipt ye not, Sir Fool?" Made answer, "I had liefer twenty years Skip to the broken music of my brains Than any broken music ye can make." Then Tristram, waiting for the quip to come, "Good now, what music have I broken, fool?" And little Dagonet, skipping, "Arthur, the king's; For when thou playest that air with Queen Isolt, Thou makest broken music with thy bride, Her daintier namesake down in Brittany-- And so thou breakest Arthur's music too." "Save for that broken music in thy brains, Sir Fool," said Tristram, "I would break thy head. Fool, I came late, the heathen wars were o'er, The life had flown, we sware but by the shell-- I am but a fool to reason with a fool Come, thou art crabb'd and sour: but lean me down, Sir Dagonet, one of thy long asses' ears, And hearken if my music be not true. "'Free love--free field--we love but while we may: The woods are hush'd, their music is no more: The leaf is dead, the yearning past away: New leaf, new life--the days of frost are o'er: New life, new love to suit the newer day: New loves are sweet as those that went before: Free love,--free field--we love but while we may.' "Ye might have moved slow-measure to my tune, Not stood stockstill. I made it in the woods, And found it ring as true as tested gold." But Dagonet with one foot poised in his hand, "Friend, did ye mark that fountain yesterday Made to run wine?--but this had run itself All out like a long life to a sour end-- And them that round it sat with golden cups To hand the wine to whomsoever came-- The twelve small damosels white as Innocence, "In honor of poor Innocence the babe, Who left the gems which Innocence the Queen Lent to the King, and Innocence the King Gave for a prize--and one of those white slips Handed her cup and piped, the pretty one, 'Drink, drink, Sir Fool,' and thereupon I drank, Spat--pish--the cup was gold, the draught was mud." And Tristram, "Was it muddier than thy gibes? Is all the laughter gone dead out of thee?-- Not marking how the knighthood mock thee, fool-- 'Fear God: honor the king--his one true knight-- Sole follower of the vows'--for here be they Who knew thee swine enow before I came, Smuttier than blasted grain: but when the King Had made thee fool, thy vanity so shot up It frighted all free fool from out thy heart; Which left thee less than fool, and less than swine, A naked aught--yet swine I hold thee still, For I have flung thee pearls, and find thee swine." And little Dagonet mincing with his feet, "Knight, an ye fling those rubies round my neck In lieu of hers, I'll hold thou hast some touch Of music, since I care not for thy pearls. Swine? I have wallow'd, I have wash'd--the world Is flesh and shadow--I have had my day. The dirty nurse, Experience, in her kind Hath foul'd me--an I wallow'd, then I wash'd-- I have had my day and my philosophies-- And thank the Lord I am King Arthur's fool. Swine, say ye? swine, goats, asses, rams and geese Troop'd round a Paynim harper once, who thrumm'd On such a wire as musically as thou Some such fine song--but never a king's fool." And Tristram, "Then were swine, goats, asses, geese The wiser fools, seeing thy Paynim bard Had such a mastery of his mystery That he could harp his wife up out of Hell." Then Dagonet, turning on the ball of his foot, "And whither harp'st thou thine? down! and thyself Down! and two more: a helpful harper thou, That harpest downward! Dost thou know the star We call the harp of Arthur up in heaven?" And Tristram, "Ay, Sir Fool, for when our King Was victor wellnigh day by day, the knights, Glorying in each new glory, set his name High on all hills, and in the signs of heaven." And Dagonet answer'd, "Ay, and when the land Was freed, and the Queen false, ye set yourself To babble about him, all to show your wit-- And whether he were king by courtesy, Or king by right--and so went harping down The black king's highway, got so far, and grew So witty, that ye play'd at ducks and drakes With Arthur's vows on the great lake of fire. Tuwhoo! do ye see it? do ye see the star?" "Nay, fool," said Tristram, "not in open day." And Dagonet, "Nay, nor will: I see it and hear. It makes a silent music up in heaven, And I, and Arthur and the angels hear, And then we skip." "Lo, fool," he said, "ye talk Fool's treason: is the king thy brother fool?" Then little Dagonet clapt his hands and shrill'd, "Ay, ay, my brother fool, the king of fools*! Conceits himself as God that he can make Figs out of thistles, silk from bristles, milk From burning spurge, honey from hornet-combs, And men from beasts.--Long live the king of fools!" And down the city Dagonet danced away. But thro' the slowly-mellowing avenues And solitary passes of the wood Rode Tristram toward Lyonesse and the west. Before him fled the face of Queen Isolt With ruby-circled neck, but evermore Past, as a rustle or twitter in the wood Made dull his inner, keen his outer eye For all that walk'd, or crept, or perched, or flew. Anon the face, as, when a gust hath blown, Unruffling waters re-collect the shape Of one that in them sees himself, return'd; But at the slot or fewmets of a deer, Or ev'n a fall'n feather, vanish'd again. So on for all that day from lawn to lawn Thro' many a league-long bower he rode. At length A lodge of intertwisted beechen-boughs Furze-cramm'd, and bracken-rooft, the which himself Built for a summer day with Queen Isolt Against a shower, dark in the golden grove Appearing, sent his fancy back to where She lived a moon in that low lodge with him: Till Mark her lord had past, the Cornish king, With six or seven, when Tristram was away, And snatch'd her thence; yet dreading worse than shame Her warrior Tristram, spake not any word, But bode his hour, devising wretchedness. And now that desert lodge to Tristram lookt So sweet, that, halting, in he past, and sank Down on a drift of foliage random-blown; But could not rest for musing how to smooth And sleek his marriage over to the Queen. Perchance in lone Tintagil far from all The tonguesters of the court she had not heard. But then what folly had sent him overseas After she left him lonely here? a name? Was it the name of one in Brittany, Isolt, the daughter of the King? "Isolt Of the white hands" they call'd her: the sweet name Allured him first, and then the maid herself, Who served him well with those white hands of hers, And loved him well, until himself had thought He loved her also, wedded easily, But left her all as easily, and return'd. The black-blue Irish hair and Irish eyes Had drawn him home--what marvel? then he laid His brows upon the drifted leaf and dream'd. He seem'd to pace the strand of Brittany Between Isolt of Britain and his bride, And show'd them both the ruby-chain, and both Began to struggle for it, till his Queen Graspt it so hard, that all her hand was red. Then cried the Breton, "Look, her hand is red! These be no rubies, this is frozen blood, And melts within her hand--her hand is hot With ill desires, but this I gave thee, look, Is all as cool and white as any flower." Follow'd a rush of eagle's wings, and then A whimpering of the spirit of the child, Because the twain had spoil'd her carcanet. He dream'd; but Arthur with a hundred spears Rode far, till o'er the illimitable reed, And many a glancing plash and sallowy isle, The wide-wing'd sunset of the misty marsh Glared on a huge machicolated tower That stood with open doors, whereout was roll'd A roar of riot, as from men secure Amid their marshes, ruffians at their ease Among their harlot-brides, an evil song. "Lo there," said one of Arthur's youth, for there, High on a grim dead tree before the tower, A goodly brother of The Table Round Swung by the neck: and on the boughs a shield Showing a shower of blood in a field noir, And therebeside a horn, inflamed the knights At that dishonor done the gilded spur, Till each would clash the shield, and blow the horn. But Arthur waved them back: alone he rode. Then at the dry harsh roar of the great horn, That sent the face of all the marsh aloft An ever upward-rushing storm and cloud Of shriek and plume, the Red Knight heard, and all, Even to tipmost lance and topmost helm, In blood-red armor sallying, howl'd to the King, "The teeth of Hell flay bare and gnash thee flat!-- Lo! art thou not that eunuch-hearted King Who fain had clipt free manhood from the world-- The woman-worshipper? Yea, God's curse, and I! Slain was the brother of my paramour By a knight of thine, and I that heard her whine And snivel, being eunuch-hearted too, Sware by the scorpion-worm that twists in hell, And stings itself to everlasting death, To hang whatever knight of thine I fought And tumbled. Art thou King?--Look to thy life!" He ended: Arthur knew the voice; the face Wellnigh was helmet-hidden, and the name Went wandering somewhere darkling in his mind. And Arthur deign'd not use of word or sword, But let the drunkard, as he stretch'd from horse To strike him, overbalancing his bulk, Down from the causeway heavily to the swamp Fall, as the crest of some slow-arching wave Heard in dead night along that table-shore Drops flat, and after the great waters break Whitening for half a league, and thin themselves Far over sands marbled with moon and cloud. From less and less to nothing; thus he fell Head-heavy, while the knights, who watch'd him, roar'd And shouted and leapt down upon the fall'n; There trampled out his face from being known, And sank his head in mire, and slimed themselves: Nor heard the King for their own cries, but sprang Thro' open doors, and swording right and left Men, women, on their sodden faces, hurl'd The tables over and the wines, and slew Till all the rafters rang with woman-yells, And all the pavement stream'd with massacre: Then, yell with yell echoing, they fired the tower, Which half that autumn night, like the live North, Red-pulsing up thro' Alioth and Alcor, Made all above it, and a hundred meres About it, as the water Moab saw Come round by the East, and out beyond them flush'd The long low dune, and lazy-plunging sea. So all the ways were safe from shore to shore, But in the heart of Arthur pain was lord. Then out of Tristram waking the red dream Fled with a shout, and that low lodge return'd, Mid-forest, and the wind among the boughs. He whistled his good warhorse left to graze Among the forest greens, vaulted upon him, And rode beneath an ever-showering leaf, Till one lone woman, weeping near a cross, Stay'd him, "Why weep ye?" "Lord," she said, "my man Hath left me or is dead;" whereon he thought-- "What an she hate me now? I would not this. What an she love me still? I would not that. I know not what I would"--but said to her,-- "Yet weep not thou, lest, if thy mate return, He find thy favor changed and love thee not"-- Then pressing day by day thro' Lyonesse Last in a roky hollow, belling, heard The hounds of Mark, and felt the goodly hounds Yelp at his heart, but, turning, past and gain'd Tintagil, half in sea, and high on land, A crown of towers. Down in a casement sat, A low sea-sunset glorying round her hair And glossy-throated grace, Isolt the Queen. And when she heard the feet of Tristram grind The spiring stone that scaled about her tower, Flush'd, started, met him at the doors, and there Belted his body with her white embrace, Crying aloud, "Not Mark--not Mark, my soul! The footstep flutter'd me at first: not he: Catlike thro' his own castle steals my Mark, But warrior-wise thou stridest through his halls Who hates thee, as I him--ev'n to the death. My soul, I felt my hatred for my Mark Quicken within me, and knew that thou wert nigh." To whom Sir Tristram smiling, "I am here. Let be thy Mark, seeing he is not thine." And drawing somewhat backward she replied, "Can he be wrong'd who is not ev'n his own, But save for dread of thee had beaten me, Scratch'd, bitten, blinded, marr'd me somehow--Mark? What rights are his that dare not strike for them? Not lift a hand--not, tho' he found me thus! But hearken, have ye met him? hence he went To-day for three days' hunting--as he said-- And so returns belike within an hour. Mark's way, my soul!--but eat not thou with him, Because he hates thee even more than fears; Nor drink: and when thou passest any wood Close visor, lest an arrow from the bush Should leave me all alone with Mark and hell. My God, the measure of my hate for Mark Is as the measure of my love for thee." So, pluck'd one way by hate and one by love, Drain'd of her force, again she sat, and spake To Tristram, as he knelt before her, saying, "O hunter, and O blower of the horn, Harper, and thou hast been a rover too, For, ere I mated with my shambling king, Ye twain had fallen out about the bride Of one--his name is out of me--the prize, If prize she were--(what marvel--she could see)-- Thine, friend; and ever since my craven seeks To wreck thee villanously: but, O Sir Knight, What dame or damsel have ye kneeled to last?" And Tristram, "Last to my Queen Paramount, Here now to my Queen Paramount of love, And loveliness, ay, lovelier than when first Her light feet fell on our rough Lyonesse, Sailing from Ireland." Softly laugh'd Isolt, "Flatter me not, for hath not our great Queen My dole of beauty trebled?" and he said, "Her beauty is her beauty, and thine thine, And thine is more to me--soft, gracious, kind-- Save when thy Mark is kindled on thy lips Most gracious; but she, haughty, ev'n to him, Lancelot; for I have seen him wan enow To make one doubt if ever the great Queen Have yielded him her love." To whom Isolt, "Ah then, false hunter and false harper, thou Who brakest thro' the scruple of my bond, Calling me thy white hind, and saying to me That Guinevere had sinned against the highest, And I--misyoked with such a want of man-- That I could hardly sin against the lowest." He answer'd, "O my soul, be comforted! If this be sweet, to sin in leading-strings, If here be comfort, and if ours be sin, Crown'd warrant had we for the crowning sin That made us happy: but how ye greet me--fear And fault and doubt--no word of that fond tale-- Thy deep heart-yearnings, thy sweet memories Of Tristram in that year he was away." And, saddening on the sudden, spake Isolt, "I had forgotten all in my strong joy To see thee--yearnings?--ay! for, hour by hour, Here in the never-ended afternoon, O sweeter than all memories of thee, Deeper than any yearnings after thee Seem'd those far-rolling, westward-smiling seas, Watched from this tower. Isolt of Britain dash'd Before Isolt of Brittany on the strand, Would that have chill'd her bride-kiss? Wedded her? Fought in her father's battles? wounded there? The King was all fulfill'd with gratefulness, And she, my namesake of the hands, that heal'd Thy hurt and heart with unguent and caress-- Well--can I wish her any huger wrong Than having known thee? her too hast thou left To pine and waste in those sweet memories? O were I not my Mark's, by whom all men Are noble, I should hate thee more than love." And Tristram, fondling her light hands, replied, "Grace, Queen, for being loved: she loved me well. Did I love her? the name at least I loved. Isolt?--I fought his battles, for Isolt! The night was dark; the true star set. Isolt! The name was ruler of the dark----Isolt? Care not for her! patient, and prayerful, meek, Pale-blooded, she will yield herself to God." And Isolt answer'd, "Yea, and why not I? Mine is the larger need, who am not meek, Pale-blooded, prayerful. Let me tell thee now. Here one black, mute midsummer night I sat Lonely, but musing on thee, wondering where, Murmuring a light song I had heard thee sing, And once or twice I spake thy name aloud. Then flash'd a levin-brand; and near me stood, In fuming sulphur blue and green, a fiend-- Mark's way to steal behind one in the dark-- For there was Mark: 'He has wedded her,' he said, Not said, but hiss'd it: then this crown of towers So shook to such a roar of all the sky, That here in utter dark I swoon'd away, And woke again in utter dark, and cried, 'I will flee hence and give myself to God'-- And thou wert lying in thy new leman's arms." Then Tristram, ever dallying with her hand, "May God be with thee, sweet, when old and gray, And past desire!" a saying that anger'd her. "'May God be with thee, sweet, when thou art old, And sweet no more to me!' I need Him now. For when had Lancelot utter'd aught so gross Ev'n to the swineherd's malkin in the mast? The greater man, the greater courtesy. But thou, thro' ever harrying thy wild beasts-- Save that to touch a harp, tilt with a lance Becomes thee well--art grown wild beast thyself. How darest thou, if lover, push me even In fancy from thy side, and set me far In the gray distance, half a life away, Her to be loved no more? Unsay it, unswear! Flatter me rather, seeing me so weak, Broken with Mark and hate and solitude, Thy marriage and mine own, that I should suck Lies like sweet wines: lie to me: I believe. Will ye not lie? not swear, as there ye kneel, And solemnly as when ye sware to him, The man of men, our King--My God, the power Was once in vows when men believed the King! They lied not then, who sware, and thro' their vows The King prevailing made his realm:--I say, Swear to me thou wilt love me ev'n when old, Gray-haired, and past desire, and in despair." Then Tristram, pacing moodily up and down, "Vows! did ye keep the vow ye made to Mark More than I mine? Lied, say ye? Nay, but learnt, The vow that binds too strictly snaps itself-- My knighthood taught me this--ay, being snapt-- We run more counter to the soul thereof Than had we never sworn. I swear no more. I swore to the great King, and am forsworn. For once--ev'n to the height--I honor'd him. 'Man, is he man at all?' methought, when first I rode from our rough Lyonesse, and beheld That victor of the Pagan throned in hall-- His hair, a sun that ray'd from off a brow Like hillsnow high in heaven, the steel-blue eyes, The golden beard that clothed his lips with light-- Moreover, that weird legend of his birth, With Merlin's mystic babble about his end, Amazed me; then, his foot was on a stool Shaped as a dragon; he seem'd to me no man, But Michael trampling Satan; so I sware, Being amazed: but this went by--the vows! O ay--the wholesome madness of an hour-- They served their use, their time; for every knight Believed himself a greater than himself, And every follower eyed him as a God; Till he, being lifted up beyond himself, Did mightier deeds than elsewise he had done, And so the realm was made; but then their vows-- First mainly thro' that sullying of our Queen-- Began to gall the knighthood, asking whence Had Arthur right to bind them to himself? Dropt down from heaven? wash'd up from out the deep? They fail'd to trace him thro' the flesh and blood Of our old Kings: whence then? a doubtful lord To bind them by inviolable vows, Which flesh and blood perforce would violate: For feel this arm of mine--the tide within Red with free chase and heather-scented air, Pulsing full man; can Arthur make me pure As any maiden child? lock up my tongue From uttering freely what I freely hear? Bind me to one? The great world laughs at it. And worldling of the world am I, and know The ptarmigan that whitens ere his hour Wooes his own end; we are not angels here Nor shall be: vows--I am woodman of the woods, And hear the garnet-headed yaffingale Mock them: my soul, we love but while we may; And therefore is my love so large for thee, Seeing it is not bounded save by love." Here ending, he moved toward her, and she said, "Good: an I turn'd away my love for thee To some one thrice as courteous as thyself-- For courtesy wins woman all as well As valor may--but he that closes both Is perfect, he is Lancelot--taller indeed, Rosier, and comelier, thou--but say I loved This knightliest of all knights, and cast thee back Thine own small saw 'We love but while we may,' Well then, what answer?" He that while she spake, Mindful of what he brought to adorn her with, The jewels, had let one finger lightly touch The warm white apple of her throat, replied, "Press this a little closer, sweet, until-- Come, I am hunger'd and half-anger'd--meat, Wine, wine--and I will love thee to the death, And out beyond into the dream to come." So then, when both were brought to full accord, She rose, and set before him all he will'd; And after these had comforted the blood With meats and wines, and satiated their hearts-- Now talking of their woodland paradise, The deer, the dews, the fern, the founts, the lawns; Now mocking at the much ungainliness, And craven shifts, and long crane legs of Mark-- Then Tristram laughing caught the harp, and sang: "Ay, ay, O ay--the winds that bend the brier! A star in heaven, a star within the mere! Ay, ay, O ay--a star was my desire, And one was far apart, and one was near: Ay, ay, O ay--the winds that bow the grass! And one was water and one star was fire, And one will ever shine and one will pass. Ay, ay, O ay--the winds that move the mere." Then in the light's last glimmer Tristram show'd And swung the ruby carcanet. She cried, "The collar of some order, which our King Hath newly founded, all for thee, my soul, For thee, to yield thee grace beyond thy peers." "Not so, my Queen," he said, "but the red fruit Grown on a magic oak-tree in mid-heaven, And won by Tristram as a tourney-prize, And hither brought by Tristram for his last Love-offering and peace-offering unto thee." He rose, he turn'd, and flinging round her neck, Claspt it; but while he bow'd himself to lay Warm kisses in the hollow of her throat, Out of the dark, just as the lips had touch'd, Behind him rose a shadow and a shriek-- "Mark's way," said Mark, and clove him thro' the brain. That night came Arthur home, and while he climb'd, All in a death-dumb autumn-dripping gloom, The stairway to the hall, and look'd and saw The great Queen's bower was dark,--about his feet A voice clung sobbing till he question'd it, "What art thou?" and the voice about his feet Sent up an answer, sobbing, "I am thy fool, And I shall never make thee smile again." 
4926	----	BULFINCH'S MYTHOLOGY THE AGE OF FABLE THE AGE OF CHIVALRY LEGENDS OF CHARLEMAGNE BY THOMAS BULFINCH COMPLETE IN ONE VOLUME [Editor's Note: The etext contains only THE AGE OF CHIVALRY] PUBLISHERS' PREFACE No new edition of Bulfinch's classic work can be considered complete without some notice of the American scholar to whose wide erudition and painstaking care it stands as a perpetual monument. "The Age of Fable" has come to be ranked with older books like "Pilgrim's Progress," "Gulliver's Travels," "The Arabian Nights," "Robinson Crusoe," and five or six other productions of world-wide renown as a work with which every one must claim some acquaintance before his education can be called really complete. Many readers of the present edition will probably recall coming in contact with the work as children, and, it may be added, will no doubt discover from a fresh perusal the source of numerous bits of knowledge that have remained stored in their minds since those early years. Yet to the majority of this great circle of readers and students the name Bulfinch in itself has no significance. Thomas Bulfinch was a native of Boston, Mass., where he was born in 1796. His boyhood was spent in that city, and he prepared for college in the Boston schools. He finished his scholastic training at Harvard College, and after taking his degree was for a period a teacher in his home city. For a long time later in life he was employed as an accountant in the Boston Merchants' Bank. His leisure time he used for further pursuit of the classical studies which he had begun at Harvard, and his chief pleasure in life lay in writing out the results of his reading, in simple, condensed form for young or busy readers. The plan he followed in this work, to give it the greatest possible usefulness, is set forth in the Author's Preface. "Age of Fable," First Edition, 1855; "The Age of Chivalry," 1858; "The Boy Inventor," 1860; "Legends of Charlemagne, or Romance of the Middle Ages," 1863; "Poetry of the Age of Fable," 1863; "Oregon and Eldorado, or Romance of the Rivers,"1860. In this complete edition of his mythological and legendary lore "The Age of Fable," "The Age of Chivalry," and "Legends of Charlemagne" are included. Scrupulous care has been taken to follow the original text of Bulfinch, but attention should be called to some additional sections which have been inserted to add to the rounded completeness of the work, and which the publishers believe would meet with the sanction of the author himself, as in no way intruding upon his original plan but simply carrying it out in more complete detail. The section on Northern Mythology has been enlarged by a retelling of the epic of the "Nibelungen Lied," together with a summary of Wagner's version of the legend in his series of music-dramas. Under the head of "Hero Myths of the British Race" have been included outlines of the stories of Beowulf, Cuchulain, Hereward the Wake, and Robin Hood. Of the verse extracts which occur throughout the text, thirty or more have been added from literature which has appeared since Bulfinch's time, extracts that he would have been likely to quote had he personally supervised the new edition. Finally, the index has been thoroughly overhauled and, indeed, remade. All the proper names in the work have been entered, with references to the pages where they occur, and a concise explanation or definition of each has been given. Thus what was a mere list of names in the original has been enlarged into a small classical and mythological dictionary, which it is hoped will prove valuable for reference purposes not necessarily connected with "The Age of Fable." Acknowledgments are due the writings of Dr. Oliver Huckel for information on the point of Wagner's rendering of the Nibelungen legend, and M. I. Ebbutt's authoritative volume on "Hero Myths and Legends of the British Race," from which much of the information concerning the British heroes has been obtained AUTHOR'S PREFACE If no other knowledge deserves to be called useful but that which helps to enlarge our possessions or to raise our station in society, then Mythology has no claim to the appellation. But if that which tends to make us happier and better can be called useful, then we claim that epithet for our subject. For Mythology is the handmaid of literature; and literature is one of the best allies of virtue and promoters of happiness. Without a knowledge of mythology much of the elegant literature of our own language cannot be understood and appreciated. When Byron calls Rome "the Niobe of nations," or says of Venice, "She looks a Sea-Cybele fresh from ocean," he calls up to the mind of one familiar with our subject, illustrations more vivid and striking than the pencil could furnish, but which are lost to the reader ignorant of mythology. Milton abounds in similar allusions. The short poem "Comus" contains more than thirty such, and the ode "On the Morning of the Nativity" half as many. Through "Paradise Lost" they are scattered profusely. This is one reason why we often hear persons by no means illiterate say that they cannot enjoy Milton. But were these persons to add to their more solid acquirements the easy learning of this little volume, much of the poetry of Milton which has appeared to them "harsh and crabbed" would be found "musical as is Apollo's lute." Our citations, taken from more than twenty-five poets, from Spenser to Longfellow, will show how general has been the practice of borrowing illustrations from mythology. The prose writers also avail themselves of the same source of elegant and suggestive illustration. One can hardly take up a number of the "Edinburgh" or "Quarterly Review" without meeting with instances. In Macaulay's article on Milton there are twenty such. But how is mythology to be taught to one who does not learn it through the medium of the languages of Greece and Rome? To devote study to a species of learning which relates wholly to false marvels and obsolete faiths is not to be expected of the general reader in a practical age like this. The time even of the young is claimed by so many sciences of facts and things that little can be spared for set treatises on a science of mere fancy. But may not the requisite knowledge of the subject be acquired by reading the ancient poets in translations? We reply, the field is too extensive for a preparatory course; and these very translations require some previous knowledge of the subject to make them intelligible. Let any one who doubts it read the first page of the "Aeneid," and see what he can make of "the hatred of Juno," the "decree of the Parcae," the "judgment of Paris," and the "honors of Ganymede," without this knowledge. Shall we be told that answers to such queries may be found in notes, or by a reference to the Classical Dictionary? We reply, the interruption of one's reading by either process is so annoying that most readers prefer to let an allusion pass unapprehended rather than submit to it. Moreover, such sources give us only the dry facts without any of the charm of the original narrative; and what is a poetical myth when stripped of its poetry? The story of Ceyx and Halcyone, which fills a chapter in our book, occupies but eight lines in the best (Smith's) Classical Dictionary; and so of others. Our work is an attempt to solve this problem, by telling the stories of mythology in such a manner as to make them a source of amusement. We have endeavored to tell them correctly, according to the ancient authorities, so that when the reader finds them referred to he may not be at a loss to recognize the reference. Thus we hope to teach mythology not as a study, but as a relaxation from study; to give our work the charm of a story-book, yet by means of it to impart a knowledge of an important branch of education. The index at the end will adapt it to the purposes of reference, and make it a Classical Dictionary for the parlor. Most of the classical legends in "Stories of Gods and Heroes" are derived from Ovid and Virgil. They are not literally translated, for, in the author's opinion, poetry translated into literal prose is very unattractive reading. Neither are they in verse, as well for other reasons as from a conviction that to translate faithfully under all the embarrassments of rhyme and measure is impossible. The attempt has been made to tell the stories in prose, preserving so much of the poetry as resides in the thoughts and is separable from the language itself, and omitting those amplifications which are not suited to the altered form. The Northern mythological stories are copied with some abridgment from Mallet's "Northern Antiquities." These chapters, with those on Oriental and Egyptian mythology, seemed necessary to complete the subject, though it is believed these topics have not usually been presented in the same volume with the classical fables. The poetical citations so freely introduced are expected to answer several valuable purposes. They will tend to fix in memory the leading fact of each story, they will help to the attainment of a correct pronunciation of the proper names, and they will enrich the memory with many gems of poetry, some of them such as are most frequently quoted or alluded to in reading and conversation. Having chosen mythology as connected with literature for our province, we have endeavored to omit nothing which the reader of elegant literature is likely to find occasion for. Such stories and parts of stories as are offensive to pure taste and good morals are not given. But such stories are not often referred to, and if they occasionally should be, the English reader need feel no mortification in confessing his ignorance of them. Our work is not for the learned, nor for the theologian, nor for the philosopher, but for the reader of English literature, of either sex, who wishes to comprehend the allusions so frequently made by public speakers, lecturers, essayists, and poets, and those which occur in polite conversation. In the "Stories of Gods and Heroes" the compiler has endeavored to impart the pleasures of classical learning to the English reader, by presenting the stories of Pagan mythology in a form adapted to modern taste. In "King Arthur and His Knights" and "The Mabinogeon" the attempt has been made to treat in the same way the stories of the second "age of fable," the age which witnessed the dawn of the several states of Modern Europe. It is believed that this presentation of a literature which held unrivalled sway over the imaginations of our ancestors, for many centuries, will not be without benefit to the reader, in addition to the amusement it may afford. The tales, though not to be trusted for their facts, are worthy of all credit as pictures of manners; and it is beginning to be held that the manners and modes of thinking of an age are a more important part of its history than the conflicts of its peoples, generally leading to no result. Besides this, the literature of romance is a treasure-house of poetical material, to which modern poets frequently resort. The Italian poets, Dante and Ariosto, the English, Spenser, Scott, and Tennyson, and our own Longfellow and Lowell, are examples of this. These legends are so connected with each other, so consistently adapted to a group of characters strongly individualized in Arthur, Launcelot, and their compeers, and so lighted up by the fires of imagination and invention, that they seem as well adapted to the poet's purpose as the legends of the Greek and Roman mythology. And if every well-educated young person is expected to know the story of the Golden Fleece, why is the quest of the Sangreal less worthy of his acquaintance? Or if an allusion to the shield of Achilles ought not to pass unapprehended, why should one to Excalibar, the famous sword of Arthur?-- "Of Arthur, who, to upper light restored, With that terrific sword, Which yet he brandishes for future war, Shall lift his country's fame above the polar star." [Footnote: Wordsworth] It is an additional recommendation of our subject, that it tends to cherish in our minds the idea of the source from which we sprung. We are entitled to our full share in the glories and recollections of the land of our forefathers, down to the time of colonization thence. The associations which spring from this source must be fruitful of good influences; among which not the least valuable is the increased enjoyment which such associations afford to the American traveller when he visits England, and sets his foot upon any of her renowned localities. The legends of Charlemagne and his peers are necessary to complete the subject. In an age when intellectual darkness enveloped Western Europe, a constellation of brilliant writers arose in Italy. Of these, Pulci (born in 1432), Boiardo (1434), and Ariosto (1474) took for their subjects the romantic fables which had for many ages been transmitted in the lays of bards and the legends of monkish chroniclers. These fables they arranged in order, adorned with the embellishments of fancy, amplified from their own invention, and stamped with immortality. It may safely be asserted that as long as civilization shall endure these productions will retain their place among the most cherished creations of human genius. In "Stories of Gods and Heroes," "King Arthur and His Knights" and "The Mabinogeon" the aim has been to supply to the modern reader such knowledge of the fables of classical and mediaeval literature as is needed to render intelligible the allusions which occur in reading and conversation. The "Legends of Charlemagne" is intended to carry out the same design. Like the earlier portions of the work, it aspires to a higher character than that of a piece of mere amusement. It claims to be useful, in acquainting its readers with the subjects of the productions of the great poets of Italy. Some knowledge of these is expected of every well-educated young person. In reading these romances, we cannot fail to observe how the primitive inventions have been used, again and again, by successive generations of fabulists. The Siren of Ulysses is the prototype of the Siren of Orlando, and the character of Circe reappears in Alcina. The fountains of Love and Hatred may be traced to the story of Cupid and Psyche; and similar effects produced by a magic draught appear in the tale of Tristram and Isoude, and, substituting a flower for the draught, in Shakspeare's "Midsummer Night's Dream." There are many other instances of the same kind which the reader will recognize without our assistance. The sources whence we derive these stories are, first, the Italian poets named above; next, the "Romans de Chevalerie" of the Comte de Tressan; lastly, certain German collections of popular tales. Some chapters have been borrowed from Leigh Hunt's Translations from the Italian Poets. It seemed unnecessary to do over again what he had already done so well; yet, on the other hand, those stories could not be omitted from the series without leaving it incomplete. THOMAS BULFINCH. CONTENTS KING ARTHUR AND HIS KNIGHTS I. Introduction II. The Mythical History of England III. Merlin IV. Arthur V. Arthur (Continued) VI. Sir Gawain VII. Caradoc Briefbras; or, Caradoc with the Shrunken Arm VIII. Launcelot of the Lake IX. The Adventure of the Cart X. The Lady of Shalott XI. Queen Guenever's Peril XII. Tristram and Isoude XIII. Tristram and Isoude (Continued) XIV. Sir Tristram's Battle with Sir Launcelot XV. The Round Table XVI. Sir Palamedes XVII. Sir Tristram XVIII. Perceval XIX. The Sangreal, or Holy Graal XX. The Sangreal (Continued) XXI. The Sangreal (Continued) XXII. Sir Agrivain's Treason XXIII. Morte d'Arthur THE MABINOGEON Introductory Note I. The Britons II. The Lady of the Fountain III. The Lady of the Fountain (Continued) IV. The Lady of the Fountain (Continued) V. Geraint, the Son of Erbin VI. Geraint, the Son of Erbin (Continued) VII. Geraint, the Son of Erbin (Continued) VIII. Pwyll, Prince of Dyved IX. Branwen, the Daughter of Llyr X. Manawyddan XI. Kilwich and Olwen XII. Kilwich and Olwen (Continued) XIII. Taliesin HERO MYTHS OF THE BRITISH RACE Beowulf Cuchulain, Champion of Ireland Hereward the Wake Robin Hood GLOSSARY KING ARTHUR AND HIS KNIGHTS CHAPTER I INTRODUCTION On the decline of the Roman power, about five centuries after Christ, the countries of Northern Europe were left almost destitute of a national government. Numerous chiefs, more or less powerful, held local sway, as far as each could enforce his dominion, and occasionally those chiefs would unite for a common object; but, in ordinary times, they were much more likely to be found in hostility to one another. In such a state of things the rights of the humbler classes of society were at the mercy of every assailant; and it is plain that, without some check upon the lawless power of the chiefs, society must have relapsed into barbarism. Such checks were found, first, in the rivalry of the chiefs themselves, whose mutual jealousy made them restraints upon one another; secondly, in the influence of the Church, which, by every motive, pure or selfish, was pledged to interpose for the protection of the weak; and lastly, in the generosity and sense of right which, however crushed under the weight of passion and selfishness, dwell naturally in the heart of man. From this last source sprang Chivalry, which framed an ideal of the heroic character, combining invincible strength and valor, justice, modesty, loyalty to superiors, courtesy to equals, compassion to weakness, and devotedness to the Church; an ideal which, if never met with in real life, was acknowledged by all as the highest model for emulation. The word "Chivalry" is derived from the French "cheval," a horse. The word "knight," which originally meant boy or servant, was particularly applied to a young man after he was admitted to the privilege of bearing arms. This privilege was conferred on youths of family and fortune only, for the mass of the people were not furnished with arms. The knight then was a mounted warrior, a man of rank, or in the service and maintenance of some man of rank, generally possessing some independent means of support, but often relying mainly on the gratitude of those whom he served for the supply of his wants, and often, no doubt, resorting to the means which power confers on its possessor. In time of war the knight was, with his followers, in the camp of his sovereign, or commanding in the field, or holding some castle for him. In time of peace he was often in attendance at his sovereign's court, gracing with his presence the banquets and tournaments with which princes cheered their leisure. Or he was traversing the country in quest of adventure, professedly bent on redressing wrongs and enforcing rights, sometimes in fulfilment of some vow of religion or of love. These wandering knights were called knights-errant; they were welcome guests in the castles of the nobility, for their presence enlivened the dulness of those secluded abodes, and they were received with honor at the abbeys, which often owed the best part of their revenues to the patronage of the knights; but if no castle or abbey or hermitage were at hand their hardy habits made it not intolerable to them to lie down, supperless, at the foot of some wayside cross, and pass the night. It is evident that the justice administered by such an instrumentality must have been of the rudest description. The force whose legitimate purpose was to redress wrongs might easily be perverted to inflict them Accordingly, we find in the romances, which, however fabulous in facts, are true as pictures of manners, that a knightly castle was often a terror to the surrounding country; that is, dungeons were full of oppressed knights and ladies, waiting for some champion to appear to set them free, or to be ransomed with money; that hosts of idle retainers were ever at hand to enforce their lord's behests, regardless of law and justice; and that the rights of the unarmed multitude were of no account. This contrariety of fact and theory in regard to chivalry will account for the opposite impressions which exist in men's minds respecting it. While it has been the theme of the most fervid eulogium on the one part, it has been as eagerly denounced on the other. On a cool estimate, we cannot but see reason to congratulate ourselves that it has given way in modern times to the reign of law, and that the civil magistrate, if less picturesque, has taken the place of the mailed champion. THE TRAINING OF A KNIGHT The preparatory education of candidates for knighthood was long and arduous. At seven years of age the noble children were usually removed from their father's house to the court or castle of their future patron, and placed under the care of a governor, who taught them the first articles of religion, and respect and reverence for their lords and superiors, and initiated them in the ceremonies of a court. They were called pages, valets, or varlets, and their office was to carve, to wait at table, and to perform other menial services, which were not then considered humiliating. In their leisure hours they learned to dance and play on the harp, were instructed in the mysteries of woods and rivers, that is, in hunting, falconry, and fishing, and in wrestling, tilting with spears, and performing other military exercises on horseback. At fourteen the page became an esquire, and began a course of severer and more laborious exercises. To vault on a horse in heavy armor; to run, to scale walls, and spring over ditches, under the same encumbrance; to wrestle, to wield the battle-axe for a length of time, without raising the visor or taking breath; to perform with grace all the evolutions of horsemanship,--were necessary preliminaries to the reception of knighthood, which was usually conferred at twenty-one years of age, when the young man's education was supposed to be completed. In the meantime, the esquires were no less assiduously engaged in acquiring all those refinements of civility which formed what was in that age called courtesy. The same castle in which they received their education was usually thronged with young persons of the other sex, and the page was encouraged, at a very early age, to select some lady of the court as the mistress of his heart, to whom he was taught to refer all his sentiments, words, and actions. The service of his mistress was the glory and occupation of a knight, and her smiles, bestowed at once by affection and gratitude, were held out as the recompense of his well-directed valor. Religion united its influence with those of loyalty and love, and the order of knighthood, endowed with all the sanctity and religious awe that attended the priesthood, became an object of ambition to the greatest sovereigns. The ceremonies of initiation were peculiarly solemn. After undergoing a severe fast, and spending whole nights in prayer, the candidate confessed, and received the sacrament. He then clothed himself in snow-white garments, and repaired to the church, or the hall, where the ceremony was to take place, bearing a knightly sword suspended from his neck, which the officiating priest took and blessed, and then returned to him. The candidate then, with folded arms, knelt before the presiding knight, who, after some questions about his motives and purposes in requesting admission, administered to him the oaths, and granted his request. Some of the knights present, sometimes even ladies and damsels, handed to him in succession the spurs, the coat of mail, the hauberk, the armlet and gauntlet, and lastly he girded on the sword. He then knelt again before the president, who, rising from his seat, gave him the "accolade," which consisted of three strokes, with the flat of a sword, on the shoulder or neck of the candidate, accompanied by the words: "In the name of God, of St. Michael, and St. George, I make thee a knight; be valiant, courteous, and loyal!" Then he received his helmet, his shield, and spear; and thus the investiture ended. FREEMEN, VILLAINS, SERFS, AND CLERKS The other classes of which society was composed were, first, FREEMEN, owners of small portions of land independent, though they sometimes voluntarily became the vassals of their more opulent neighbors, whose power was necessary for their protection. The other two classes, which were much the most numerous, were either serfs or villains, both of which were slaves. The SERFS were in the lowest state of slavery. All the fruits of their labor belonged to the master whose land they tilled, and by whom they were fed and clothed. The VILLIANS were less degraded. Their situation seems to have resembled that of the Russian peasants at this day. Like the serfs, they were attached to the soil, and were transferred with it by purchase; but they paid only a fixed rent to the landlord, and had a right to dispose of any surplus that might arise from their industry. The term "clerk" was of very extensive import. It comprehended, originally, such persons only as belonged to the clergy, or clerical order, among whom, however, might be found a multitude of married persons, artisans or others. But in process of time a much wider rule was established; every one that could read being accounted a clerk or clericus, and allowed the "benefit of clergy," that is, exemption from capital and some other forms of punishment, in case of crime. TOURNAMENTS The splendid pageant of a tournament between knights, its gaudy accessories and trappings, and its chivalrous regulations, originated in France. Tournaments were repeatedly condemned by the Church, probably on account of the quarrels they led to, and the often fatal results. The "joust," or "just," was different from the tournament. In these, knights fought with their lances, and their object was to unhorse their antagonists; while the tournaments were intended for a display of skill and address in evolutions, and with various weapons, and greater courtesy was observed in the regulations. By these it was forbidden to wound the horse, or to use the point of the sword, or to strike a knight after he had raised his vizor, or unlaced his helmet. The ladies encouraged their knights in these exercises; they bestowed prizes, and the conqueror's feats were the theme of romance and song. The stands overlooking the ground, of course, were varied in the shapes of towers, terraces, galleries, and pensile gardens, magnificently decorated with tapestry, pavilions, and banners. Every combatant proclaimed the name of the lady whose servant d'amour he was. He was wont to look up to the stand, and strengthen his courage by the sight of the bright eyes that were raining their influence on him from above. The knights also carried FAVORS, consisting of scarfs, veils, sleeves, bracelets, clasps,--in short, some piece of female habiliment,--attached to their helmets, shields, or armor. If, during the combat, any of these appendages were dropped or lost the fair donor would at times send her knight new ones, especially if pleased with his exertions. MAIL ARMOR Mail armor, of which the hauberk is a species, and which derived its name from maille, a French word for MESH, was of two kinds, PLATE or SCALE mail, and CHAIN mail. It was originally used for the protection of the body only, reaching no lower than the knees. It was shaped like a carter's frock, and bound round the waist by a girdle. Gloves and hose of mail were afterwards added, and a hood, which, when necessary, was drawn over the head, leaving the face alone uncovered. To protect the skin from the impression of the iron network of the chain mail, a quilted lining was employed, which, however, was insufficient, and the bath was used to efface the marks of the armor. The hauberk was a complete covering of double chain mail. Some hauberks opened before, like a modern coat; others were closed like a shirt. The chain mail of which they were composed was formed by a number of iron links, each link having others inserted into it, the whole exhibiting a kind of network, of which (in some instances at least) the meshes were circular, with each link separately riveted. The hauberk was proof against the most violent blow of a sword; but the point of a lance might pass through the meshes, or drive the iron into the flesh. To guard against this, a thick and well- stuffed doublet was worn underneath, under which was commonly added an iron breastplate. Hence the expression "to pierce both plate and mail," so common in the earlier poets. Mail armor continued in general use till about the year 1300, when it was gradually supplanted by plate armor, or suits consisting of pieces or plates of solid iron, adapted to the different parts of the body. Shields were generally made of wood, covered with leather, or some similar substance. To secure them, in some sort, from being cut through by the sword, they were surrounded with a hoop of metal. HELMETS The helmet was composed of two parts: the HEADPIECE, which was strengthened within by several circles of iron, and the VISOR, which, as the name implies, was a sort of grating to see through, so contrived as, by sliding in a groove, or turning on a pivot, to be raised or lowered at pleasure. Some helmets had a further improvement called a BEVER, from the Italian bevere, to drink. The VENTAYLE, or "air-passage," is another name for this. To secure the helmet from the possibility of falling, or of being struck off, it was tied by several laces to the meshes of the hauberk; consequently, when a knight was overthrown it was necessary to undo these laces before he could be put to death; though this was sometimes effected by lifting up the skirt of the hauberk, and stabbing him in the belly. The instrument of death was a small dagger, worn on the right side. ROMANCES In ages when there were no books, when noblemen and princes themselves could not read, history or tradition was monopolized by the story-tellers. They inherited, generation after generation, the wondrous tales of their predecessors, which they retailed to the public with such additions of their own as their acquired information supplied them with. Anachronisms became of course very common, and errors of geography, of locality, of manners, equally so. Spurious genealogies were invented, in which Arthur and his knights, and Charlemagne and his paladins, were made to derive their descent from Aeneas, Hector, or some other of the Trojan heroes. With regard to the derivation of the word "Romance," we trace it to the fact that the dialects which were formed in Western Europe, from the admixture of Latin with the native languages, took the name of Langue Romaine. The French language was divided into two dialects. The river Loire was their common boundary. In the provinces to the south of that river the affirmative, YES, was expressed by the word oc; in the north it was called oil (oui); and hence Dante has named the southern language langue d'oc, and the northern langue d'oil. The latter, which was carried into England by the Normans, and is the origin of the present French, may be called the French Romane; and the former the Provencal, or Provencial Romane, because it was spoken by the people of Provence and Languedoc, southern provinces of France. These dialects were soon distinguished by very opposite characters. A soft and enervating climate, a spirit of commerce encouraged by an easy communication with other maritime nations, the influx of wealth, and a more settled government, may have tended to polish and soften the diction of the Provencials, whose poets, under the name of Troubadours, were the masters of the Italians, and particularly of Petrarch. Their favorite pieces were Sirventes (satirical pieces), love-songs, and Tensons, which last were a sort of dialogue in verse between two poets, who questioned each other on some refined points of loves' casuistry. It seems the Provencials were so completely absorbed in these delicate questions as to neglect and despise the composition of fabulous histories of adventure and knighthood, which they left in a great measure to the poets of the northern part of the kingdom, called Trouveurs. At a time when chivalry excited universal admiration, and when all the efforts of that chivalry were directed against the enemies of religion, it was natural that literature should receive the same impulse, and that history and fable should be ransacked to furnish examples of courage and piety that might excite increased emulation. Arthur and Charlemagne were the two heroes selected for this purpose. Arthur's pretensions were that he was a brave, though not always a successful warrior; he had withstood with great resolution the arms of the infidels, that is to say of the Saxons, and his memory was held in the highest estimation by his countrymen, the Britons, who carried with them into Wales, and into the kindred country of Armorica, or Brittany, the memory of his exploits, which their national vanity insensibly exaggerated, till the little prince of the Silures (South Wales) was magnified into the conqueror of England, of Gaul, and of the greater part of Europe. His genealogy was gradually carried up to an imaginary Brutus, and to the period of the Trojan war, and a sort of chronicle was composed in the Welsh, or Armorican language, which, under the pompous title of the "History of the Kings of Britain," was translated into Latin by Geoffrey of Monmouth, about the year 1150. The Welsh critics consider the material of the work to have been an older history, written by St. Talian, Bishop of St. Asaph, in the seventh century. As to Charlemagne, though his real merits were sufficient to secure his immortality, it was impossible that his HOLY WARS against the Saracens should not become a favorite topic for fiction. Accordingly, the fabulous history of these wars was written, probably towards the close of the eleventh century, by a monk, who, thinking it would add dignity to his work to embellish it with a contemporary name, boldly ascribed it to Turpin, who was Archbishop of Rheims about the year 773. These fabulous chronicles were for a while imprisoned in languages of local only or of professional access. Both Turpin and Geoffrey might indeed be read by ecclesiastics, the sole Latin scholars of those times, and Geoffrey's British original would contribute to the gratification of Welshmen; but neither could become extensively popular till translated into some language of general and familiar use. The Anglo-Saxon was at that time used only by a conquered and enslaved nation; the Spanish and Italian languages were not yet formed; the Norman French alone was spoken and understood by the nobility in the greater part of Europe, and therefore was a proper vehicle for the new mode of composition. That language was fashionable in England before the Conquest, and became, after that event, the only language used at the court of London. As the various conquests of the Normans, and the enthusiastic valor of that extraordinary people, had familiarized the minds of men with the most marvellous events, their poets eagerly seized the fabulous legends of Arthur and Charlemagne, translated them into the language of the day, and soon produced a variety of imitations. The adventures attributed to these monarchs, and to their distinguished warriors, together with those of many other traditionary or imaginary heroes, composed by degrees that formidable body of marvellous histories which, from the dialect in which the most ancient of them were written, were called "Romances." METRICAL ROMANCES The earliest form in which romances appear is that of a rude kind of verse. In this form it is supposed they were sung or recited at the feasts of princes and knights in their baronial halls. The following specimen of the language and style of Robert de Beauvais, who flourished in 1257, is from Sir Walter Scott's "Introduction to the Romance of Sir Tristrem": "Ne voil pas emmi dire, Ici diverse la matyere, Entre ceus qui solent cunter, E de le cunte Tristran parler." "I will not say too much about it, So diverse is the matter, Among those who are in the habit of telling And relating the story of Tristran." This is a specimen of the language which was in use among the nobility of England, in the ages immediately after the Norman conquest. The following is a specimen of the English that existed at the same time, among the common people. Robert de Brunne, speaking of his Latin and French authorities, says: "Als thai haf wryten and sayd Haf I alle in myn Inglis layd, In symple speche as I couthe, That is lightest in manne's mouthe. Alle for the luf of symple men, That strange Inglis cannot ken." The "strange Inglis" being the language of the previous specimen. It was not till toward the end of the thirteenth century that the PROSE romances began to appear. These works generally began with disowning and discrediting the sources from which in reality they drew their sole information. As every romance was supposed to be a real history, the compilers of those in prose would have forfeited all credit if they had announced themselves as mere copyists of the minstrels. On the contrary, they usually state that, as the popular poems upon the matter in question contain many "lesings," they had been induced to translate the real and true history of such or such a knight from the original Latin or Greek, or from the ancient British or Armorican authorities, which authorities existed only in their own assertion. A specimen of the style of the prose romances may be found in the following extract from one of the most celebrated and latest of them, the "Morte d'Arthur" of Sir Thomas Mallory, of the date of 1485. From this work much of the contents of this volume has been drawn, with as close an adherence to the original style as was thought consistent with our plan of adapting our narrative to the taste of modern readers. "It is notoyrly knowen thorugh the vnyuersal world that there been ix worthy and the best that ever were. That is to wete thre paynyms, three Jewes, and three crysten men. As for the paynyms, they were tofore the Incarnacyon of Cryst whiche were named, the fyrst Hector of Troye; the second Alysaunder the grete, and the thyrd Julyus Cezar, Emperour of Rome, of whome thystoryes ben wel kno and had. And as for the thre Jewes whyche also were tofore thyncarnacyon of our Lord, of whome the fyrst was Duc Josue, whyche brought the chyldren of Israhel into the londe of beheste; the second Dauyd, kyng of Jherusalem, and the thyrd Judas Machabeus; of these thre the byble reherceth al theyr noble hystoryes and actes. And sythe the sayd Incarnacyon haue ben the noble crysten men stalled and admytted thorugh the vnyuersal world to the nombre of the ix beste and worthy, of whome was fyrst the noble Arthur, whose noble actes I purpose to wryte in this person book here folowyng. The second was Charlemayn, or Charles the grete, of whome thystorye is had in many places both in frensshe and englysshe, and the thyrd and last was Godefray of boloyn." CHAPTER II THE MYTHICAL HISTORY OF ENGLAND The illustrious poet, Milton, in his "History of England," is the author whom we chiefly follow in this chapter. According to the earliest accounts, Albion, a giant, and son of Neptune, a contemporary of Hercules, ruled over the island, to which he gave his name. Presuming to oppose the progress of Hercules in his western march, he was slain by him. Another story is that Histion, the son of Japhet, the son of Noah, had four sons, Francus, Romanus, Alemannus, and Britto, from whom descended the French, Roman, German, and British people. Rejecting these and other like stories, Milton gives more regard to the story of Brutus, the Trojan, which, he says, is supported by "descents of ancestry long continued, laws and exploits not plainly seeming to be borrowed or devised, which on the common belief have wrought no small impression; defended by many, denied utterly by few." The principal authority is Geoffrey of Monmouth, whose history, written in the twelfth century, purports to be a translation of a history of Britain brought over from the opposite shore of France, which, under the name of Brittany, was chiefly peopled by natives of Britain who, from time to time, emigrated thither, driven from their own country by the inroads of the Picts and Scots. According to this authority, Brutus was the son of Silvius, and he of Ascanius, the son of Aeneas, whose flight from Troy and settlement in Italy are narrated in "Stories of Gods and Heroes." Brutus, at the age of fifteen, attending his father to the chase, unfortunately killed him with an arrow. Banished therefor by his kindred, he sought refuge in that part of Greece where Helenus, with a band of Trojan exiles, had become established. But Helenus was now dead and the descendants of the Trojans were oppressed by Pandrasus, the king of the country. Brutus, being kindly received among them, so throve in virtue and in arms as to win the regard of all the eminent of the land above all others of his age. In consequence of this the Trojans not only began to hope, but secretly to persuade him to lead them the way to liberty. To encourage them, they had the promise of help from Assaracus, a noble Greek youth, whose mother was a Trojan. He had suffered wrong at the hands of the king, and for that reason the more willingly cast in his lost with the Trojan exiles. Choosing a fit opportunity, Brutus with his countrymen withdrew to the woods and hills, as the safest place from which to expostulate, and sent this message to Pandrasus: "That the Trojans, holding it unworthy of their ancestors to serve in a foreign land, had retreated to the woods, choosing rather a savage life than a slavish one. If that displeased him, then, with his leave, they would depart to some other country." Pandrasus, not expecting so bold a message from the sons of captives, went in pursuit of them, with such forces as he could gather, and met them on the banks of the Achelous, where Brutus got the advantage, and took the king captive. The result was, that the terms demanded by the Trojans were granted; the king gave his daughter Imogen in marriage to Brutus, and furnished shipping, money, and fit provision for them all to depart from the land. The marriage being solemnized, and shipping from all parts got together, the Trojans, in a fleet of no less than three hundred and twenty sail, betook themselves to the sea. On the third day they arrived at a certain island, which they found destitute of inhabitants, though there were appearances of former habitation, and among the ruins a temple of Diana. Brutus, here performing sacrifice at the shrine of the goddess, invoked an oracle for his guidance, in these lines: "Goddess of shades, and huntress, who at will Walk'st on the rolling sphere, and through the deep; On thy third realm, the earth, look now, and tell What land, what seat of rest, thou bidd'st me seek; What certain seat where I may worship thee For aye, with temples vowed and virgin choirs." To whom, sleeping before the altar, Diana in a vision thus answered: "Brutus! far to the west, in the ocean wide, Beyond the realm of Gaul, a land there lies, Seagirt it lies, where giants dwelt of old; Now, void, it fits thy people: thither bend Thy course; there shalt thou find a lasting seat; There to thy sons another Troy shall rise, And kings be born of thee, whose dreaded might Shall awe the world, and conquer nations bold" Brutus, guided now, as he thought, by divine direction, sped his course towards the west, and, arriving at a place on the Tyrrhene sea, found there the descendants of certain Trojans who, with Antenor, came into Italy, of whom Corineus was the chief. These joined company, and the ships pursued their way till they arrived at the mouth of the river Loire, in France, where the expedition landed, with a view to a settlement, but were so rudely assaulted by the inhabitants that they put to sea again, and arrived at a part of the coast of Britain, now called Devonshire, where Brutus felt convinced that he had found the promised end of his voyage, landed his colony, and took possession. The island, not yet Britain, but Albion, was in a manner desert and inhospitable, occupied only by a remnant of the giant race whose excessive force and tyranny had destroyed the others. The Trojans encountered these and extirpated them, Corineus, in particular, signalizing himself by his exploits against them; from whom Cornwall takes its name, for that region fell to his lot, and there the hugest giants dwelt, lurking in rocks and caves, till Corineus rid the land of them. Brutus built his capital city, and called it Trojanova (New Troy), changed in time to Trinovantus, now London; [Footnote: "For noble Britons sprong from Trojans bold, And Troynovant was built of old Troy's ashes cold" SPENSER, Book III, Canto IX., 38.] and, having governed the isle twenty-four years, died, leaving three sons, Locrine, Albanact and Camber. Locrine had the middle part, Camber the west, called Cambria from him, and Albanact Albania, now Scotland. Locrine was married to Guendolen, the daughter of Corineus, but having seen a fair maid named Estrildis, who had been brought captive from Germany, he became enamoured of her, and had by her a daughter, whose name was Sabra. This matter was kept secret while Corineus lived, but after his death Locrine divorced Guendolen, and made Estrildis his queen. Guendolen, all in rage, departed to Cornwall, where Madan, her son, lived, who had been brought up by Corineus, his grandfather. Gathering an army of her father's friends and subjects, she gave battle to her husband's forces and Locrine was slain. Guendolen caused her rival, Estrildis, with her daughter Sabra, to be thrown into the river, from which cause the river thenceforth bore the maiden's name, which by length of time is now changed into Sabrina or Severn. Milton alludes to this in his address to the rivers,-- "Severn swift, guilty of maiden's death";-- and in his "Comus" tells the story with a slight variation, thus: "There is a gentle nymph not far from hence, That with moist curb sways the smooth Severn stream; Sabrina is her name, a virgin pure: Whilom she was the daughter of Locrine, That had the sceptre from his father, Brute, She, guiltless damsel, flying the mad pursuit Of her enraged step-dame, Guendolen, Commended her fair innocence to the flood, That stayed her night with his cross-flowing course The water-nymphs that in the bottom played, Held up their pearled wrists and took her in, Bearing her straight to aged Nereus' hall, Who, piteous of her woes, reared her lank head, And gave her to his daughters to imbathe In nectared lavers strewed with asphodel, And through the porch and inlet of each sense Dropped in ambrosial oils till she revived, And underwent a quick, immortal change, Made goddess of the river," etc. If our readers ask when all this took place, we must answer, in the first place, that mythology is not careful of dates; and next, that, as Brutus was the great-grandson of Aeneas, it must have been not far from a century subsequent to the Trojan war, or about eleven hundred years before the invasion of the island by Julius Caesar. This long interval is filled with the names of princes whose chief occupation was in warring with one another. Some few, whose names remain connected with places, or embalmed in literature, we will mention. BLADUD Bladud built the city of Bath, and dedicated the medicinal waters to Minerva. He was a man of great invention, and practised the arts of magic, till, having made him wings to fly, he fell down upon the temple of Apollo, in Trinovant, and so died, after twenty years' reign. LEIR Leir, who next reigned, built Leicester, and called it after his name. He had no male issue, but only three daughters. When grown old he determined to divide his kingdom among his daughters, and bestow them in marriage. But first, to try which of them loved him best, he determined to ask them solemnly in order, and judge of the warmth of their affection by their answers. Goneril, the eldest, knowing well her father's weakness, made answer that she loved him "above her soul." "Since thou so honorest my declining age," said the old man, "to thee and to thy husband I give the third part of my realm." Such good success for a few words soon uttered was ample instruction to Regan, the second daughter, what to say. She therefore to the same question replied that "she loved him more than all the world beside;" and so received an equal reward with her sister. But Cordelia, the youngest, and hitherto the best beloved, though having before her eyes the reward of a little easy soothing, and the loss likely to attend plain- dealing, yet was not moved from the solid purpose of a sincere and virtuous answer, and replied: "Father, my love towards you is as my duty bids. They who pretend beyond this flatter." When the old man, sorry to hear this, and wishing her to recall these words, persisted in asking, she still restrained her expressions so as to say rather less than more than the truth. Then Leir, all in a passion, burst forth: "Since thou hast not reverenced thy aged father like thy sisters, think not to have any part in my kingdom or what else I have;"--and without delay, giving in marriage his other daughters, Goneril to the Duke of Albany, and Regan to the Duke of Cornwall, he divides his kingdom between them, and goes to reside with his eldest daughter, attended only by a hundred knights. But in a short time his attendants, being complained of as too numerous and disorderly, are reduced to thirty. Resenting that affront, the old king betakes him to his second daughter; but she, instead of soothing his wounded pride, takes part with her sister, and refuses to admit a retinue of more than five. Then back he returns to the other, who now will not receive him with more than one attendant. Then the remembrance of Cordeilla comes to his thoughts, and he takes his journey into France to seek her, with little hope of kind consideration from one whom he had so injured, but to pay her the last recompense he can render,-- confession of his injustice. When Cordeilla is informed of his approach, and of his sad condition, she pours forth true filial tears. And, not willing that her own or others' eyes should see him in that forlorn condition, she sends one of her trusted servants to meet him, and convey him privately to some comfortable abode, and to furnish him with such state as befitted his dignity. After which Cordeilla, with the king her husband, went in state to meet him, and, after an honorable reception, the king permitted his wife, Cordeilla, to go with an army and set her father again upon his throne. They prospered, subdued the wicked sisters and their consorts, and Leir obtained the crown and held it three years. Cordeilla succeeded him and reigned five years; but the sons of her sisters, after that, rebelled against her, and she lost both her crown and life. Shakspeare has chosen this story as the subject of his tragedy of "King Lear," varying its details in some respects. The madness of Leir, and the ill success of Cordeilla's attempt to reinstate her father, are the principal variations, and those in the names will also be noticed. Our narrative is drawn from Milton's "History;" and thus the reader will perceive that the story of Leir has had the distinguished honor of being told by the two acknowledged chiefs of British literature. FERREX AND PORREX Ferrex and Porrex were brothers, who held the kingdom after Leir. They quarrelled about the supremacy, and Porrex expelled his brother, who, obtaining aid from Suard, king of the Franks, returned and made war upon Porrex. Ferrex was slain in battle and his forces dispersed. When their mother came to hear of her son's death, who was her favorite, she fell into a great rage, and conceived a mortal hatred against the survivor. She took, therefore, her opportunity when he was asleep, fell upon him, and, with the assistance of her women, tore him in pieces. This horrid story would not be worth relating, were it not for the fact that it has furnished the plot for the first tragedy which was written in the English language. It was entitled "Gorboduc," but in the second edition "Ferrex and Porrex," and was the production of Thomas Sackville, afterwards Earl of Dorset, and Thomas Norton, a barrister. Its date was 1561. DUNWALLO MOLMUTIUS This is the next name of note. Molmutius established the Molmutine laws, which bestowed the privilege of sanctuary on temples, cities, and the roads leading to them, and gave the same protection to ploughs, extending a religious sanction to the labors of the field. Shakspeare alludes to him in "Cymbeline," Act III., Scene 1: "... Molmutius made our laws; Who was the first of Britain which did put His brows within a golden crown, and called Himself a king." BRENNUS AND BELINUS, The sons of Molmutius, succeeded him. They quarrelled, and Brennus was driven out of the island, and took refuge in Gaul, where he met with such favor from the king of the Allobroges that he gave him his daughter in marriage, and made him his partner on the throne. Brennus is the name which the Roman historians give to the famous leader of the Gauls who took Rome in the time of Camillus. Geoffrey of Monmouth claims the glory of the conquest for the British prince, after he had become king of the Allobroges. ELIDURE After Belinus and Brennus there reigned several kings of little note, and then came Elidure. Arthgallo, his brother, being king, gave great offence to his powerful nobles, who rose against him, deposed him, and advanced Elidure to the throne. Arthgallo fled, and endeavored to find assistance in the neighboring kingdoms to reinstate him, but found none. Elidure reigned prosperously and wisely. After five years' possession of the kingdom, one day, when hunting, he met in the forest his brother, Arthgallo, who had been deposed. After long wandering, unable longer to bear the poverty to which he was reduced, he had returned to Britain, with only ten followers, designing to repair to those who had formerly been his friends. Elidure, at the sight of his brother in distress, forgetting all animosities, ran to him, and embraced him. He took Arthgallo home with him, and concealed him in the palace. After this he feigned himself sick, and, calling his nobles about him, induced them, partly by persuasion, partly by force, to consent to his abdicating the kingdom, and reinstating his brother on the throne. The agreement being ratified, Elidure took the crown from his own head, and put it on his brother's head. Arthgallo after this reigned ten years, well and wisely, exercising strict justice towards all men. He died, and left the kingdom to his sons, who reigned with various fortunes, but were not long-lived, and left no offspring, so that Elidure was again advanced to the throne, and finished the course of his life in just and virtuous actions, receiving the name of THE PIOUS, from the love and admiration of his subjects. Wordsworth has taken the story of Artegal and Elidure for the subject of a poem, which is No. 2 of "Poems founded on the Affections." LUD After Elidure, the Chronicle names many kings, but none of special note, till we come to Lud, who greatly enlarged Trinovant, his capital, and surrounded it with a wall. He changed its name, bestowing upon it his own, so that henceforth it was called Lud's town, afterwards London. Lud was buried by the gate of the city called after him Ludgate. He had two sons, but they were not old enough at the time of their father's death to sustain the cares of government, and therefore their uncle, Caswallaun, or Cassibellaunus, succeeded to the kingdom. He was a brave and magnificent prince, so that his fame reached to distant countries. CASSIBELLAUNUS About this time it happened (as is found in the Roman histories) that Julius Caesar, having subdued Gaul, came to the shore opposite Britain. And having resolved to add this island also to his conquests, he prepared ships and transported his army across the sea, to the mouth of the River Thames. Here he was met by Cassibellaun with all his forces, and a battle ensued, in which Nennius, the brother of Cassibellaun, engaged in single combat with Csesar. After several furious blows given and received, the sword of Caesar stuck so fast in the shield of Nennius that it could not be pulled out, and the combatants being separated by the intervention of the troops Nennius remained possessed of this trophy. At last, after the greater part of the day was spent, the Britons poured in so fast that Caesar was forced to retire to his camp and fleet. And finding it useless to continue the war any longer at that time, he returned to Gaul. Shakspeare alludes to Cassibellaunus, in "Cymbeline": "The famed Cassibelan, who was once at point (O giglot fortune!) to master Caesar's sword, Made Lud's town with rejoicing fires bright, And Britons strut with courage." KYMBELINUS, OR CYMBELINE Caesar, on a second invasion of the island, was more fortunate, and compelled the Britons to pay tribute. Cymbeline, the nephew of the king, was delivered to the Romans as a hostage for the faithful fulfilment of the treaty, and, being carried to Rome by Caesar, he was there brought up in the Roman arts and accomplishments. Being afterwards restored to his country, and placed on the throne, he was attached to the Romans, and continued through all his reign at peace with them. His sons, Guiderius and Arviragus, who made their appearance in Shakspeare's play of "Cymbeline," succeeded their father, and, refusing to pay tribute to the Romans, brought on another invasion. Guiderius was slain, but Arviragus afterward made terms with the Romans, and reigned prosperously many years. ARMORICA The next event of note is the conquest and colonization of Armorica, by Maximus, a Roman general, and Conan, lord of Miniadoc or Denbigh-land, in Wales. The name of the country was changed to Brittany, or Lesser Britain; and so completely was it possessed by the British colonists, that the language became assimilated to that spoken in Wales, and it is said that to this day the peasantry of the two countries can understand each other when speaking their native language. The Romans eventually succeeded in establishing themselves in the island, and after the lapse of several generations they became blended with the natives so that no distinction existed between the two races. When at length the Roman armies were withdrawn from Britain, their departure was a matter of regret to the inhabitants, as it left them without protection against the barbarous tribes, Scots, Picts, and Norwegians, who harassed the country incessantly. This was the state of things when the era of King Arthur began. The adventure of Albion, the giant, with Hercules is alluded to by Spenser, "Faery Queene," Book IV., Canto xi: "For Albion the son of Neptune was; Who for the proof of his great puissance, Out of his Albion did on dry foot pass Into old Gaul that now is cleped France, To fight with Hercules, that did advance To vanquish all the world with matchless might: And there his mortal part by great mischance Was slain." CHAPTER III MERLIN Merlin was the son of no mortal father, but of an Incubus, one of a class of beings not absolutely wicked, but far from good, who inhabit the regions of the air. Merlin's mother was a virtuous young woman, who, on the birth of her son, intrusted him to a priest, who hurried him to the baptismal fount, and so saved him from sharing the lot of his father, though he retained many marks of his unearthly origin. At this time Vortigern reigned in Britain. He was a usurper, who had caused the death of his sovereign, Moines, and driven the two brothers of the late king, whose names were Uther and Pendragon, into banishment. Vortigern, who lived in constant fear of the return of the rightful heirs of the kingdom, began to erect a strong tower for defence. The edifice, when brought by the workmen to a certain height, three times fell to the ground, without any apparent cause. The king consulted his astrologers on this wonderful event, and learned from them that it would be necessary to bathe the corner-stone of the foundation with the blood of a child born without a mortal father. In search of such an infant, Vortigern sent his messengers all over the kingdom, and they by accident discovered Merlin, whose lineage seemed to point him out as the individual wanted. They took him to the king; but Merlin, young as he was, explained to the king the absurdity of attempting to rescue the fabric by such means, for he told him the true cause of the instability of the tower was its being placed over the den of two immense dragons, whose combats shook the earth above them. The king ordered his workmen to dig beneath the tower, and when they had done so they discovered two enormous serpents, the one white as milk the other red as fire. The multitude looked on with amazement, till the serpents, slowly rising from their den, and expanding their enormous folds, began the combat, when every one fled in terror, except Merlin, who stood by clapping his hands and cheering on the conflict. The red dragon was slain, and the white one, gliding through a cleft in the rock, disappeared. These animals typified, as Merlin afterwards explained, the invasion of Uther and Pendragon, the rightful princes, who soon after landed with a great army. Vortigern was defeated, and afterwards burned alive in the castle he had taken such pains to construct. On the death of Vortigern, Pendragon ascended the throne. Merlin became his chief adviser, and often assisted the king by his magical arts. "Merlin, who knew the range of all their arts, Had built the King his havens, ships and halls." --Vivian. Among other endowments, he had the power of transforming himself into any shape he pleased. At one time he appeared as a dwarf, at others as a damsel, a page, or even a greyhound or a stag. This faculty he often employed for the service of the king, and sometimes also for the diversion of the court and the sovereign. Merlin continued to be a favorite counsellor through the reigns of Pendragon, Uther, and Arthur, and at last disappeared from view, and was no more found among men, through the treachery of his mistress, Viviane, the Fairy, which happened in this wise. Merlin, having become enamoured of the fair Viviane, the Lady of the Lake, was weak enough to impart to her various important secrets of his art, being impelled by fatal destiny, of which he was at the same time fully aware. The lady, however, was not content with his devotion, unbounded as it seems to have been, but "cast about," the Romance tells us, how she might "detain him for evermore," and one day addressed him in these terms: "Sir, I would that we should make a fair place and a suitable, so contrived by art and by cunning that it might never be undone, and that you and I should be there in joy and solace." "My lady," said Merlin, "I will do all this." "Sir," said she, "I would not have you do it, but you shall teach me, and I will do it, and then it will be more to my mind." "I grant you this," said Merlin. Then he began to devise, and the damsel put it all in writing. And when he had devised the whole, then had the damsel full great joy, and showed him greater semblance of love than she had ever before made, and they sojourned together a long while. At length it fell out that, as they were going one day hand in hand through the forest of Breceliande, they found a bush of white-thorn, which was laden with flowers; and they seated themselves under the shade of this white-thorn, upon the green grass, and Merlin laid his head upon the damsel's lap, and fell asleep. Then the damsel rose, and made a ring with her wimple round the bush, and round Merlin, and began her enchantments, such as he himself had taught her; and nine times she made the ring, and nine times she made the enchantment, and then she went and sat down by him, and placed his head again upon her lap. "And a sleep Fell upon Merlin more like death, so deep Her finger on her lips; then Vivian rose, And from her brown-locked head the wimple throws, And takes it in her hand and waves it over The blossomed thorn tree and her sleeping lover. Nine times she waved the fluttering wimple round, And made a little plot of magic ground." --Matthew Arnold. And when he awoke, and looked round him, it seemed to him that he was enclosed in the strongest tower in the world, and laid upon a fair bed. Then said he to the dame: "My lady, you have deceived me, unless you abide with me, for no one hath power to unmake this tower but you alone." She then promised she would be often there, and in this she held her covenant with him. And Merlin never went out of that tower where his Mistress Viviane had enclosed him; but she entered and went out again when she listed. After this event Merlin was never more known to hold converse with any mortal but Viviane, except on one occasion. Arthur, having for some time missed him from his court, sent several of his knights in search of him, and, among the number, Sir Gawain, who met with a very unpleasant adventure while engaged in this quest. Happening to pass a damsel on his road, and neglecting to salute her, she revenged herself for his incivility by transforming him into a hideous dwarf. He was bewailing aloud his evil fortune as he went through the forest of Breceliande, when suddenly he heard the voice of one groaning on his right hand; and, looking that way, he could see nothing save a kind of smoke, which seemed like air, and through which he could not pass. Merlin then addressed him from out the smoke, and told him by what misadventure he was imprisoned there. "Ah, sir!" he added, "you will never see me more, and that grieves me, but I cannot remedy it; I shall never more speak to you, nor to any other person, save only my mistress. But do thou hasten to King Arthur, and charge him from me to undertake, without delay, the quest of the Sacred Graal. The knight is already born, and has received knighthood at his hands, who is destined to accomplish this quest." And after this he comforted Gawain under his transformation, assuring him that he should speedily be disenchanted; and he predicted to him that he should find the king at Carduel, in Wales, on his return, and that all the other knights who had been on like quest would arrive there the same day as himself. And all this came to pass as Merlin had said. Merlin is frequently introduced in the tales of chivalry, but it is chiefly on great occasions, and at a period subsequent to his death, or magical disappearance. In the romantic poems of Italy, and in Spenser, Merlin is chiefly represented as a magical artist. Spenser represents him as the artificer of the impenetrable shield and other armor of Prince Arthur ("Faery Queene," Book I., Canto vii.), and of a mirror, in which a damsel viewed her lover's shade. The Fountain of Love, in the "Orlando Innamorata," is described as his work; and in the poem of "Ariosto" we are told of a hall adorned with prophetic paintings, which demons had executed in a single night, under the direction of Merlin. The following legend is from Spenser's "Faery Queene," Book III., Canto iii.: CAER-MERDIN, OR CAERMARTHEN (IN WALES), MERLIN'S TOWER, AND THE IMPRISONED FIENDS. "Forthwith themselves disguising both, in straunge And base attire, that none might them bewray, To Maridunum, that is now by chaunge Of name Caer-Merdin called, they took their way: There the wise Merlin whylome wont (they say) To make his wonne, low underneath the ground In a deep delve, far from the view of day, That of no living wight he mote be found, Whenso he counselled with his sprights encompassed round. "And if thou ever happen that same way To travel, go to see that dreadful place; It is a hideous hollow cave (they say) Under a rock that lies a little space From the swift Barry, tombling down apace Amongst the woody hills of Dynevor; But dare not thou, I charge, in any case, To enter into that same baleful bower, For fear the cruel fiends should thee unwares devour. "But standing high aloft, low lay thine ear, And there such ghastly noise of iron chains And brazen cauldrons thou shalt rumbling hear, Which thousand sprites with long enduring pains Do toss, that it will stun thy feeble brains; And oftentimes great groans, and grievous stounds, When too huge toil and labor them constrains; And oftentimes loud strokes and ringing sounds From under that deep rock most horribly rebounds. "The cause some say is this. A little while Before that Merlin died, he did intend A brazen wall in compas to compile About Caermerdin, and did it commend Unto these sprites to bring to perfect end; During which work the Lady of the Lake, Whom long he loved, for him in haste did send; Who, thereby forced his workmen to forsake, Them bound till his return their labor not to slack. "In the mean time, through that false lady's train, He was surprised, and buried under beare, He ever to his work returned again; Nathless those fiends may not their work forbear, So greatly his commandement they fear; But there do toil and travail day and night, Until that brazen wall they up do rear. For Merlin had in magic more insight Than ever him before or after living wight." [Footnote: Buried under beare. Buried under something which enclosed him like a coffin or bier.] CHAPTER IV ARTHUR We shall begin our history of King Arthur by giving those particulars of his life which appear to rest on historical evidence; and then proceed to record those legends concerning him which form the earliest portion of British literature. Arthur was a prince of the tribe of Britons called Silures, whose country was South Wales, the son of Uther, named Pendragon, a title given to an elective sovereign, paramount over the many kings of Britain. He appears to have commenced his martial career about the year 500, and was raised to the Pendragonship about ten years later. He is said to have gained twelve victories over the Saxons. The most important of them was that of Badon, by some supposed to be Bath, by others Berkshire. This was the last of his battles with the Saxons, and checked their progress so effectually, that Arthur experienced no more annoyance from them, and reigned in peace, until the revolt of his nephew Modred, twenty years later, which led to the fatal battle of Camlan, in Cornwall, in 542. Modred was slain, and Arthur, mortally wounded, was conveyed by sea to Glastonbury, where he died, and was buried. Tradition preserved the memory of the place of his interment within the abbey, as we are told by Giraldus Cambrensis, who was present when the grave was opened by command of Henry II. about 1150, and saw the bones and sword of the monarch, and a leaden cross let into his tombstone, with the inscription in rude Roman letters, "Here lies buried the famous King Arthur, in the island Avalonia." This story has been elegantly versified by Warton. A popular traditional belief was long entertained among the Britons, that Arthur was not dead, but had been carried off to be healed of his wounds in Fairy-land, and that he would reappear to avenge his countrymen and reinstate them in the sovereignty of Britain. In Warton's "Ode" a bard relates to King Henry the traditional story of Arthur's death, and closes with these lines. "Yet in vain a paynim foe Armed with fate the mighty blow: For when he fell, the Elfin queen, All in secret and unseen, O'er the fainting hero threw Her mantle of ambrosial blue, And bade her spirits bear him far, In Merlin's agate-axled car, To her green isle's enamelled steep, Far in the navel of the deep. O'er his wounds she sprinkled dew From flowers that in Arabia grew. There he reigns a mighty king, Thence to Britain shall return, If right prophetic rolls I learn, Borne on victory's spreading plume, His ancient sceptre to resume, His knightly table to restore, And brave the tournaments of yore." After this narration another bard came forward who recited a different story: "When Arthur bowed his haughty crest, No princess veiled in azure vest Snatched him, by Merlin's powerful spell, In groves of golden bliss to dwell; But when he fell, with winged speed, His champions, on a milk-white steed, From the battle's hurricane, Bore him to Joseph's towered fane, In the fair vale of Avalon; There, with chanted orison And the long blaze of tapers clear, The stoled fathers met the bier; Through the dim aisles, in order dread Of martial woe, the chief they led, And deep entombed in holy ground, Before the altar's solemn bound." [Footnote: Glastonbury Abbey, said to be founded by Joseph of Arimathea, in a spot anciently called the island or valley of Avalonia. Tennyson, in his "Palace of Art," alludes to the legend of Arthur's rescue by the Faery queen, thus: "Or mythic Uther's deeply wounded son, In some fair space of sloping greens, Lay dozing in the vale of Avalon, And watched by weeping queens."] It must not be concealed that the very existence of Arthur has been denied by some. Milton says of him: "As to Arthur, more renowned in songs and romances than in true stories, who he was, and whether ever any such reigned in Britain, hath been doubted heretofore, and may again, with good reason." Modern critics, however, admit that there was a prince of this name, and find proof of it in the frequent mention of him in the writings of the Welsh bards. But the Arthur of romance, according to Mr. Owen, a Welsh scholar and antiquarian, is a mythological person. "Arthur," he says, "is the Great Bear, as the name literally implies (Arctos, Arcturus), and perhaps this constellation, being so near the pole, and visibly describing a circle in a small space, is the origin of the famous Round Table." KING ARTHUR Constans, king of Britain, had three sons, Moines, Ambrosius, otherwise called Uther, and Pendragon. Moines, soon after his accession to the crown, was vanquished by the Saxons, in consequence of the treachery of his seneschal, Vortigern, and growing unpopular, through misfortune, he was killed by his subjects, and the traitor Vortigern chosen in his place. Vortigern was soon after defeated in a great battle by Uther and Pendragon, the surviving brothers of Moines, and Pendragon ascended the throne. This prince had great confidence in the wisdom of Merlin, and made him his chief adviser. About this time a dreadful war arose between the Saxons and Britons. Merlin obliged the royal brothers to swear fidelity to each other, but predicted that one of them must fall in the first battle. The Saxons were routed, and Pendragon, being slain, was succeeded by Uther, who now assumed in addition to his own name the appellation of Pendragon. Merlin still continued a favorite counsellor. At the request of Uther he transported by magic art enormous stones from Ireland, to form the sepulchre of Pendragon. These stones constitute the monument now called Stonehenge, on Salisbury plain. Merlin next proceeded to Carlisle to prepare the Round Table, at which he seated an assemblage of the great nobles of the country. The companions admitted to this high order were bound by oath to assist each other at the hazard of their own lives, to attempt singly the most perilous adventures, to lead, when necessary, a life of monastic solitude, to fly to arms at the first summons, and never to retire from battle till they had defeated the enemy, unless night intervened and separated the combatants. Soon after this institution, the king invited all his barons to the celebration of a great festival, which he proposed holding annually at Carlisle. As the knights had obtained the sovereign's permission to bring their ladies along with them, the beautiful Igerne accompanied her husband, Gorlois, Duke of Tintadel, to one of these anniversaries. The king became deeply enamoured of the duchess, and disclosed his passion; but Igerne repelled his advances, and revealed his solicitations to her husband. On hearing this, the duke instantly removed from court with Igerne, and without taking leave of Uther. The king complained to his council of this want of duty, and they decided that the duke should be summoned to court, and, if refractory, should be treated as a rebel. As he refused to obey the citation, the king carried war into the estates of his vassal and besieged him in the strong castle of Tintadel. Merlin transformed the king into the likeness of Gorlois, and enabled him to have many stolen interviews with Igerne. At length the duke was killed in battle and the king espoused Igerne. From this union sprang Arthur, who succeeded his father, Uther, upon the throne. ARTHUR CHOSEN KING Arthur, though only fifteen years old at his father's death, was elected king, at a general meeting of the nobles. It was not done without opposition, for there were many ambitious competitors. "For while he linger'd there A doubt that ever smoulder'd in the hearts Of those great Lords and Barons of his realm Flash'd forth and into war: for most of these Made head against him, crying, 'Who is he That he should rule us? who hath proven him King Uther's son? for lo! we look at him, And find nor face nor bearing, limbs nor voice, Are like to those of Uther whom we knew." --Coming of Arthur. But Bishop Brice, a person of great sanctity, on Christmas eve addressed the assembly, and represented that it would well become them, at that solemn season, to put up their prayers for some token which should manifest the intentions of Providence respecting their future sovereign. This was done, and with such success, that the service was scarcely ended when a miraculous stone was discovered before the church door, and in the stone was firmly fixed a sword, with the following words engraven on its hilt: "I am hight Escalibore, Unto a king fair tresore." Bishop Brice, after exhorting the assembly to offer up their thanksgiving for this signal miracle, proposed a law, that whoever should be able to draw out the sword from the stone, should be acknowledged as sovereign of the Britons; and his proposal was decreed by general acclamation. The tributary kings of Uther, and the most famous knights, successively put their strength to the proof, but the miraculous sword resisted all their efforts. It stood till Candlemas; it stood till Easter, and till Pentecost, when the best knights in the kingdom usually assembled for the annual tournament. Arthur, who was at that time serving in the capacity of squire to his foster-brother, Sir Kay, attended his master to the lists. Sir Kay fought with great valor and success, but had the misfortune to break his sword, and sent Arthur to his mother for a new one. Arthur hastened home, but did not find the lady; but having observed near the church a sword, sticking in a stone, he galloped to the place, drew out the sword with great ease, and delivered it to his master. Sir Kay would willingly have assumed to himself the distinction conferred by the possession of the sword, but when, to confirm the doubters, the sword was replaced in the stone he was utterly unable to withdraw it, and it would yield a second time to no hand but Arthur's. Thus decisively pointed out by Heaven as their king, Arthur was by general consent proclaimed as such, and an early day appointed for his solemn coronation. Immediately after his election to the crown, Arthur found himself opposed by eleven kings and one duke, who with a vast army were actually encamped in the forest of Rockingham. By Merlin's advice Arthur sent an embassy to Brittany, to solicit the aid of King Ban and King Bohort, two of the best knights in the world. They accepted the call, and with a powerful army crossed the sea, landing at Portsmouth, where they were received with great rejoicing. The rebel kings were still superior in numbers; but Merlin, by a powerful enchantment, caused all their tents to fall down at once, and in the confusion Arthur with his allies fell upon them and totally routed them. After defeating the rebels, Arthur took the field against the Saxons. As they were too strong for him unaided, he sent an embassy to Armorica, beseeching the assistance of Hoel, who soon after brought over an army to his aid. The two kings joined their forces, and sought the enemy, whom they met, and both sides prepared for a decisive engagement. "Arthur himself," as Geoffrey of Monmouth relates, "dressed in a breastplate worthy of so great a king, places on his head a golden helmet engraved with the semblance of a dragon. Over his shoulders he throws his shield called Priwen, on which a picture of the Holy Virgin constantly recalled her to his memory. Girt with Caliburn, a most excellent sword, and fabricated in the isle of Avalon, he graces his right hand with the lance named Ron. This was a long and broad spear, well contrived for slaughter." After a severe conflict, Arthur, calling on the name of the Virgin, rushes into the midst of his enemies, and destroys multitudes of them with the formidable Caliburn, and puts the rest to flight. Hoel, being detained by sickness, took no part in this battle. This is called the victory of Mount Badon, and, however disguised by fable, it is regarded by historians as a real event. The feats performed by Arthur at the battle of Badon Mount are thus celebrated in Drayton's verse: "They sung how he himself at Badon bore, that day, When at the glorious goal his British sceptre lay; Two daies together how the battel stronglie stood; Pendragon's worthie son, who waded there in blood, Three hundred Saxons slew with his owne valiant hand." --Song IV. GUENEVER Merlin had planned for Arthur a marriage with the daughter of King Laodegan of Carmalide. By his advice Arthur paid a visit to the court of that sovereign, attended only by Merlin and by thirty- nine knights whom the magician had selected for that service. On their arrival they found Laodegan and his peers sitting in council, endeavoring, but with small prospect of success, to devise means of resisting the impending attack of Ryence, king of Ireland, who, with fifteen tributary kings and an almost innumerable army, had nearly surrounded the city. Merlin, who acted as leader of the band of British knights, announced them as strangers, who came to offer the king their services in his wars; but under the express condition that they should be at liberty to conceal their names and quality until they should think proper to divulge them. These terms were thought very strange, but were thankfully accepted, and the strangers, after taking the usual oath to the king, retired to the lodging which Merlin had prepared for them. A few days after this, the enemy, regardless of a truce into which they had entered with King Laodegan, suddenly issued from their camp and made an attempt to surprise the city. Cleodalis, the king's general, assembled the royal forces with all possible despatch. Arthur and his companions also flew to arms, and Merlin appeared at their head, bearing a standard on which was emblazoned a terrific dragon. Merlin advanced to the gate, and commanded the porter to open it, which the porter refused to do, without the king's order. Merlin thereupon took up the gate, with all its appurtenances of locks, bars, bolts, etc., and directed his troops to pass through, after which he replaced it in perfect order. He then set spurs to his horse and dashed, at the head of his little troop, into a body of two thousand pagans. The disparity of numbers being so enormous, Merlin cast a spell upon the enemy, so as to prevent their seeing the small number of their assailants; notwithstanding which the British knights were hard pressed. But the people of the city, who saw from the walls this unequal contest, were ashamed of leaving the small body of strangers to their fate, so they opened the gate and sallied forth. The numbers were now more nearly equal, and Merlin revoked his spell, so that the two armies encountered on fair terms. Where Arthur, Ban, Bohort, and the rest fought the king's army had the advantage; but in another part of the field the king himself was surrounded and carried off by the enemy. The sad sight was seen by Guenever, the fair daughter of the king, who stood on the city wall and looked at the battle. She was in dreadful distress, tore her hair, and swooned away. But Merlin, aware of what passed in every part of the field, suddenly collected his knights, led them out of the battle, intercepted the passage of the party who were carrying away the king, charged them with irresistible impetuosity, cut in pieces or dispersed the whole escort, and rescued the king. In the fight Arthur encountered Caulang, a giant fifteen feet high, and the fair Guenever, who had already began to feel a strong interest in the handsome young stranger, trembled for the issue of the contest. But Arthur, dealing a dreadful blow on the shoulder of the monster, cut through his neck so that his head hung over on one side, and in this condition his horse carried him about the field, to the great horror and dismay of the Pagans. Guenever could not refrain from expressing aloud her wish that the gentle knight, who dealt with giants so dexterously, were destined to become her husband, and the wish was echoed by her attendants. The enemy soon turned their backs and fled with precipitation, closely pursued by Laodegan and his allies. After the battle Arthur was disarmed and conducted to the bath by the princess Guenever, while his friends were attended by the other ladies of the court. After the bath the knights were conducted to a magnificent entertainment, at which they were diligently served by the same fair attendants. Laodegan, more and more anxious to know the name and quality of his generous deliverers, and occasionally forming a secret wish that the chief of his guests might be captivated by the charms of his daughter, appeared silent and pensive, and was scarcely roused from his reverie by the banters of his courtiers. Arthur, having had an opportunity of explaining to Guenever his great esteem for her merit, was in the joy of his heart, and was still further delighted by hearing from Merlin the late exploits of Gawain at London, by means of which his immediate return to his dominions was rendered unnecessary, and he was left at liberty to protract his stay at the court of Laodegan. Every day contributed to increase the admiration of the whole court for the gallant strangers, and the passion of Guenever for their chief; and when at last Merlin announced to the king that the object of the visit of the party was to procure a bride for their leader, Laodegan at once presented Guenever to Arthur, telling him that, whatever might be his rank, his merit was sufficient to entitle him to the possession of the heiress of Carmalide. "And could he find a woman in her womanhood As great as he was in his manhood-- The twain together might change the world." --Guinevere. Arthur accepted the lady with the utmost gratitude, and Merlin then proceeded to satisfy the king of the rank of his son-in-law; upon which Laodegan, with all his barons, hastened to do homage to their lawful sovereign, the successor of Uther Pendragon. The fair Guenever was then solemnly betrothed to Arthur, and a magnificent festival was proclaimed, which lasted seven days. At the end of that time, the enemy appearing again with renewed force, it became necessary to resume military operations. [Footnote: Guenever, the name of Arthur's queen, also written Genievre and Geneura, is familiar to all who are conversant with chivalric lore. It is to her adventures, and those of her true knight, Sir Launcelot, that Dante alludes in the beautiful episode of Francesca di Rimini.] We must now relate what took place at and near London, while Arthur was absent from his capital. At this very time a band of young heroes were on their way to Arthur's court, for the purpose of receiving knighthood from him. They were Gawain and his three brothers, nephews of Arthur, sons of King Lot, and Galachin, another nephew, son of King Nanters. King Lot had been one of the rebel chiefs whom Arthur had defeated, but he now hoped by means of the young men to be reconciled to his brother-in-law. He equipped his sons and his nephew with the utmost magnificence, giving them a splendid retinue of young men, sons of earls and barons, all mounted on the best horses, with complete suits of choice armor. They numbered in all seven hundred, but only nine had yet received the order of knighthood; the rest were candidates for that honor, and anxious to earn it by an early encounter with the enemy. Gawain, the leader, was a knight of wonderful strength; but what was most remarkable about him was that his strength was greater at certain hours of the day than at others. From nine o'clock till noon his strength was doubled, and so it was from three to evensong; for the rest of the time it was less remarkable, though at all times surpassing that of ordinary men. After a march of three days they arrived in the vicinity of London, where they expected to find Arthur and his court, and very unexpectedly fell in with a large convoy belonging to the enemy, consisting of numerous carts and wagons, all loaded with provisions, and escorted by three thousand men, who had been collecting spoil from all the country round. A single charge from Gawain's impetuous cavalry was sufficient to disperse the escort and recover the convoy, which was instantly despatched to London. But before long a body of seven thousand fresh soldiers advanced to the attack of the five princes and their little army. Gawain, singling out a chief named Choas, of gigantic size, began the battle by splitting him from the crown of the head to the breast. Galachin encountered King Sanagran, who was also very huge, and cut off his head. Agrivain and Gahariet also performed prodigies of valor. Thus they kept the great army of assailants at bay, though hard pressed, till of a sudden they perceived a strong body of the citizens advancing from London, where the convoy which had been recovered by Gawain had arrived, and informed the mayor and citizens of the danger of their deliverer. The arrival of the Londoners soon decided the contest. The enemy fled in all directions, and Gawain and his friends, escorted by the grateful citizens, entered London, and were received with acclamations. CHAPTER V ARTHUR (Continued) After the great victory of Mount Badon, by which the Saxons were for the time effectually put down, Arthur turned his arms against the Scots and Picts, whom he routed at Lake Lomond, and compelled to sue for mercy. He then went to York to keep his Christmas, and employed himself in restoring the Christian churches which the Pagans had rifled and overthrown. The following summer he conquered Ireland, and then made a voyage with his fleet to Iceland, which he also subdued. The kings of Gothland and of the Orkneys came voluntarily and made their submission, promising to pay tribute. Then he returned to Britain, where, having established the kingdom, he dwelt twelve years in peace. During this time he invited over to him all persons whatsoever that were famous for valor in foreign nations, and augmented the number of his domestics, and introduced such politeness into his court as people of the remotest countries thought worthy of their imitation. So that there was not a nobleman who thought himself of any consideration unless his clothes and arms were made in the same fashion as those of Arthur's knights. Finding himself so powerful at home, Arthur began to form designs for extending his power abroad. So, having prepared his fleet, he first attempted Norway, that he might procure the crown of it for Lot, his sister's husband. Arthur landed in Norway, fought a great battle with the king of that country, defeated him, and pursued the victory till he had reduced the whole country under his dominion, and established Lot upon the throne. Then Arthur made a voyage to Gaul and laid siege to the city of Paris. Gaul was at that time a Roman province, and governed by Flollo, the Tribune. When the siege of Paris had continued a month, and the people began to suffer from famine, Flollo challenged Arthur to single combat, proposing to decide the conquest of the province in that way. Arthur gladly accepted the challenge, and slew his adversary in the contest, upon which the citizens surrendered the city to him. After the victory Arthur divided his army into two parts, one of which he committed to the conduct of Hoel, whom he ordered to march into Aquitaine, while he with the other part should endeavor to subdue the other provinces. At the end of nine years, in which time all the parts of Gaul were entirely reduced, Arthur returned to Paris, where he kept his court, and, calling an assembly of the clergy and people, established peace and the just administration of the laws in that kingdom. Then he bestowed Normandy upon Bedver, his butler, and the province of Andegavia upon Kay, his steward, [Footnote: This name, in the French romances, is spelled Queux, which means head cook. This would seem to imply that it was a title, and not a name; yet the personage who bore it is never mentioned by any other. He is the chief, if not the only, comic character among the heroes of Arthur's court. He is the Seneschal or Steward, his duties also embracing those of chief of the cooks. In the romances, his general character is a compound of valor and buffoonery, always ready to fight, and generally getting the worst of the battle. He is also sarcastic and abusive in his remarks, by which he often gets into trouble. Yet Arthur seems to have an attachment to him, and often takes his advice, which is generally wrong.] and several other provinces upon his great men that attended him. And, having settled the peace of the cities and countries, he returned back in the beginning of spring to Britain. Upon the approach of the feast of Pentecost, Arthur, the better to demonstrate his joy after such triumphant successes, and for the more solemn observation of that festival, and reconciling the minds of the princes that were now subject to him, resolved during that season to hold a magnificent court, to place the crown upon his head, and to invite all the kings and dukes under his subjection to the solemnity. And he pitched upon Caerleon, the City of Legions, as the proper place for his purpose. For, besides its great wealth above the other cities, its situation upon the river Usk, near the Severn sea, was most pleasant and fit for so great a solemnity. For on one side it was washed by that noble river, so that the kings and princes from the countries beyond the seas might have the convenience of sailing up to it. On the other side the beauty of the meadows and groves, and magnificence of the royal palaces, with lofty gilded roofs that adorned it, made it even rival the grandeur of Rome. It was also famous for two churches, whereof one was adorned with a choir of virgins, who devoted themselves wholly to the service of God, and the other maintained a convent of priests. Besides, there was a college of two hundred philosophers, who, being learned in astronomy and the other arts, were diligent in observing the courses of the stars, and gave Arthur true predictions of the events that would happen. In this place, therefore, which afforded such delights, were preparations made for the ensuing festival. [Footnote: Several cities are allotted to King Arthur by the romance-writers. The principal are Caerleon, Camelot, and Carlisle. Caerleon derives its name from its having been the station of one of the legions, during the dominion of the Romans. It is called by Latin writers Urbs Legionum, the City of Legions. The former word being rendered into Welsh by Caer, meaning city, and the latter contracted into lleon. The river Usk retains its name in modern geography, and there is a town or city of Caerleon upon it, though the city of Cardiff is thought to be the scene of Arthur's court. Chester also bears in Welsh the name of Caerleon; for Chester, derived from castra, Latin for camp, is the designation of military headquarters. Camelot is thought to be Winchester. Shalott is Guilford. Hamo's Port is Southampton. Carlisle is the city still retaining that name, near the Scottish border. But this name is also sometimes applied to other places, which were, like itself, military stations.] Ambassadors were then sent into several kingdoms, to invite to court the princes both of Gaul and of the adjacent islands. Accordingly there came Augusel, king of Albania, now Scotland, Cadwallo, king of Venedotia, now North Wales, Sater, king of Demetia, now South Wales; also the archbishops of the metropolitan sees, London and York, and Dubricius, bishop of Caerleon, the City of Legions. This prelate, who was primate of Britain, was so eminent for his piety that he could cure any sick person by his prayers. There were also the counts of the principal cities, and many other worthies of no less dignity. From the adjacent islands came Guillamurius, king of Ireland, Gunfasius, king of the Orkneys, Malvasius, king of Iceland, Lot, king of Norway, Bedver, the butler, Duke of Normandy, Kay, the sewer, Duke of Andegavia; also the twelve peers of Gaul, and Hoel, Duke of the Armorican Britons, with his nobility, who came with such a train of mules, horses, and rich furniture as it is difficult to describe. Besides these there remained no prince of any consideration on this side of Spain who came not upon this invitation. And no wonder, when Arthur's munificence, which was celebrated over the whole world, made him beloved by all people. When all were assembled upon the day of the solemnity the archbishops were conducted to the palace, in order to place the crown upon the king's head. Then Dubricius, inasmuch as the court was held in his diocese, made himself ready to celebrate the office. As soon as the king was invested with his royal habiliments he was conducted in great pomp to the metropolitan church, having four kings, viz., of Albania, Cornwall, Demetia, and Venedotia, bearing four golden swords before him. On another part was the queen, dressed out in her richest ornaments, conducted by the archbishops and bishops to the Church of Virgins; the four queens, also, of the kings last mentioned, bearing before her four white doves, according to ancient custom. When the whole procession was ended so transporting was the harmony of the musical instruments and voices, whereof there was a vast variety in both churches, that the knights who attended were in doubt which to prefer, and therefore crowded from the one to the other by turns, and were far from being tired of the solemnity, though the whole day had been spent in it. At last, when divine service was over at both churches, the king and queen put off their crowns, and, putting on their lighter ornaments, went to the banquet. When they had all taken their seats according to precedence, Kay, the sewer, in rich robes of ermine, with a thousand young noblemen all in like manner clothed in rich attire, served up the dishes. From another part Bedver, the butler, was followed by the same number of attendants, who waited with all kinds of cups and drinking-vessels. And there was food and drink in abundance, and everything was of the best kind, and served in the best manner. For at that time Britain had arrived at such a pitch of grandeur that in riches, luxury, and politeness it far surpassed all other kingdoms. As soon as the banquets were over they went into the fields without the city to divert themselves with various sports, such as shooting with bows and arrows, tossing the pike, casting of heavy stones and rocks, playing at dice, and the like, and all these inoffensively, and without quarrelling. In this manner were three days spent, and after that they separated, and the kings and noblemen departed to their several homes. After this Arthur reigned five years in peace. Then came ambassadors from Lucius Tiberius, Procurator under Leo, Emperor of Rome, demanding tribute. But Arthur refused to pay tribute, and prepared for war. As soon as the necessary dispositions were made he committed the government of his kingdom to his nephew Modred and to Queen Guenever, and marched with his army to Hamo's Port, where the wind stood fair for him. The army crossed over in safety, and landed at the mouth of the river Barba. And there they pitched their tents to wait the arrival of the kings of the islands. As soon as all the forces were arrived Arthur marched forward to Augustodunum, and encamped on the banks of the river Alba. Here repeated battles were fought, in all which the Britons, under their valiant leaders, Hoel, Duke of Armorica, and Gawain, nephew to Arthur, had the advantage. At length Lucius Tiberius determined to retreat, and wait for the Emperor Leo to join him with fresh troops. But Arthur, anticipating this event, took possession of a certain valley, and closed up the way of retreat to Lucius, compelling him to fight a decisive battle, in which Arthur lost some of the bravest of his knights and most faithful followers. But on the other hand Lucius Tiberius was slain, and his army totally defeated. The fugitives dispersed over the country, some to the by-ways and woods, some to cities and towns, and all other places where they could hope for safety. Arthur stayed in those parts till the next winter was over, and employed his time in restoring order and settling the government. He then returned into England, and celebrated his victories with great splendor. Then the king stablished all his knights, and to them that were not rich he gave lands, and charged them all never to do outrage nor murder, and always to flee treason; also, by no means to be cruel, but to give mercy unto him that asked mercy, upon pain of forfeiture of their worship and lordship; and always to do ladies, damosels, and gentlewomen service, upon pain of death. Also that no man take battle in a wrongful quarrel, for no law, nor for any world's goods. Unto this were all the knights sworn of the Table Round, both old and young. And at every year were they sworn at the high feast of Pentecost. KING ARTHUR SLAYS THE GIANT OF ST. MICHAEL'S MOUNT While the army was encamped in Brittany, awaiting the arrival of the kings, there came a countryman to Arthur, and told him that a giant, whose cave was on a neighboring mountain, called St. Michael's Mount, had for a long time been accustomed to carry off the children of the peasants to devour them. "And now he hath taken the Duchess of Brittany, as she rode with her attendants, and hath carried her away in spite of all they could do." "Now, fellow," said King Arthur, "canst thou bring me there where this giant haunteth?" "Yea, sure," said the good man; "lo, yonder where thou seest two great fires, there shalt thou find him, and more treasure than I suppose is in all France beside." Then the king called to him Sir Bedver and Sir Kay, and commanded them to make ready horse and harness for himself and them; for after evening he would ride on pilgrimage to St. Michael's Mount. So they three departed, and rode forth till they came to the foot of the mount. And there the king commanded them to tarry, for he would himself go up into that mount. So he ascended the hill till he came to a great fire, and there he found an aged woman sitting by a new-made grave, making great sorrow. Then King Arthur saluted her, and demanded of her wherefore she made such lamentation; to whom she answered: "Sir knight, speak low, for yonder is a devil, and if he hear thee speak, he will come and destroy thee. For ye cannot make resistance to him, he is so fierce and so strong. He hath murdered the Duchess, which here lieth, who was the fairest of all the world, wife to Sir Hoel, Duke of Brittany." "Dame," said the king, "I come from the noble conqueror, King Arthur, to treat with that tyrant." "Fie on such treaties," said she; "he setteth not by the king, nor by no man else." "Well," said Arthur, "I will accomplish my message for all your fearful words." So he went forth by the crest of the hill, and saw where the giant sat at supper, gnawing on the limb of a man, and baking his broad limbs at the fire, and three fair damsels lying bound, whose lot it was to be devoured in their turn. When King Arthur beheld that, he had great compassion on them, so that his heart bled for sorrow. Then he hailed the giant, saying, "He that all the world ruleth give thee short life and shameful death. Why hast thou murdered this Duchess? Therefore come forth, for this day thou shalt die by my hand." Then the giant started up, and took a great club, and smote at the king, and smote off his coronal; and then the king struck him in the belly with his sword, and made a fearful wound. Then the giant threw away his club, and caught the king in his arms, so that he crushed his ribs. Then the three maidens kneeled down and prayed for help and comfort for Arthur. And Arthur weltered and wrenched, so that he was one while under, and another time above. And so weltering and wallowing they rolled down the hill, and ever as they weltered Arthur smote him with his dagger; and it fortuned they came to the place where the two knights were. And when they saw the king fast in the giant's arms they came and loosed him. Then the king commanded Sir Kay to smite off the giant's head, and to set it on the truncheon of a spear, and fix it on the barbican, that all the people might see and behold it. This was done, and anon it was known through all the country, wherefor the people came and thanked the king. And he said, "Give your thanks to God; and take ye the giant's spoil and divide it among you." And King Arthur caused a church to be builded on that hill, in honor of St. Michael. KING ARTHUR GETS A SWORD FROM THE LADY OF THE LAKE One day King Arthur rode forth, and on a sudden he was ware of three churls chasing Merlin, to have slain him. And the king rode unto them and bade them, "Flee, churls!" Then were they afraid when they saw a knight, and fled. "O Merlin," said Arthur, "here hadst thou been slain, for all thy crafts, had I not been by." "Nay," said Merlin, "not so, for I could save myself if I would; but thou art more near thy death than I am." So, as they went thus talking, King Arthur perceived where sat a knight on horseback, as if to guard the pass. "Sir knight," said Arthur, "for what cause abidest thou here?" Then the knight said, "There may no knight ride this way unless he just with me, for such is the custom of the pass." "I will amend that custom," said the king. Then they ran together, and they met so hard that their spears were shivered. Then they drew their swords and fought a strong battle, with many great strokes. But at length the sword of the knight smote King Arthur's sword in two pieces. Then said the knight unto Arthur, "Thou art in my power, whether to save thee or slay thee, and unless thou yield thee as overcome and recreant, thou shalt die." "As for death," said King Arthur, "welcome be it when it cometh; but to yield me unto thee as recreant, I will not." Then he leapt upon the knight, and took him by the middle and threw him down; but the knight was a passing strong man, and anon he brought Arthur under him, and would have razed off his helm to slay him. Then said Merlin, "Knight, hold thy hand, for this knight is a man of more worship than thou art aware of." "Why, who is he?" said the knight. "It is King Arthur." Then would he have slain him for dread of his wrath, and lifted up his sword to slay him; and therewith Merlin cast an enchantment on the knight, so that he fell to the earth in a great sleep. Then Merlin took up King Arthur, and set him on his horse. "Alas!" said Arthur, "what hast thou done, Merlin? hast thou slain this good knight by thy crafts?" "Care ye not," said Merlin; "he is wholer than ye be. He is only asleep, and will wake in three hours." Then the king and he departed, and went till they came to a hermit, that was a good man and a great leech. So the hermit searched all his wounds, and applied good salves; and the king was there three days, and then were his wounds well amended, that he might ride and go. So they departed, and as they rode Arthur said, "I have no sword." "No matter," said Merlin; "hereby is a sword that shall be yours." So they rode till they came to a lake, which was a fair water and broad. And in the midst of the lake Arthur was aware of an arm clothed in white samite, [Footnote: Samite, a sort of silk stuff.] that held a fair sword in the hand. "Lo!" said Merlin, "yonder is that sword that I spake of. It belongeth to the Lady of the Lake, and, if she will, thou mayest take it; but if she will not, it will not be in thy power to take it." So Sir Arthur and Merlin alighted from their horses, and went into a boat. And when they came to the sword that the hand held Sir Arthur took it by the handle and took it to him, and the arm and the hand went under the water. Then they returned unto the land and rode forth. And Sir Arthur looked on the sword and liked it right well. So they rode unto Caerleon, whereof his knights were passing glad. And when they heard of his adventures they marvelled that he would jeopard his person so alone. But all men of worship said it was a fine thing to be under such a chieftain as would put his person in adventure as other poor knights did. CHAPTER VI SIR GAWAIN Sir Gawain was nephew to King Arthur, by his sister Morgana, married to Lot, king of Orkney, who was by Arthur made king of Norway. Sir Gawain was one of the most famous knights of the Round Table, and is characterized by the romancers as the SAGE and COURTEOUS Gawain. To this Chaucer alludes in his "Squiere's Tale," where the strange knight "salueth" all the court "With so high reverence and observance, As well in speeche as in countenance, That Gawain, with his olde curtesie, Though he were come agen out of faerie, Ne coude him not amenden with a word." Gawain's brothers were Agrivain, Gahariet, and Gareth. SIR GAWAIN'S MARRIAGE Once upon a time King Arthur held his court in merry Carlisle, when a damsel came before him and craved a boon. It was for vengeance upon a caitiff knight, who had made her lover captive and despoiled her of her lands. King Arthur commanded to bring him his sword, Excalibar, and to saddle his steed, and rode forth without delay to right the lady's wrong. Ere long he reached the castle of the grim baron, and challenged him to the conflict. But the castle stood on magic ground, and the spell was such that no knight could tread thereon but straight his courage fell and his strength decayed. King Arthur felt the charm, and before a blow was struck, his sturdy limbs lost their strength, and his head grew faint. He was fain to yield himself prisoner to the churlish knight, who refused to release him except upon condition that he should return at the end of a year, and bring a true answer to the question, "What thing is it which women most desire?" or in default thereof surrender himself and his lands. King Arthur accepted the terms, and gave his oath to return at the time appointed. During the year the king rode east, and he rode west, and inquired of all whom he met what thing it is which all women most desire. Some told him riches; some, pomp and state; some, mirth; some, flattery; and some, a gallant knight. But in the diversity of answers he could find no sure dependence. The year was well-nigh spent, when one day, as he rode thoughtfully through a forest, he saw sitting beneath a tree a lady of such hideous aspect that he turned away his eyes, and when she greeted him in seemly sort, made no answer. "What wight art thou," the lady said, "that will not speak to me? It may chance that I may resolve thy doubts, though I be not fair of aspect." "If thou wilt do so," said King Arthur, "choose what reward thou wilt, thou grim lady, and it shall be given thee." "Swear me this upon thy faith," she said, and Arthur swore it. Then the lady told him the secret, and demanded her reward, which was that the king should find some fair and courtly knight to be her husband. King Arthur hastened to the grim baron's castle and told him one by one all the answers which he had received from his various advisers, except the last, and not one was admitted as the true one. "Now yield thee, Arthur," the giant said, "for thou hast not paid thy ransom, and thou and thy lands are forfeited to me." Then King Arthur said: "Yet hold thy hand, thou proud baron, I pray thee hold thy hand, And give me leave to speak once more, In rescue of my land. This morn as I came over a moor, I saw a lady set, Between an oak and a green holly, All clad in red scarlett. She says ALL WOMEN WOULD HAVE THEIR WILL, This is their chief desire; Now yield, as thou art a baron true, That I have paid my hire." "It was my sister that told thee this," the churlish baron exclaimed. "Vengeance light on her! I will some time or other do her as ill a turn." King Arthur rode homeward, but not light of heart, for he remembered the promise he was under to the loathly lady to--give her one of his young and gallant knights for a husband. He told his grief to Sir Gawain, his nephew, and he replied, "Be not sad, my lord, for I will marry the loathly lady." King Arthur replied: "Now nay, now nay, good Sir Gawaine, My sister's son ye be; The loathly lady's all too grim, And all too foule for thee." But Gawain persisted, and the king at last, with sorrow of heart, consented that Gawain should be his ransom. So one day the king and his knights rode to the forest, met the loathly lady, and brought her to the court. Sir Gawain stood the scoffs and jeers of his companions as he best might, and the marriage was solemnized, but not with the usual festivities. Chaucer tells us: "... There was no joye ne feste at alle; There n' as but hevinesse and mochel sorwe, For prively he wed her on the morwe, And all day after hid him as an owle, So wo was him his wife loked so foule!" [Footnote: N'AS is NOT WAS, contracted; in modern phrase, THERE WAS NOT. MOCHEL SORWE is much sorrow; MORWE is MORROW.] When night came, and they were alone together, Sir Gawain could not conceal his aversion; and the lady asked him why he sighed so heavily, and turned away his face. He candidly confessed it was on account of three things, her age, her ugliness, and her low degree. The lady, not at all offended, replied with excellent arguments to all his objections. She showed him that with age is discretion, with ugliness security from rivals, and that all true gentility depends, not upon the accident of birth, but upon the character of the individual. Sir Gawain made no reply; but, turning his eyes on his bride, what was his amazement to perceive that she wore no longer the unseemly aspect that had so distressed him. She then told him that the form she had worn was not her true form, but a disguise imposed upon her by a wicked enchanter, and that she was condemned to wear it until two things should happen: one, that she should obtain some young and gallant knight to be her husband. This having been done, one-half of the charm was removed. She was now at liberty to wear her true form for half the time, and she bade him choose whether he would have her fair by day, and ugly by night, or the reverse. Sir Gawain would fain have had her look her best by night, when he alone would see her, and show her repulsive visage, if at all, to others. But she reminded him how much more pleasant it would be to her to wear her best looks in the throng of knights and ladies by day. Sir Gawain yielded, and gave up his will to hers. This alone was wanting to dissolve the charm. The lovely lady now with joy assured him that she should change no more, but as she now was, so would she remain by night as well as by day. "Sweet blushes stayned her rud-red cheek, Her eyen were black as sloe, The ripening cherrye swelled her lippe, And all her neck was snow. Sir Gawain kist that ladye faire Lying upon the sheete, And swore, as he was a true knight, The spice was never so swete." The dissolution of the charm which had held the lady also released her brother, the "grim baron," for he too had been implicated in it. He ceased to be a churlish oppressor, and became a gallant and generous knight as any at Arthur's court. CHAPTER VII CARADOC BRIEFBRAS; OR, CARADOC WITH THE SHRUNKEN ARM Caradoc was the son of Ysenne, the beautiful niece of Arthur. He was ignorant who his father was, till it was discovered in the following manner: When the youth was of proper years to receive the honors of knighthood, King Arthur held a grand court for the purpose of knighting him. On this occasion a strange knight presented himself, and challenged the knights of Arthur's court to exchange blow for blow with him. His proposal was this--to lay his neck on a block for any knight to strike, on condition that, if he survived the blow, the knight should submit in turn to the same experiment. Sir Kay, who was usually ready to accept all challenges, pronounced this wholly unreasonable, and declared that he would not accept it for all the wealth in the world. And when the knight offered his sword, with which the operation was to be performed, no person ventured to accept it, till Caradoc, growing angry at the disgrace which was thus incurred by the Round Table, threw aside his mantle and took it. "Do you do this as one of the best knights?" said the stranger. "No," he replied, "but as one of the most foolish." The stranger lays his head upon the block, receives a blow which sends it rolling from his shoulders, walks after it, picks it up, replaces it with great success, and says he will return when the court shall be assembled next year, and claim his turn. When the anniversary arrived, both parties were punctual to their engagement. Great entreaties were used by the king and queen, and the whole court, in behalf of Caradoc, but the stranger was inflexible. The young knight laid his head upon the block, and more than once desired him to make an end of the business, and not keep him longer in so disagreeable a state of expectation. At last the stranger strikes him gently with the side of the sword, bids him rise, and reveals to him the fact that he is his father, the enchanter Eliaures, and that he gladly owns him for a son, having proved his courage and fidelity to his word. But the favor of enchanters is short-lived and uncertain. Eliaures fell under the influence of a wicked woman, who, to satisfy her pique against Caradoc, persuaded the enchanter to fasten on his arm a serpent, which remained there sucking at his flesh and blood, no human skill sufficing either to remove the reptile or alleviate the torments which Caradoc endured. Caradoc was betrothed to Guimier, sister to his bosom friend, Cador, and daughter to the king of Cornwall. As soon as they were informed of his deplorable condition, they set out for Nantes, where Caradoc's castle was, that Guimier might attend upon him. When Caradoc heard of their coming, his first emotion was that of joy and love. But soon he began to fear that the sight of his emaciated form, and of his sufferings, would disgust Guimier; and this apprehension became so strong, that he departed secretly from Nantes, and hid himself in a hermitage. He was sought far and near by the knights of Arthur's court, and Cador made a vow never to desist from the quest till he should have found him. After long wandering, Cador discovered his friend in the hermitage, reduced almost to a skeleton, and apparently near his death. All other means of relief having already been tried in vain, Cador at last prevailed on the enchanter Eliaures to disclose the only method which could avail for his rescue. A maiden must be found, his equal in birth and beauty, and loving him better than herself, so that she would expose herself to the same torment to deliver him. Two vessels were then to be provided, the one filled with sour wine, and the other with milk. Caradoc must enter the first, so that the wine should reach his neck, and the maiden must get into the other, and, exposing her bosom upon the edge of the vessel, invite the serpent to forsake the withered flesh of his victim for this fresh and inviting food. The vessels were to be placed three feet apart, and as the serpent crossed from one to the other. a knight was to cut him in two. If he failed in his blow, Caradoc would indeed be delivered, but it would be only to see his fair champion suffering the same cruel and hopeless torment. The sequel may be easily foreseen. Guimier willingly exposed herself to the perilous adventure, and Cador, with a lucky blow, killed the serpent. The arm in which Caradoc had suffered so long recovered its strength, but not its shape, in consequence of which he was called Caradoc Briefbras, Caradoc of the Shrunken Arm. Caradoc and Guimier are the hero and heroine of the ballad Of the "Boy and the Mantle," which follows: "THE BOY AND THE MANTLE "In Carlisle dwelt King Arthur, A prince of passing might, And there maintained his Table Round, Beset with many a knight. "And there he kept his Christmas, With mirth and princely cheer, When lo! a strange and cunning boy Before him did appear. "A kirtle and a mantle This boy had him upon, With brooches, rings, and ouches, Full daintily bedone. "He had a sash of silk About his middle meet; And thus with seemly curtesie He did King Arthur greet: "'God speed thee, brave King Arthur. Thus feasting in thy bower, And Guenever, thy goodly queen, That fair and peerless flower. "'Ye gallant lords and lordlings, I wish you all take heed, Lest what ye deem a blooming rose Should prove a cankered weed.' "Then straightway from his bosom A little wand he drew; And with it eke a mantle, Of wondrous shape and hue. "'Now have thou here, King Arthur, Have this here of me, And give unto thy comely queen, All shapen as you see. "'No wife it shall become, That once hath been to blame.' Then every knight in Arthur's court Sly glanced at his dame. "And first came Lady Guenever, The mantle she must try. This dame she was new-fangled, [1] And of a roving eye. "When she had taken the mantle, And all with it was clad, From top to toe it shivered down, As though with shears beshred. "One while it was too long, Another while too short, And wrinkled on her shoulders, In most unseemly sort. "Now green, now red it seemed, Then all of sable hue; 'Beshrew me,' quoth King Arthur, 'I think thou be'st not true!' "Down she threw the mantle, No longer would she stay; But, storming like a fury, To her chamber flung away. "She cursed the rascal weaver, That had the mantle wrought; And doubly cursed the froward imp Who thither had it brought. I had rather live in deserts, Beneath the greenwood tree, Than here, base king, among thy grooms The sport of them and thee.' "Sir Kay called forth his lady, And bade her to come near: 'Yet dame, if thou be guilty, I pray thee now forbear.' "This lady, pertly giggling, With forward step came on, And boldly to the little boy With fearless face is gone. "When she had taken the mantle, With purpose for to wear, It shrunk up to her shoulder, And left her back all bare. "Then every merry knight, That was in Arthur's court, Gibed and laughed and flouted, To see that pleasant sport. "Down she threw the mantle, No longer bold or gay, But, with a face all pale and wan To her chamber slunk away. "Then forth came an old knight A pattering o'er his creed, And proffered to the little boy Five nobles to his meed: "'And all the time of Christmas Plum-porridge shall be thine, If thou wilt let my lady fair Within the mantle shine.' "A saint his lady seemed, With step demure and slow, And gravely to the mantle With mincing face doth go. "When she the same had taken That was so fine and thin, It shrivelled all about her, And showed her dainty skin. "Ah! little did her mincing, Or his long prayers bestead; She had no more hung on her Than a tassel and a thread. "Down she threw the mantle, With terror and dismay, And with a face of scarlet To her chamber hied away. "Sir Cradock called his lady, And bade her to come near: 'Come win this mantle, lady, And do me credit here: "'Come win this mantle, lady, For now it shall be thine, If thou hast never done amiss, Since first I made thee mine.' "The lady, gently blushing, With modest grace came on; And now to try the wondrous charm Courageously is gone. "When she had ta'en the mantle, And put it on her back, About the hem it seemed To wrinkle and to crack. "'Lie still,' she cried, 'O mantle! And shame me not for naught; I'll freely own whate'er amiss Or blameful I have wrought. "'Once I kissed Sir Cradock Beneath the greenwood tree; Once I kissed Sir Cradock's mouth, Before he married me.' "When she had thus her shriven, And her worst fault had told, The mantle soon became her, Right comely as it should. "Most rich and fair of color, Like gold it glittering shone, And much the knights in Arthur's court Admired her every one." [Footnote 1: New-fangled--fond of novelty.] The ballad goes on to tell of two more trials of a similar kind, made by means of a boar's head and a drinking horn, in both of which the result was equally favorable with the first to Sir Cradock and his lady. It then concludes as follows: "Thus boar's head, horn, and mantle Were this fair couple's meed; And all such constant lovers, God send them well to speed" --Percy's Reliques. CHAPTER VIII LAUNCELOT OF THE LAKE King Ban, of Brittany, the faithful ally of Arthur was attacked by his enemy Claudas, and after a long war saw himself reduced to the possession of a single fortress, where he was besieged by his enemy. In this extremity he determined to solicit the assistance of Arthur, and escaped in a dark night, with his wife Helen and his infant son Launcelot, leaving his castle in the hands of his seneschal, who immediately surrendered the place to Claudas. The flames of his burning citadel reached the eyes of the unfortunate monarch during his flight and he expired with grief. The wretched Helen, leaving her child on the brink of a lake, flew to receive the last sighs of her husband, and on returning perceived the little Launcelot in the arms of a nymph, who, on the approach of the queen, threw herself into the lake with the child. This nymph was Viviane, mistress of the enchanter Merlin, better known by the name of the Lady of the Lake. Launcelot received his appellation from having been educated at the court of this enchantress, whose palace was situated in the midst, not of a real, but, like the appearance which deceives the African traveller, of an imaginary lake, whose deluding resemblance served as a barrier to her residence. Here she dwelt not alone, but in the midst of a numerous retinue, and a splendid court of knights and damsels. The queen, after her double loss, retired to a convent, where she was joined by the widow of Bohort, for this good king had died of grief on hearing of the death of his brother Ban. His two sons, Lionel and Bohort, were rescued by a faithful knight, and arrived in the shape of greyhounds at the palace of the lake, where, having resumed their natural form, they were educated along with their cousin Launcelot. The fairy, when her pupil had attained the age of eighteen, conveyed him to the court of Arthur for the purpose of demanding his admission to the honor of knighthood; and at the first appearance of the youthful candidate the graces of his person, which were not inferior to his courage and skill in arms, made an instantaneous and indelible impression on the heart of Guenever, while her charms inspired him with an equally ardent and constant passion. The mutual attachment of these lovers exerted, from that time forth, an influence over the whole history of Arthur. For the sake of Guenever, Launcelot achieved the conquest of Northumberland, defeated Gallehaut, King of the Marches, who afterwards became his most faithful friend and ally, exposed himself in numberless encounters, and brought hosts of prisoners to the feet of his sovereign. SIR LAUNCELOT After King Arthur was come from Rome into England all the knights of the Table Round resorted unto him and made him many justs and tournaments. And in especial Sir Launcelot of the Lake in all tournaments and justs and deeds of arms, both for life and death, passed all other knights, and was never overcome, except it were by treason or enchantment; and he increased marvellously in worship, wherefore Queen Guenever had him in great favor, above all other knights. And for certain he loved the queen again above all other ladies; and for her he did many deeds of arms, and saved her from peril, through his noble chivalry. Thus Sir Launcelot rested him long with play and game, and then he thought to prove himself in strange adventures; so he bade his nephew, Sir Lionel, to make him ready,-- "for we two will seek adventures." So they mounted on their horses, armed at all sights, and rode into a forest, and so into a deep plain. And the weather was hot about noon, and Sir Launcelot had great desire to sleep. Then Sir Lionel espied a great apple-tree that stood by a hedge, and he said: "Brother, yonder is a fair shadow--there may we rest us and our horses." "It is well said," replied Sir Launcelot. So they there alighted, and Sir Launcelot laid him down, and his helm under his head, and soon was asleep passing fast. And Sir Lionel waked while he slept. And presently there came three knights riding as fast as ever they might ride, and there followed them but one knight. And Sir Lionel thought he never saw so great a knight before. So within a while this great knight overtook one of those knights, and smote him so that he fell to the earth. Then he rode to the second knight and smote him, and so he did to the third knight. Then he alighted down and bound all the three knights fast with their own bridles. When Sir Lionel saw him do thus, he thought to assay him, and made him ready silently, not to awake Sir Launcelot, and rode after the strong knight, and bade him turn. And the other smote Sir Lionel so hard that horse and man fell to the earth; and then he alighted down and bound Sir Lionel, and threw him across his own horse; and so he served them all four, and rode with them away to his own castle. And when he came there he put them in a deep prison, in which were many more knights in great distress. Now while Sir Launcelot lay under the apple-tree sleeping, there came by him four queens of great estate. And that the heat should not grieve them, there rode four knights about them, and bare a cloth of green silk on four spears, betwixt them and the sun. And the queens rode on four white mules. Thus as they rode they heard by them a great horse grimly neigh. Then they were aware of a sleeping knight, that lay all armed under an apple-tree; and as the queens looked on his face, they knew it was Sir Launcelot. Then they began to strive for that knight, and each one said she would have him for her love. "We will not strive," said Morgane le Fay, that was King Arthur's sister, "for I will put an enchantment upon him, that he shall not wake for six hours, and we will take him away to my castle; and then when he is surely within my hold, I will take the enchantment from him, and then let him choose which of us he will have for his love." So the enchantment was cast upon Sir Launcelot. And then they laid him upon his shield, and bare him so on horseback between two knights, and brought him unto the castle and laid him in a chamber, and at night they sent him his supper. And on the morning came early those four queens, richly dight, and bade him good morning, and he them again. "Sir knight," they said, "thou must understand thou art our prisoner; and we know thee well, that thou art Sir Launcelot of the Lake, King Ban's son, and that thou art the noblest knight living. And we know well that there can no lady have thy love but one, and that is Queen Guenever; and now thou shalt lose her for ever, and she thee; and therefore it behooveth thee now to choose one of us. I am the Queen Morgane le Fay, and here is the Queen of North Wales, and the Queen of Eastland, and the Queen of the Isles. Now choose one of us which thou wilt have, for if thou choose not, in this prison thou shalt die." "This is a hard case," said Sir Launcelot, "that either I must die, or else choose one of you; yet had I liever to die in this prison with worship, than to have one of you for my paramour, for ye be false enchantresses." "Well," said the queens, "is this your answer, that ye will refuse us." "Yea, on my life it is," said Sir Launcelot. Then they departed, making great sorrow. Then at noon came a damsel unto him with his dinner, and asked him, "What cheer?" "Truly, fair damsel," said Sir Launcelot, "never so ill." "Sir," said she, "if you will be ruled by me, I will help you out of this distress. If ye will promise me to help my father on Tuesday next, who hath made a tournament betwixt him and the king of North Wales; for last Tuesday my father lost the field." "Fair maiden," said Sir Launcelot, "tell me what is your father's name, and then will I give you an answer." "Sir knight," she said, "my father is King Bagdemagus." "I know him well," said Sir Launcelot, "for a noble king and a good knight; and, by the faith of my body, I will be ready to do your father and you service at that day." So she departed, and came on the next morning early and found him ready, and brought him out of twelve locks, and brought him to his own horse, and lightly he saddled him, and so rode forth. And on the Tuesday next he came to a little wood where the tournament should be. And there were scaffolds and holds, that lords and ladies might look on, and give the prize. Then came into the field the king of North Wales, with eightscore helms, and King Badgemagus came with fourscore helms. And then they couched their spears, and came together with a great dash, and there were overthrown at the first encounter twelve of King Bagdemagus's party and six of the king of North Wales's party, and King Bagdemagus's party had the worse. With that came Sir Launcelot of the Lake, and thrust in with his spear in the thickest of the press; and he smote down five knights ere he held his hand; and he smote down the king of North Wales, and he brake his thigh in that fall. And then the knights of the king of North Wales would just no more; and so the gree was given to King Bagdemagus. And Sir Launcelot rode forth with King Bagdemagus unto his castle; and there he had passing good cheer, both with the king and with his daughter. And on the morn he took his leave, and told the king he would go and seek his brother, Sir Lionel, that went from him when he slept. So he departed, and by adventure he came to the same forest where he was taken sleeping. And in the highway he met a damsel riding on a white palfrey, and they saluted each other. "Fair damsel," said Sir Launcelot, "know ye in this country any adventures?" "Sir knight," said the damsel, "here are adventures near at hand, if thou durst pursue them." "Why should I not prove adventures?" said Sir Launcelot, "since for that cause came I hither." "Sir," said she, "hereby dwelleth a knight that will not be overmatched for any man I know, except thou overmatch him. His name is Sir Turquine, and, as I understand, he is a deadly enemy of King Arthur, and he has in his prison good knights of Arthur's court, threescore and more, that he hath won with his own hands." "Damsel," said Launcelot, "I pray you bring me unto this knight." So she told him, "Hereby, within this mile, is his castle, and by it on the left hand is a ford for horses to drink of, and over that ford there groweth a fair tree, and on that tree hang many shields that good knights wielded aforetime, that are now prisoners; and on the tree hangeth a basin of copper and latten, and if thou strike upon that basin thou shalt hear tidings." And Sir Launcelot departed, and rode as the damsel had shown him, and shortly he came to the ford, and the tree where hung the shields and the basin. And among the shields he saw Sir Lionel's and Sir Hector's shields, besides many others of knights that he knew. Then Sir Launcelot struck on the basin with the butt of his spear; and long he did so, but he saw no man. And at length he was ware of a great knight that drove a horse before him, and across the horse there lay an armed knight bounden. And as they came near, Sir Launcelot thought he should know the captive knight. Then Sir Launcelot saw that it was Sir Gaheris, Sir Gawain's brother, a knight of the Table Round. "Now, fair knight," said Sir Launcelot, "put that wounded knight off the horse, and let him rest awhile, and let us two prove our strength. For, as it is told me, thou hast done great despite and shame unto knights of the Round Table, therefore now defend thee." "If thou be of the Table Round," said Sir Turquine, "I defy thee and all thy fellowship." "That is overmuch said," said Sir Launcelot. Then they put their spears in the rests, and came together with their horses as fast as they might run. And each smote the other in the middle of their shields, so that their horses fell under them, and the knights were both staggered; and as soon as they could clear their horses they drew out their swords and came together eagerly, and each gave the other many strong strokes, for neither shield nor harness might withstand their strokes. So within a while both had grimly wounds, and bled grievously. Then at the last they were breathless both, and stood leaning upon their swords. "Now, fellow," said Sir Turquine, "thou art the stoutest man that ever I met with, and best breathed; and so be it thou be not the knight that I hate above all other knights, the knight that slew my brother, Sir Carados, I will gladly accord with thee; and for thy love I will deliver all the prisoners that I have." "What knight is he that thou hatest so above others?" "Truly," said Sir Turquine, "his name is Sir Launcelot of the Lake." "I am Sir Launcelot of the Lake, King Ban's son of Benwick, and very knight of the Table Round; and now I defy thee do thy best." "Ah!" said Sir Turquine, "Launcelot, thou art to me the most welcome that ever was knight; for we shall never part till the one of us be dead." And then they hurtled together like two wild bulls, rashing and lashing with their swords and shields, so that sometimes they fell, as it were, headlong. Thus they fought two hours and more, till the ground where they fought was all bepurpled with blood. Then at the last Sir Turquine waxed sore faint, and gave somewhat aback, and bare his shield full low for weariness. That spied Sir Launcelot, and leapt then upon him fiercely as a lion, and took him by the beaver of his helmet, and drew him down on his knees. And he raised off his helm, and smote his neck in sunder. And Sir Gaheris, when he saw Sir Turquine slain, said, "Fair lord, I pray you tell me your name, for this day I say ye are the best knight in the world, for ye have slain this day in my sight the mightiest man and the best knight except you that ever I saw." "Sir, my name is Sir Launcelot du Lac, that ought to help you of right for King Arthur's sake, and in especial for Sir Gawain's sake, your own dear brother. Now I pray you, that ye go into yonder castle, and set free all the prisoners ye find there, for I am sure ye shall find there many knights of the Table Round, and especially my brother Sir Lionel. I pray you greet them all from me, and tell them I bid them take there such stuff as they find; and tell my brother to go unto the court and abide me there, for by the feast of Pentecost I think to be there; but at this time I may not stop, for I have adventures on hand." So he departed, and Sir Gaheris rode into the castle, and took the keys from the porter, and hastily opened the prison door and let out all the prisoners. There was Sir Kay, Sir Brandeles, and Sir Galynde, Sir Bryan, and Sir Alyduke, Sir Hector de Marys, and Sir Lionel, and many more. And when they saw Sir Gaheris they all thanked him, for they thought, because he was wounded, that he had slain Sir Turquine. "Not so," said Sir Gaheris; "it was Sir Launcelot that slew him, right worshipfully; I saw it with mine eyes." Sir Launcelot rode till at nightfall he came to a fair castle, and therein he found an old gentlewoman, who lodged him with good- will, and there he had good cheer for him and his horse. And when time was, his host brought him to a fair chamber over the gate to his bed. Then Sir Launcelot unarmed him, and set his harness by him, and went to bed, and anon he fell asleep. And soon after, there came one on horseback and knocked at the gate in great haste; and when Sir Launcelot heard this, he arose and looked out of the window, and saw by the moonlight three knights riding after that one man, and all three lashed on him with their swords, and that one knight turned on them knightly again and defended himself. "Truly," said Sir Launcelot, "yonder one knight will I help, for it is shame to see three knights on one." Then he took his harness and went out at the window by a sheet down to the four knights; and he said aloud, "Turn you knights unto me, and leave your fighting with that knight." Then the knights left Sir Kay, for it was he they were upon, and turned unto Sir Launcelot, and struck many great strokes at Sir Launcelot, and assailed him on every side. Then Sir Kay addressed him to help Sir Launcelot, but he said, "Nay, sir, I will none of your help; let me alone with them." So Sir Kay suffered him to do his will, and stood one side. And within six strokes Sir Launcelot had stricken them down. Then they all cried, "Sir knight, we yield us unto you." "As to that," said Sir Launcelot, "I will not take your yielding unto me. If so be ye will yield you unto Sir Kay the Seneschal, I will save your lives, but else not." "Fair knight," then they said, "we will do as thou commandest us." "Then shall ye," said Sir Launcelot, "on Whitsunday next, go unto the court of King Arthur, and there shall ye yield you unto Queen Guenever, and say that Sir Kay sent you thither to be her prisoners." "Sir," they said, "it shall be done, by the faith of our bodies;" and then they swore, every knight upon his sword. And so Sir Launcelot suffered them to depart. On the morn Sir Launcelot rose early and left Sir Kay sleeping; and Sir Launcelot took Sir Kay's armor, and his shield, and armed him, and went to the stable and took his horse, and so he departed. Then soon after arose Sir Kay, and missed Sir Launcelot. And then he espied that he had taken his armor and his horse. "Now, by my faith, I know well," said Sir Kay, "that he will grieve some of King Arthur's knights, for they will deem that it is I, and will be bold to meet him. But by cause of his armor I am sure I shall ride in peace." Then Sir Kay thanked his host and departed. Sir Launcelot rode in a deep forest, and there he saw four knights, under an oak, and they were of Arthur's court. There was Sir Sagramour le Desirus, and Hector de Marys, and Sir Gawain, and Sir Uwaine. As they spied Sir Launcelot they judged by his arms it had been Sir Kay. "Now, by my faith," said Sir Sagramour, "I will prove Sir Kay's might;" and got his spear in his hand, and came towards Sir Launcelot. Therewith Sir Launcelot couched his spear against him, and smote Sir Sagramour so sore that horse and man fell both to the earth. Then said Sir Hector, "Now shall ye see what I may do with him." But he fared worse than Sir Sagramour, for Sir Launcelot's spear went through his shoulder and bare him from his horse to the ground. "By my faith," said Sir Uwaine, "yonder is a strong knight, and I fear he hath slain Sir Kay, and taken his armor." And therewith Sir Uwaine took his spear in hand, and rode toward Sir Launcelot; and Sir Launcelot met him on the plain and gave him such a buffet that he was staggered, and wist not where he was. "Now see I well," said Sir Gawain, "that I must encounter with that knight." Then he adjusted his shield, and took a good spear in his hand, and Sir Launcelot knew him well. Then they let run their horses with all their mights, and each knight smote the other in the middle of his shield. But Sir Gawain's spear broke, and Sir Launcelot charged so sore upon him that his horse fell over backward. Then Sir Launcelot passed by smiling with himself, and he said, "Good luck be with him that made this spear, for never came a better into my hand." Then the four knights went each to the other and comforted one another. "What say ye to this adventure," said Sir Gawain, "that one spear hath felled us all four?" "I dare lay my head it is Sir Launcelot," said Sir Hector; "I know it by his riding." And Sir Launcelot rode through many strange countries, till by fortune he came to a fair castle; and as he passed beyond the castle he thought he heard two bells ring. And then he perceived how a falcon came flying over his head, toward a high elm; and she had long lunys [Footnote: LUNYS, the string with which the falcon is held.] about her feet, and she flew unto the elm to take her perch, and the lunys got entangled in the bough; and when she would have taken her flight, she hung by the legs fast, and Sir Launcelot saw how she hung, and beheld the fair falcon entangled, and he was sorry for her. Then came a lady out of the castle and cried aloud, "O Launcelot, Launcelot, as thou art the flower of all knights, help me to get my hawk; for if my hawk be lost, my lord will slay me, he is so hasty." "What is your lord's name?" said Sir Launcelot. "His name is Sir Phelot, a knight that belongeth to the king of North Wales." "Well, fair lady, since ye know my name, and require me of knighthood to help you, I will do what I may to get your hawk; and yet in truth I am an ill climber, and the tree is passing high, and few boughs to help me." And therewith Sir Launcelot alighted and tied his horse to the tree, and prayed the lady to unarm him. And when he was unarmed, he put off his jerkin, and with might and force he clomb up to the falcon, and tied the lunys to a rotten bough, and threw the hawk down with it; and the lady got the hawk in her hand. Then suddenly there came out of the castle her husband, all armed, and with his naked sword in his hand, and said, "O Knight Launcelot, now have I got thee as I would," and stood at the boll of the tree to slay him. "Ah, lady!" said Sir Launcelot, "why have ye betrayed me?" "She hath done," said Sir Phelot, "but as I commanded her; and therefore there is none other way but thine hour is come, and thou must die." "That were shame unto thee," said Sir Launcelot; "thou an armed knight to slay a naked man by treason." "Thou gettest none other grace," said Sir Phelot, "and therefore help thyself if thou canst." "Alas!" said Sir Launcelot, "that ever a knight should die weaponless!" And therewith he turned his eyes upward and downward; and over his head he saw a big bough leafless, and he brake it off from the trunk. And then he came lower, and watched how his own horse stood; and suddenly he leapt on the further side of his horse from the knight. Then Sir Phelot lashed at him eagerly, meaning to have slain him. But Sir Launcelot put away the stroke, with the big bough, and smote Sir Phelot therewith on the side of the head, so that he fell down in a swoon to the ground. Then Sir Launcelot took his sword out of his hand and struck his head from the body. Then said the lady, "Alas! why hast thou slain my husband?" "I am not the cause," said Sir Launcelot, "for with falsehood ye would have slain me, and now it is fallen on yourselves." Thereupon Sir Launcelot got all his armor, and put it upon him hastily, for fear of more resort, for the knight's castle was so nigh. And as soon as he might, he took his horse and departed, and thanked God he had escaped that adventure. And two days before the feast of Pentecost, Sir Launcelot came home; and the king and all the court were passing glad of his coming. And when Sir Gawain, Sir Uwaine, Sir Sagramour, and Sir Hector de Marys saw Sir Launcelot in Sir Kay's armor then they wist well it was he that smote them down, all with one spear. Then there was laughing and merriment among them; and from time to time came all the knights that Sir Turquine had prisoners, and they all honored and worshipped Sir Launcelot. Then Sir Gaheris said, "I saw all the battle from the beginning to the end," and he told King Arthur all how it was. Then Sir Kay told the king how Sir Launcelot had rescued him, and how he "made the knights yield to me, and not to him." And there they were, all three, and confirmed it all "And, by my faith," said Sir Kay, "because Sir Launcelot took my harness and left me his, I rode in peace, and no man would have to do with me." And so at that time Sir Launcelot had the greatest name of any knight of the world, and most was he honored of high and low. CHAPTER IX THE ADVENTURE OF THE CART It befell in the month of May, Queen Guenever called to her knights of the Table Round, and gave them warning that early upon the morrow she would ride a-maying into the woods and fields beside Westminster; "and I warn you that there be none of you but he be well horsed, and that ye all be clothed in green, either silk or cloth; and I shall bring with me ten ladies, and every knight shall have a lady behind him, and every knight shall have a squire and two yeoman, and all well horsed." "For thus it chanced one morn when all the court, Green-suited, but with plumes that mock'd the May, Had been, their wont, a-maying" --Guinevere. So they made them ready; and these were the names of the knights: Sir Kay the Seneschal, Sir Agrivaine, Sir Brandiles, Sir Sagramour le Desirus, Sir Dodynas le Sauvage, Sir Ozanna, Sir Ladynas, Sir Persant of Inde, Sir Ironside, and Sir Pelleas; and these ten knights made them ready, in the freshest manner, to ride with the queen. So upon the morn they took their horses with the queen, and rode a-maying in woods and meadows, as it pleased them, in great joy and delight. Now there was a knight named Maleagans, son to King Brademagus, who loved Queen Guenever passing well, and so had he done long and many years. Now this knight, Sir Maleagans, learned the queen's purpose, and that she had no men of arms with her but the ten noble knights all arrayed in green for maying; so he prepared him twenty men of arms, and a hundred archers, to take captive the queen and her knights. "In the merry month of May, In a morn at break of day, With a troop of damsels playing, The Queen, forsooth, went forth a-maying." --Old Song. So when the queen had mayed, and all were bedecked with herbs, mosses, and flowers in the best manner and freshest, right then came out of a wood Sir Maleagans with eightscore men well harnessed, and bade the queen and her knights yield them prisoners. "Traitor knight," said Queen Guenever, "what wilt thou do? Wilt thou shame thyself? Bethink thee how thou art a king's son, and a knight of the Table Round, and how thou art about to dishonor all knighthood and thyself?" "Be it as it may," said Sir Maleagans, "know you well, madam, I have loved you many a year and never till now could I get you to such advantage as I do now; and therefore I will take you as I find you." Then the ten knights of the Round Table drew their swords, and the other party run at them with their spears, and the ten knights manfully abode them, and smote away their spears. Then they lashed together with swords till several were smitten to the earth. So when the queen saw her knights thus dolefully oppressed, and needs must be slain at the last, then for pity and sorrow she cried, "Sir Maleagans, slay not my noble knights and I will go with you, upon this covenant, that they be led with me wheresoever thou leadest me." "Madame," said Maleagans, "for your sake they shall be led with you into my own castle, if that ye will be ruled, and ride with me." Then Sir Maleagans charged them all that none should depart from the queen, for he dreaded lest Sir Launcelot should have knowledge of what had been done. Then the queen privily called unto her a page of her chamber that was swiftly horsed, to whom she said, "Go thou when thou seest thy time, and bear this ring unto Sir Launcelot, and pray him as he loveth me, that he will see me and rescue me. And spare not thy horse," said the queen, "neither for water nor for land." So the child espied his time, and lightly he took his horse with the spurs and departed as fast as he might. And when Sir Maleagans saw him so flee, he understood that it was by the queen's commandment for to warn Sir Launcelot. Then they that were best horsed chased him, and shot at him, but the child went from them all. Then Sir Maleagans said to the queen, "Madam, ye are about to betray me, but I shall arrange for Sir Launcelot that he shall not come lightly at you." Then he rode with her and them all to his castle, in all the haste that they might. And by the way Sir Maleagans laid in ambush the best archers that he had to wait for Sir Launcelot. And the child came to Westminster and found Sir Launcelot and told his message and delivered him the queen's ring. "Alas!" said Sir Launcelot, "now am I shamed for ever, unless I may rescue that noble lady." Then eagerly he asked his armor and put it on him, and mounted his horse and rode as fast as he might; and men say he took the water at Westminster Bridge, and made his horse swim over Thames unto Lambeth. Then within a while he came to a wood where was a narrow way; and there the archers were laid in ambush. And they shot at him and smote his horse so that he fell. Then Sir Launcelot left his horse and went on foot, but there lay so many ditches and hedges betwixt the archers and him that he might not meddle with them. "Alas! for shame," said Sir Launcelot, "that ever one knight should betray another! but it is an old saw, a good man is never in danger, but when he is in danger of a coward." Then Sir Launcelot went awhile and he was exceedingly cumbered by his armor, his shield, and his spear, and all that belonged to him. Then by chance there came by him a cart that came thither to fetch wood. Now at this time carts were little used except for carrying offal and for conveying criminals to execution. But Sir Launcelot took no thought of anything but the necessity of haste for the purpose of rescuing the queen; so he demanded of the carter that he should take him in and convey him as speedily as possible for a liberal reward. The carter consented, and Sir Launcelot placed himself in the cart and only lamented that with much jolting he made but little progress. Then it happened Sir Gawain passed by and seeing an armed knight travelling in that unusual way he drew near to see who it might be. Then Sir Launcelot told him how the queen had been carried off, and how, in hastening to her rescue, his horse had been disabled and he had been compelled to avail himself of the cart rather than give up his enterprise. Then Sir Gawain said, "Surely it is unworthy of a knight to travel in such sort;" but Sir Launcelot heeded him not. At nightfall they arrived at a castle and the lady thereof came out at the head of her damsels to welcome Sir Gawain. But to admit his companion, whom she supposed to be a criminal, or at least a prisoner, it pleased her not; however, to oblige Sir Gawain, she consented. At supper Sir Launcelot came near being consigned to the kitchen and was only admitted to the lady's table at the earnest solicitation of Sir Gawain. Neither would the damsels prepare a bed for him. He seized the first he found unoccupied and was left undisturbed. Next morning he saw from the turrets of the castle a train accompanying a lady, whom he imagined to be the queen. Sir Gawain thought it might be so, and became equally eager to depart. The lady of the castle supplied Sir Launcelot with a horse and they traversed the plain at full speed. They learned from some travellers whom they met, that there were two roads which led to the castle of Sir Maleagans. Here therefore the friends separated. Sir Launcelot found his way beset with obstacles, which he encountered successfully, but not without much loss of time. As evening approached he was met by a young and sportive damsel, who gayly proposed to him a supper at her castle. The knight, who was hungry and weary, accepted the offer, though with no very good grace. He followed the lady to her castle and ate voraciously of her supper, but was quite impenetrable to all her amorous advances. Suddenly the scene changed and he was assailed by six furious ruffians, whom he dealt with so vigorously that most of them were speedily disabled, when again there was a change and he found himself alone with his fair hostess, who informed him that she was none other than his guardian fairy, who had but subjected him to tests of his courage and fidelity. The next day the fairy brought him on his road, and before parting gave him a ring, which she told him would by its changes of color disclose to him all enchantments, and enable him to subdue them. Sir Launcelot pursued his journey, without being much incommoded except by the taunts of travellers, who all seemed to have learned, by some means, his disgraceful drive in the cart. One, more insolent than the rest, had the audacity to interrupt him during dinner, and even to risk a battle in support of his pleasantry. Launcelot, after an easy victory, only doomed him to be carted in his turn. At night he was received at another castle, with great apparent hospitality, but found himself in the morning in a dungeon, and loaded with chains. Consulting his ring, and finding that this was an enchantment, he burst his chains, seized his armor in spite of the visionary monsters who attempted to defend it, broke open the gates of the tower, and continued his journey. At length his progress was checked by a wide and rapid torrent, which could only be passed on a narrow bridge, on which a false step would prove his destruction. Launcelot, leading his horse by the bridle, and making him swim by his side, passed over the bridge, and was attacked as soon as he reached the bank by a lion and a leopard, both of which he slew, and then, exhausted and bleeding, seated himself on the grass, and endeavored to bind up his wounds, when he was accosted by Brademagus, the father of Maleagans, whose castle was then in sight, and at no great distance. This king, no less courteous than his son was haughty and insolent, after complimenting Sir Launcelot on the valor and skill he had displayed in the perils of the bridge and the wild beasts, offered him his assistance, and informed him that the queen was safe in his castle, but could only be rescued by encountering Maleagans. Launcelot demanded the battle for the next day, and accordingly it took place, at the foot of the tower, and under the eyes of the fair captive. Launcelot was enfeebled by his wounds, and fought not with his usual spirit, and the contest for a time was doubtful; till Guenever exclaimed, "Ah, Launcelot! my knight, truly have I been told that thou art no longer worthy of me!" These words instantly revived the drooping knight; he resumed at once his usual superiority, and soon laid at his feet his haughty adversary. He was on the point of sacrificing him to his resentment, when Guenever, moved by the entreaties of Brademagus, ordered him to withhold the blow, and he obeyed. The castle and its prisoners were now at his disposal. Launcelot hastened to the apartment of the queen, threw himself at her feet, and was about to kiss her hand, when she exclaimed, "Ah, Launcelot! why do I see thee again, yet feel thee to be no longer worthy of me, after having been disgracefully drawn about the country in a--" She had not time to finish the phrase, for her lover suddenly started from her, and, bitterly lamenting that he had incurred the displeasure of his sovereign lady, rushed out of the castle, threw his sword and his shield to the right and left, ran furiously into the woods, and disappeared. It seems that the story of the abominable cart, which haunted Launcelot at every step, had reached the ears of Sir Kay, who had told it to the queen, as a proof that her knight must have been dishonored. But Guenever had full leisure to repent the haste with which she had given credit to the tale. Three days elapsed, during which Launcelot wandered without knowing where he went, till at last he began to reflect that his mistress had doubtless been deceived by misrepresentation, and that it was his duty to set her right. He therefore returned, compelled Maleagans to release his prisoners, and, taking the road by which they expected the arrival of Sir Gawain, had the satisfaction of meeting him the next day; after which the whole company proceeded gayly towards Camelot. CHAPTER X THE LADY OF SHALOTT King Arthur proclaimed a solemn tournament to be held at Winchester. The king, not less impatient than his knights for this festival, set off some days before to superintend the preparations, leaving the queen with her court at Camelot. Sir Launcelot, under pretence of indisposition, remained behind also. His intention was to attend the tournament--in disguise; and having communicated his project to Guenever, he mounted his horse, set off without any attendant, and, counterfeiting the feebleness of age, took the most unfrequented road to Winchester, and passed unnoticed as an old knight who was going to be a spectator of the sports. Even Arthur and Gawain, who happened to behold him from the windows of a castle under which he passed, were the dupes of his disguise. But an accident betrayed him. His horse happened to stumble, and the hero, forgetting for a moment his assumed character, recovered the animal with a strength and agility so peculiar to himself, that they instantly recognized the inimitable Launcelot. They suffered him, however, to proceed on his journey without interruption, convinced that his extraordinary feats of arms must discover him at the approaching festival. In the evening Launcelot was magnificently entertained as a stranger knight at the neighboring castle of Shalott. The lord of this castle had a daughter of exquisite beauty, and two sons lately received into the order of knighthood, one of whom was at that time ill in bed, and thereby prevented from attending the tournament, for which both brothers had long made preparation. Launcelot offered to attend the other, if he were permitted to borrow the armor of the invalid, and the lord of Shalott, without knowing the name of his guest, being satisfied from his appearance that his son could not have a better assistant in arms, most thankfully accepted the offer. In the meantime the young lady, who had been much struck by the first appearance of the stranger knight, continued to survey him with increased attention, and, before the conclusion of supper, became so deeply enamoured of him, that after frequent changes of color, and other symptoms which Sir Launcelot could not possibly mistake, she was obliged to retire to her chamber, and seek relief in tears. Sir Launcelot hastened to convey to her, by means of her brother, the information that his heart was already disposed of, but that it would be his pride and pleasure to act as her knight at the approaching tournament. The lady, obliged to be satisfied with that courtesy, presented him her scarf to be worn at the tournament. Launcelot set off in the morning with the young knight, who, on their approaching Winchester, carried him to the castle of a lady, sister to the lord of Shalott, by whom they were hospitably entertained. The next day they put on their armor, which was perfectly plain and without any device, as was usual to youths during the first year of knighthood, their shields being only painted red, as some color was necessary to enable them to be recognized by their attendants. Launcelot wore on his crest the scarf of the maid of Shalott, and, thus equipped, proceeded to the tournament, where the knights were divided into two companies, the one commanded by Sir Galehaut, the other by King Arthur. Having surveyed the combat for a short time from without the lists, and observed that Sir Galehaut's party began to give way, they joined the press and attacked the royal knights, the young man choosing such adversaries as were suited to his strength, while his companion selected the principal champions of the Round Table, and successively overthrew Gawain, Bohort, and Lionel. The astonishment of the spectators was extreme, for it was thought that no one but Launcelot could possess such invincible force; yet the favor on his crest seemed to preclude the possibility of his being thus disguised, for Launcelot had never been known to wear the badge of any but his sovereign lady. At length Sir Hector, Launcelot's brother, engaged him, and, after a dreadful combat, wounded him dangerously in the head, but was himself completely stunned by a blow on the helmet, and felled to the ground; after which the conqueror rode off at full speed, attended by his companion. They returned to the castle of Shalott, where Launcelot was attended with the greatest care by the good earl, by his two sons, and, above all, by his fair daughter, whose medical skill probably much hastened the period of his recovery. His health was almost completely restored, when Sir Hector, Sir Bohort, and Sir Lionel, who, after the return of the court to Camelot, had undertaken the quest of their relation, discovered him walking on the walls of the castle. Their meeting was very joyful; they passed three days in the castle amidst constant festivities, and bantered each other on the events of the tournament. Launcelot, though he began by vowing vengeance against the author of his wound, yet ended by declaring that he felt rewarded for the pain by the pride he took in witnessing his brother's extraordinary prowess. He then dismissed them with a message to the queen, promising to follow immediately, it being necessary that he should first take a formal leave of his kind hosts, as well as of the fair maid of Shalott. The young lady, after vainly attempting to detain him by her tears and solicitations, saw him depart without leaving her any ground for hope. It was early summer when the tournament took place; but some months had passed since Launcelot's departure, and winter was now near at hand. The health and strength of the Lady of Shalott had gradually sunk, and she felt that she could not live apart from the object of her affections. She left the castle, and descending to the river's brink placed herself in a boat, which she loosed from its moorings, and suffered to bear her down the current toward Camelot. One morning, as Arthur and Sir Lionel looked from the window of the tower, the walls of which were washed by a river, they descried a boat richly ornamented, and covered with an awning of cloth of gold, which appeared to be floating down the stream without any human guidance. It struck the shore while they watched it, and they hastened down to examine it. Beneath the awning they discovered the dead body of a beautiful woman, in whose features Sir Lionel easily recognized the lovely maid of Shalott. Pursuing their search, they discovered a purse richly embroidered with gold and jewels, and within the purse a letter, which Arthur opened, and found addressed to himself and all the knights of the Round Table, stating that Launcelot of the Lake, the most accomplished of knights and most beautiful of men, but at the same time the most cruel and inflexible, had by his rigor produced the death of the wretched maiden, whose love was no less invincible than his cruelty. The king immediately gave orders for the interment of the lady with all the honors suited to her rank, at the same time explaining to the knights the history of her affection for Launcelot, which moved the compassion and regret of all. Tennyson has chosen the story of the "Lady of Shalott" for the subject of a poem. The catastrophe is told thus: "Under tower and balcony, By garden-wall and gallery, A gleaming shape she floated by, A corse between the houses high, Silent into Camelot. Out upon the wharfs they came, Knight and burgher, lord and dame, And round the prow they read her name, 'The Lady of Shalott' "Who is this? and what is here? And in the lighted palace near Died the sound of royal cheer; And they crossed themselves for fear, All the knights at Camelot. But Launcelot mused a little space; He said, 'She has a lovely face; God in his mercy lend her grace, The Lady of Shalott.'" CHAPTER XI QUEEN GUENEVER'S PERIL It happened at this time that Queen Guenever was thrown into great peril of her life. A certain squire who was in her immediate service, having some cause of animosity to Sir Gawain, determined to destroy him by poison, at a public entertainment. For this purpose he concealed the poison in an apple of fine appearance, which he placed on the top of several others, and put the dish before the queen, hoping that, as Sir Gawain was the knight of greatest dignity, she would present the apple to him. But it happened that a Scottish knight of high distinction, who arrived on that day, was seated next to the queen, and to him as a stranger she presented the apple, which he had no sooner eaten than he was seized with dreadful pain, and fell senseless. The whole court was, of course, thrown into confusion; the knights rose from table, darting looks of indignation at the wretched queen, whose tears and protestations were unable to remove their suspicions. In spite of all that could be done the knight died, and nothing remained but to order a magnificent funeral and monument for him, which was done. Some time after Sir Mador, brother of the murdered knight, arrived at Arthur's court in quest of him. While hunting in the forest he by chance came to the spot where the monument was erected, read the inscription, and returned to court determined on immediate and signal vengeance. He rode into the hall, loudly accused the queen of treason, and insisted on her being given up for punishment, unless she should find by a certain day a knight hardy enough to risk his life in support of her innocence. Arthur, powerful as he was, did not dare to deny the appeal, but was compelled with a heavy heart to accept it, and Mador sternly took his departure, leaving the royal couple plunged in terror and anxiety. During all this time Launcelot was absent, and no one knew where he was. He fled in anger from his fair mistress, upon being reproached by her with his passion for the Lady of Shalott, which she had hastily inferred from his wearing her scarf at the tournament. He took up his abode with a hermit in the forest, and resolved to think no more of the cruel beauty, whose conduct he thought must flow from a wish to get rid of him. Yet calm reflection had somewhat cooled his indignation, and he had begun to wish, though hardly able to hope, for a reconciliation when the news of Sir Mador's challenge fortunately reached his ears. The intelligence revived his spirits, and he began to prepare with the utmost cheerfulness for a contest which, if successful, would insure him at once the affection of his mistress and the gratitude of his sovereign. The sad fate of the Lady of Shalott had ere this completely acquitted Launcelot in the queen's mind of all suspicion of his fidelity, and she lamented most grievously her foolish quarrel with him, which now, at her time of need, deprived her of her most efficient champion. As the day appointed by Sir Mador was fast approaching, it became necessary that she should procure a champion for her defence; and she successively adjured Sir Hector, Sir Lionel, Sir Bohort, and Sir Gawain to undertake the battle. She fell on her knees before them, called heaven to witness her innocence of the crime alleged against her, but was sternly answered by all that they could not fight to maintain the innocence of one whose act, and the fatal consequence of it, they had seen with their own eyes. She retired, therefore, dejected and disconsolate; but the sight of the fatal pile on which, if guilty, she was doomed to be burned, exciting her to fresh effort, she again repaired to Sir Bohort, threw herself at his feet, and piteously calling on him for mercy, fell into a swoon. The brave knight was not proof against this. He raised her up, and hastily promised that he would undertake her cause, if no other or better champion should present himself. He then summoned his friends, and told them his resolution; and as a mortal combat with Sir Mador was a most fearful enterprise, they agreed to accompany him in the morning to the hermitage in the forest, where he proposed to receive absolution from the hermit, and to make his peace with Heaven before he entered the lists. As they approached the hermitage, they espied a knight riding in the forest, whom they at once recognized as Sir Launcelot. Overjoyed at the meeting, they quickly, in answer to his questions, confirmed the news of the queen's imminent danger, and received his instructions to return to court, to comfort her as well as they could, but to say nothing of his intention of undertaking her defence, which he meant to do in the character of an unknown adventurer. On their return to the castle they found that mass was finished, and had scarcely time to speak to the queen before they were summoned into the hall to dinner. A general gloom was spread over the countenances of all the guests. Arthur himself was unable to conceal his dejection, and the wretched Guenever, motionless and bathed in tears, sat in trembling expectation of Sir Mador's appearance. Nor was it long ere he stalked into the hall, and with a voice of thunder, rendered more impressive by the general silence, demanded instant justice on the guilty party. Arthur replied with dignity, that little of the day was yet spent, and that perhaps a champion might yet be found capable of satisfying his thirst for battle. Sir Bohort now rose from table, and shortly returning in complete armor, resumed his place, after receiving the embraces and thanks of the king, who now began to resume some degree of confidence. Sir Mador, growing impatient, again repeated his denunciations of vengeance, and insisted that the combat should no longer be postponed. In the height of the debate there came riding into the hall a knight mounted on a black steed, and clad in black armor, with his visor down, and lance in hand. "Sir," said the king, "is it your will to alight and partake of our cheer?" "Nay, sir," he replied; "I come to save a lady's life. The queen hath ill bestowed her favors, and honored many a knight, that in her hour of need she should have none to take her part. Thou that darest accuse her of treachery, stand forth, for to-day shalt thou need all thy might." Sir Mador, though surprised, was not appalled by the stern challenge and formidable appearance of his antagonist, but prepared for the encounter. At the first shock both were unhorsed. They then drew their swords, and commenced a combat which lasted from noon till evening, when Sir Mador, whose strength began to fail, was felled to the ground by Launcelot, and compelled to sue for mercy. The victor, whose arm was already raised to terminate the life of his opponent, instantly dropped his sword, courteously lifted up the fainting Sir Mador, frankly confessing that he had never before encountered so formidable an enemy. The other, with similar courtesy, solemnly renounced all further projects of vengeance for his brother's death; and the two knights, now become fast friends, embraced each other with the greatest cordiality. In the meantime Arthur, having recognized Sir Launcelot, whose helmet was now unlaced, rushed down into the lists, followed by all his knights, to welcome and thank his deliverer. Guenever swooned with joy, and the place of combat suddenly exhibited a scene of the most tumultuous delight. The general satisfaction was still further increased by the discovery of the real culprit. Having accidentally incurred some suspicion, he confessed his crime, and was publicly punished in the presence of Sir Mador. The court now returned to the castle, which, with the title of "La Joyeuse Garde" bestowed upon it in memory of the happy event, was conferred on Sir Launcelot by Arthur, as a memorial of his gratitude. CHAPTER XII TRISTRAM AND ISOUDE Meliadus was king of Leonois, or Lionesse, a country famous in the annals of romance, which adjoined the kingdom of Cornwall, but has now disappeared from the map, having been, it is said, overwhelmed by the ocean. Meliadus was married to Isabella, sister of Mark, king of Cornwall. A fairy fell in love with him, and drew him away by enchantment while he was engaged in hunting. His queen set out in quest of him, but was taken ill on her journey, and died, leaving an infant son, whom, from the melancholy circumstances of his birth, she called Tristram. Gouvernail, the queen's squire, who had accompanied her, took charge of the child, and restored him to his father, who had at length burst the enchantments of the fairy, and returned home. Meliadus after seven years married again, and the new queen, being jealous of the influence of Tristram with his father, laid plots for his life, which were discovered by Gouvernail, who in consequence fled with the boy to the court of the king of France, where Tristram was kindly received, and grew up improving in every gallant and knightly accomplishment, adding to his skill in arms the arts of music and of chess. In particular, he devoted himself to the chase and to all woodland sports, so that he became distinguished above all other chevaliers of the court for his knowledge of all that relates to hunting. No wonder that Belinda, the king's daughter, fell in love with him; but as he did not return her passion, she, in a sudden impulse of anger, excited her father against him, and he was banished the kingdom. The princess soon repented of her act, and in despair destroyed herself, having first written a most tender letter to Tristram, sending him at the same time a beautiful and sagacious dog, of which she was very fond, desiring him to keep it as a memorial of her. Meliadus was now dead, and as his queen, Tristram's stepmother, held the throne, Gouvernail was afraid to carry his pupil to his native country, and took him to Cornwall, to his uncle Mark, who gave him a kind reception. King Mark resided at the castle of Tintadel, already mentioned in the history of Uther and Igerne. In this court Tristram became distinguished in all the exercises incumbent on a knight; nor was it long before he had an opportunity of practically employing his valor and skill. Moraunt, a celebrated champion, brother to the queen of Ireland, arrived at the court, to demand tribute of King Mark. The knights of Cornwall are in ill repute in romance for their cowardice, and they exhibited it on this occasion. King Mark could find no champion who dared to encounter the Irish knight, till his nephew Tristram, who had not yet received the honors of knighthood, craved to be admitted to the order, offering at the same time to fight the battle of Cornwall against the Irish champion. King Mark assented with reluctance; Tristram received the accolade, which conferred knighthood upon him, and the place and time were assigned for the encounter. Without attempting to give the details of this famous combat, the first and one of the most glorious of Tristram's exploits, we shall only say that the young knight, though severely wounded, cleft the head of Moraunt, leaving a portion of his sword in the wound. Moraunt, half dead with his wound and the disgrace of his defeat, hastened to hide himself in his ship, sailed away with all speed for Ireland, and died soon after arriving in his own country. The kingdom of Cornwall was thus delivered from its tribute. Tristram, weakened by loss of blood, fell senseless. His friends flew to his assistance. They dressed his wounds, which in general healed readily; but the lance of Moraunt was poisoned, and one wound which it made yielded to no remedies, but grew worse day by day. The surgeons could do no more. Tristram asked permission of his uncle to depart, and seek for aid in the kingdom of Loegria (England). With his consent he embarked, and after tossing for many days on the sea, was driven by the winds to the coast of Ireland. He landed, full of joy and gratitude that he had escaped the peril of the sea; took his rote,[Footnote: A musical instrument.] and began to play. It was a summer evening, and the king of Ireland and his daughter, the beautiful Isoude, were at a window which overlooked the sea. The strange harper was sent for, and conveyed to the palace, where, finding that he was in Ireland, whose champion he had lately slain, he concealed his name, and called himself Tramtris. The queen undertook his cure, and by a medicated bath gradually restored him to health. His skill in music and in games occasioned his being frequently called to court, and he became the instructor of the princess Isoude in minstrelsy and poetry, who profited so well under his care, that she soon had no equal in the kingdom, except her instructor. At this time a tournament was held, at which many knights of the Round Table, and others, were present. On the first day a Saracen prince, named Palamedes, obtained the advantage over all. They brought him to the court, and gave him a feast, at which Tristram, just recovering from his wound, was present. The fair Isoude appeared on this occasion in all her charms. Palamedes could not behold them without emotion, and made no effort to conceal his love. Tristram perceived it, and the pain he felt from jealousy taught him how dear the fair Isoude had already become to him. Next day the tournament was renewed. Tristram, still feeble from his wound, rose during the night, took his arms, and concealed them in a forest near the place of the contest, and, after it had begun, mingled with the combatants. He overthrew all that encountered him, in particular Palamedes, whom he brought to the ground with a stroke of his lance, and then fought him hand to hand, bearing off the prize of the tourney. But his exertions caused his wound to reopen; he bled fast, and in this sad state, yet in triumph, they bore him to the palace. The fair Isoude devoted herself to his relief with an interest which grew more vivid day by day; and her skilful care soon restored him to health. It happened one day that a damsel of the court, entering the closet where Tristram's arms were deposited, perceived that a part of the sword had been broken off. It occurred to her that the missing portion was like that which was left in the skull of Moraunt, the Irish champion. She imparted her thought to the queen, who compared the fragment taken from her brother's wound with the sword of Tristram, and was satisfied that it was part of the same, and that the weapon of Tristram was that which reft her brother's life. She laid her griefs and resentment before the king, who satisfied himself with his own eyes of the truth of her suspicions. Tristram was cited before the whole court, and reproached with having dared to present himself before them after having slain their kinsman. He acknowledged that he had fought with Moraunt to settle the claim for tribute, and said that it was by force of winds and waves alone that he was thrown on their coast. The queen demanded vengeance for the death of her brother; the fair Isoude trembled and grew pale, but a murmur rose from all the assembly that the life of one so handsome and so brave should not be taken for such a cause, and generosity finally triumphed over resentment in the mind of the king. Tristram was dismissed in safety, but commanded to leave the kingdom without delay, and never to return thither under pain of death Tristram went back, with restored health, to Cornwall. King Mark made his nephew give him a minute recital of his adventures. Tristram told him all minutely; but when he came to speak of the fair Isoude he described her charms with a warmth and energy such as none but a lover could display. King Mark was fascinated with the description, and, choosing a favorable time, demanded a boon[Footnote: "Good faith was the very corner-stone of chivalry. Whenever a knight's word was pledged (it mattered not how rashly) it was to be redeemed at any price. Hence the sacred obligation of the boon granted by a knight to his suppliant. Instances without number occur in romance, in which a knight, by rashly granting an indefinite boon, was obliged to do or suffer something extremely to his prejudice. But it is not in romance alone that we find such singular instances of adherence to an indefinite promise. The history of the times presents authentic transactions equally embarrassing and absurd"--SCOTT, note to Sir Tristram.] of his nephew, who readily granted it. The king made him swear upon the holy reliques that he would fulfil his commands. Then Mark directed him to go to Ireland, and obtain for him the fair Isoude to be queen of Cornwall. Tristram believed it was certain death for him to return to Ireland; and how could he act as ambassador for his uncle in such a cause? Yet, bound by his oath, he hesitated not for an instant. He only took the precaution to change his armor. He embarked for Ireland; but a tempest drove him to the coast of England, near Camelot, where King Arthur was holding his court, attended by the knights of the Round Table, and many others, the most illustrious in the world. Tristram kept himself unknown. He took part in many justs; he fought many combats, in which he covered himself with glory. One day he saw among those recently arrived the king of Ireland, father of the fair Isoude. This prince, accused of treason against his liege sovereign, Arthur, came to Camelot to free himself from the charge. Blaanor, one of the most redoubtable warriors of the Round Table, was his accuser, and Argius, the king, had neither youthful vigor nor strength to encounter him. He must therefore seek a champion to sustain his innocence. But the knights of the Round Table were not at liberty to fight against one another, unless in a quarrel of their own. Argius heard of the great renown of the unknown knight; he also was witness of his exploits. He sought him, and conjured him to adopt his defence, and on his oath declared that he was innocent of the crime of which he was accused. Tristram readily consented, and made himself known to the king, who on his part promised to reward his exertions, if successful, with whatever gift he might ask. Tristram fought with Blaanor, and overthrew him, and held his life in his power. The fallen warrior called on him to use his right of conquest, and strike the fatal blow. "God forbid," said Tristram, "that I should take the life of so brave a knight!" He raised him up and restored him to his friends. The judges of the field decided that the king of Ireland was acquitted of the charge against him, and they led Tristram in triumph to his tent. King Argius, full of gratitude, conjured Tristram to accompany him to his kingdom. They departed together, and arrived in Ireland; and the queen, forgetting her resentment for her brother's death, exhibited to the preserver of her husband's life nothing but gratitude and good-will. How happy a moment for Isoude, who knew that her father had promised his deliverer whatever boon he might ask! But the unhappy Tristram gazed on her with despair, at the thought of the cruel oath which bound him. His magnanimous soul subdued the force of his love. He revealed the oath which he had taken, and with trembling voice demanded the fair Isoude for his uncle. Argius consented, and soon all was prepared for the departure of Isoude. Brengwain, her favorite maid of honor, was to accompany her. On the day of departure the queen took aside this devoted attendant, and told her that she had observed that her daughter and Tristram were attached to one another, and that to avert the bad effects of this inclination she had procured from a powerful fairy a potent philter (love-draught), which she directed Brengwain to administer to Isoude and to King Mark on the evening of their marriage. Isoude and Tristram embarked together. A favorable wind filled the sails, and promised them a fortunate voyage. The lovers gazed upon one another, and could not repress their sighs. Love seemed to light up all his fires on their lips, as in their hearts. The day was warm; they suffered from thirst. Isoude first complained. Tristram descried the bottle containing the love-draught, which Brengwain had been so imprudent as to leave in sight. He took it, gave some of it to the charming Isoude, and drank the remainder himself. The dog Houdain licked the cup. The ship arrived in Cornwall, and Isoude was married to King Mark, The old monarch was delighted with his bride, and his gratitude to Tristram was unbounded. He loaded him with honors, and made him chamberlain of his palace, thus giving him access to the queen at all times. In the midst of the festivities of the court which followed the royal marriage, an unknown minstrel one day presented himself, bearing a harp of peculiar construction. He excited the curiosity of King Mark by refusing to play upon it till he should grant him a boon. The king having promised to grant his request, the minstrel, who was none other than the Saracen knight, Sir Palamedes, the lover of the fair Isoude, sung to the harp a lay, in which he demanded Isoude as the promised gift. King Mark could not by the laws of knighthood withhold the boon. The lady was mounted on her horse, and led away by her triumphant lover. Tristram, it is needless to say, was absent at the time, and did not return until their departure. When he heard what had taken place he seized his rote, and hastened to the shore, where Isoude and her new master had already embarked. Tristram played upon his rote, and the sound reached the ears of Isoude, who became so deeply affected, that Sir Palamedes was induced to return with her to land, that they might see the unknown musician. Tristram watched his opportunity, seized the lady's horse by the bridle, and plunged with her into the forest, tauntingly informing his rival that "what he had got by the harp he had lost by the rote." Palamedes pursued, and a combat was about to commence, the result of which must have been fatal to one or other of these gallant knights; but Isoude stepped between them, and, addressing Palamedes, said, "You tell me that you love me; you will not then deny me the request I am about to make?" "Lady," he replied, "I will perform your bidding." "Leave, then," said she, "this contest, and repair to King Arthur's court, and salute Queen Guenever from me; tell her that there are in the world but two ladies, herself and I, and two lovers, hers and mine; and come thou not in future in any place where I am." Palamedes burst into tears. "Ah, lady," said he, "I will obey you; but I beseech you that you will not for ever steel your heart against me." "Palamedes," she replied, "may I never taste of joy again if I ever quit my first love." Palamedes then went his way. The lovers remained a week in concealment, after which Tristram restored Isoude to her husband, advising him in future to reward minstrels in some other way. The king showed much gratitude to Tristram, but in the bottom of his heart he cherished bitter jealousy of him. One day Tristram and Isoude were alone together in her private chamber. A base and cowardly knight of the court, named Andret, spied them through a keyhole. They sat at a table of chess, but were not attending to the game. Andret brought the king, having first raised his suspicions, and placed him so as to watch their motions. The king saw enough to confirm his suspicions, and he burst into the apartment with his sword drawn, and had nearly slain Tristram before he was put on his guard. But Tristram avoided the blow, drew his sword, and drove before him the cowardly monarch, chasing him through all the apartments of the palace, giving him frequent blows with the flat of his sword, while he cried in vain to his knights to save him. They were not inclined, or did not dare, to interpose in his behalf. A proof of the great popularity of the tale of Sir Tristram is the fact that the Italian poets, Boiardo and Ariosto, have founded upon it the idea of the two enchanted fountains, which produced the opposite effects of love and hatred. Boiardo thus describes the fountain of hatred: "Fair was that fountain, sculptured all of gold, With alabaster sculptured, rich and rare; And in its basin clear thou might'st behold The flowery marge reflected fresh and fair. Sage Merlin framed the font,--so legends bear,-- When on fair Isoude doated Tristram brave, That the good errant knight, arriving there, Might quaff oblivion in the enchanted wave, And leave his luckless love, and 'scape his timeless grave. 'But ne'er the warrior's evil fate allowed His steps that fountain's charmed verge to gain. Though restless, roving on adventure proud, He traversed oft the land and oft the main." CHAPTER XIII TRISTRAM AND ISOUDE (Continued) After this affair Tristram was banished from the kingdom, and Isoude shut up in a tower, which stood on the bank of a river. Tristram could not resolve to depart without some further communication with his beloved; so he concealed himself in the forest, till at last he contrived to attract her attention, by means of twigs which he curiously peeled, and sent down the stream under her window. By this means many secret interviews were obtained. Tristram dwelt in the forest, sustaining himself by game, which the dog Houdain ran down for him; for this faithful animal was unequalled in the chase, and knew so well his master's wish for concealment, that, in the pursuit of his game, he never barked. At length Tristram departed, but left Houdain with Isoude, as a remembrancer of him. Sir Tristram wandered through various countries, achieving the most perilous enterprises, and covering himself with glory, yet unhappy at the separation from his beloved Isoude. At length King Mark's territory was invaded by a neighboring chieftain, and he was forced to summon his nephew to his aid. Tristram obeyed the call, put himself at the head of his uncle's vassals, and drove the enemy out of the country. Mark was full of gratitude, and Tristram, restored to favor and to the society of his beloved Isoude, seemed at the summit of happiness. But a sad reverse was at hand. Tristram had brought with him a friend named Pheredin, son of the king of Brittany. This young knight saw Queen Isoude, and could not resist her charms. Knowing the love of his friend for the queen, and that that love was returned, Pheredin concealed his own, until his health failed, and he feared he was drawing near his end. He then wrote to the beautiful queen that he was dying for love of her. The gentle Isoude, in a moment of pity for the friend of Tristram, returned him an answer so kind and compassionate that it restored him to life. A few days afterwards Tristram found this letter. The most terrible jealousy took possession of his soul; he would have slain Pheredin, who with difficulty made his escape. Then Tristram mounted his horse, and rode to the forest, where for ten days he took no rest nor food. At length he was found by a damsel lying almost dead by the brink of a fountain. She recognized him, and tried in vain to rouse his attention. At last recollecting his love for music she went and got her harp, and played thereon. Tristram was roused from his reverie; tears flowed; he breathed more freely; he took the harp from the maiden, and sung this lay, with a voice broken with sobs: "Sweet I sang in former days, Kind love perfected my lays: Now my art alone displays The woe that on my being preys. "Charming love, delicious power, Worshipped from my earliest hour, Thou who life on all dost shower, Love! my life thou dost devour. "In death's hour I beg of thee, Isoude, dearest enemy, Thou who erst couldst kinder be, When I'm gone, forget not me. "On my gravestone passers-by Oft will read, as low I lie, 'Never wight in love could vie With Tristram, yet she let him die.'" Tristram, having finished his lay, wrote it off and gave it to the damsel, conjuring her to present it to the queen. Meanwhile Queen Isoude was inconsolable at the absence of Tristram. She discovered that it was caused by the fatal letter which she had written to Pheredin. Innocent, but in despair at the sad effects of her letter, she wrote another to Pheredin, charging him never to see her again. The unhappy lover obeyed this cruel decree. He plunged into the forest, and died of grief and love in a hermit's cell. Isoude passed her days in lamenting the absence and unknown fate of Tristram. One day her jealous husband, having entered her chamber unperceived, overheard her singing the following lay: "My voice to piteous wail is bent, My harp to notes of languishment; Ah, love! delightsome days be meant For happier wights, with hearts content. "Ah, Tristram' far away from me, Art thou from restless anguish free? Ah! couldst thou so one moment be, From her who so much loveth thee?" The king hearing these words burst forth in a rage; but Isoude was too wretched to fear his violence. "You have heard me," she said; "I confess it all. I love Tristram, and always shall love him. Without doubt he is dead, and died for me. I no longer wish to live. The blow that shall finish my misery will be most welcome." The king was moved at the distress of the fair Isoude, and perhaps the idea of Tristram's death tended to allay his wrath. He left the queen in charge of her women, commanding them to take especial care lest her despair should lead her to do harm to herself. Tristram meanwhile, distracted as he was, rendered a most important service to the shepherds by slaying a gigantic robber named Taullas, who was in the habit of plundering their flocks and rifling their cottages. The shepherds, in their gratitude to Tristram, bore him in triumph to King Mark to have him bestow on him a suitable reward. No wonder Mark failed to recognize in the half-clad, wild man, before him his nephew Tristram; but grateful for the service the unknown had rendered he ordered him to be well taken care of, and gave him in charge to the queen and her women. Under such care Tristram rapidly recovered his serenity and his health, so that the romancer tells us he became handsomer than ever. King Mark's jealousy revived with Tristram's health and good looks, and, in spite of his debt of gratitude so lately increased, he again banished him from the court. Sir Tristram left Cornwall, and proceeded into the land of Loegria (England) in quest of adventures. One day he entered a wide forest. The sound of a little bell showed him that some inhabitant was near. He followed the sound, and found a hermit, who informed him that he was in the forest of Arnantes, belonging to the fairy Viviane, the Lady of the Lake, who, smitten with love for King Arthur, had found means to entice him to this forest, where by enchantments she held him a prisoner, having deprived him of all memory of who and what he was. The hermit informed him that all the knights of the Round Table were out in search of the king, and that he (Tristram) was now in the scene of the most grand and important adventures. This was enough to animate Tristram in the search. He had not wandered far before he encountered a knight of Arthur's court, who proved to be Sir Kay the Seneschal, who demanded of him whence he came. Tristram answering, "From Cornwall," Sir Kay did not let slip the opportunity of a joke at the expense of the Cornish knight. Tristram chose to leave him in his error, and even confirmed him in it; for meeting some other knights Tristram declined to just with them. They spent the night together at an abbey, where Tristram submitted patiently to all their jokes. The Seneschal gave the word to his companions that they should set out early next day, and intercept the Cornish knight on his way, and enjoy the amusement of seeing his fright when they should insist on running a tilt with him. Tristram next morning found himself alone; he put on his armor, and set out to continue his quest. He soon saw before him the Seneschal and the three knights, who barred the way, and insisted on a just. Tristram excused himself a long time; at last he reluctantly took his stand. He encountered them, one after the other, and overthrew them all four, man and horse, and then rode off, bidding them not to forget their friend the knight of Cornwall. Tristram had not ridden far when he met a damsel, who cried out, "Ah, my lord! hasten forward, and prevent a horrid treason!" Tristram flew to her assistance, and soon reached a spot where he beheld a knight, whom three others had borne to the ground, and were unlacing his helmet in order to cut off his head. Tristram flew to the rescue, and slew with one stroke of his lance one of the assailants. The knight, recovering his feet, sacrificed another to his vengeance, and the third made his escape. The rescued knight then raised the visor of his helmet, and a long white beard fell down upon his breast. The majesty and venerable air of this knight made Tristram suspect that it was none other than Arthur himself, and the prince confirmed his conjecture. Tristram would have knelt before him, but Arthur received him in his arms, and inquired his name and country; but Tristram declined to disclose them, on the plea that he was now on a quest requiring secrecy. At this moment the damsel who had brought Tristram to the rescue darted forward, and, seizing the king's hand, drew from his finger a ring, the gift of the fairy, and by that act dissolved the enchantment. Arthur, having recovered his reason and his memory, offered to Tristram to attach him to his court, and to confer honors and dignities upon him; but Tristram declined all, and only consented to accompany him till he should see him safe in the hands of his knights. Soon after, Hector de Marys rode up, and saluted the king, who on his part introduced him to Tristram as one of the bravest of his knights. Tristram took leave of the king and his faithful follower, and continued his quest. We cannot follow Tristram through all the adventures which filled this epoch of his history. Suffice it to say, he fulfilled on all occasions the duty of a true knight, rescuing the oppressed, redressing wrongs, abolishing evil customs, and suppressing injustice, thus by constant action endeavoring to lighten the pains of absence from her he loved. In the meantime Isoude, separated from her dear Tristram, passed her days in languor and regret. At length she could no longer resist the desire to hear some news of her lover. She wrote a letter, and sent it by one of her damsels, niece of her faithful Brengwain. One day Tristram, weary with his exertions, had dismounted and laid himself down by the side of a fountain and fallen asleep. The damsel of Queen Isoude arrived at the same fountain, and recognized Passebreul, the horse of Tristram, and presently perceived his master asleep. He was thin and pale, showing evident marks of the pain he suffered in separation from his beloved. She awakened him, and gave him the letter which she bore, and Tristram enjoyed the pleasure, so sweet to a lover, of hearing from and talking about the object of his affections. He prayed the damsel to postpone her return till after the magnificent tournament which Arthur had proclaimed should have taken place, and conducted her to the castle of Persides, a brave and loyal knight, who received her with great consideration. Tristram conducted the damsel of Queen Isoude to the tournament, and had her placed in the balcony among the ladies of the queen. "He glanced and saw the stately galleries, Dame, damsel, each through worship of their Queen White-robed in honor of the stainless child, And some with scatter'd jewels, like a bank Of maiden snow mingled with sparks of fire. He looked but once, and veiled his eyes again." --The Last Tournament. He then joined the tourney. Nothing could exceed his strength and valor. Launcelot admired him, and by a secret presentiment declined to dispute the honor of the day with a knight so gallant and so skilful. Arthur descended from the balcony to greet the conqueror; but the modest and devoted Tristram, content with having borne off the prize in the sight of the messenger of Isoude, made his escape with her, and disappeared. The next day the tourney recommenced. Tristram assumed different armor, that he might not be known; but he was soon detected by the terrible blows that he gave, Arthur and Guenever had no doubt that it was the same knight who had borne off the prize of the day before. Arthur's gallant spirit was roused. After Launcelot of the Lake and Sir Gawain he was accounted the best knight of the Round Table. He went privately and armed himself, and came into the tourney in undistinguished armor. He ran a just with Tristram, whom he shook in his seat; but Tristram, who did not know him, threw him out of the saddle. Arthur recovered himself, and content with having made proof of the stranger knight bade Launcelot finish the adventure, and vindicate the honor of the Round Table. Sir Launcelot, at the bidding of the monarch, assailed Tristram, whose lance was already broken in former encounters. But the law of this sort of combat was that the knight after having broken his lance must fight with his sword, and must not refuse to meet with his shield the lance of his antagonist. Tristram met Launcelot's charge upon his shield, which that terrible lance could not fail to pierce. It inflicted a wound upon Tristram's side, and, breaking, left the iron in the wound. But Tristram also with his sword smote so vigorously on Launcelot's casque that he cleft it, and wounded his head. The wound was not deep, but the blood flowed into his eyes, and blinded him for a moment, and Tristram, who thought himself mortally wounded, retired from the field. Launcelot declared to the king that he had never received such a blow in his life before. Tristram hastened to Gouvernail, his squire, who drew forth the iron, bound up the wound, and gave him immediate ease. Tristram after the tournament kept retired in his tent, but Arthur, with the consent of all the knights of the Round Table, decreed him the honors of the second day. But it was no longer a secret that the victor of the two days was the same individual, and Gouvernail, being questioned, confirmed the suspicions of Launcelot and Arthur that it was no other than Sir Tristram of Leonais, the nephew of the king of Cornwall. King Arthur, who desired to reward his distinguished valor, and knew that his Uncle Mark had ungratefully banished him, would have eagerly availed himself of the opportunity to attach Tristram to his court,--all the knights of the Round Table declaring with acclamation that it would be impossible to find a more worthy companion. But Tristram had already departed in search of adventures, and the damsel of Queen Isoude returned to her mistress. CHAPTER XIV SIR TRISTRAM'S BATTLE WITH SIR LAUNCELOT Sir Tristram rode through a forest and saw ten men fighting, and one man did battle against nine. So he rode to the knights and cried to them, bidding them cease their battle, for they did themselves great shame, so many knights to fight against one. Then answered the master of the knights (his name was Sir Breuse sans Pitie, who was at that time the most villanous knight living): "Sir knight, what have ye to do to meddle with us? If ye be wise depart on your way as you came, for this knight shall not escape us." "That were pity," said Sir Tristram, "that so good a knight should be slain so cowardly; therefore I warn you I will succor him with all my puissance." Then Sir Tristram alighted off his horse, because they were on foot, that they should not slay his horse. And he smote on the right hand and on the left so vigorously that well-nigh at every stroke he struck down a knight. At last they fled, with Breuse sans Pitie, into the tower, and shut Sir Tristram without the gate. Then Sir Tristram returned back to the rescued knight, and found him sitting under a tree, sore wounded. "Fair knight," said he, "how is it with you?" "Sir knight," said Sir Palamedes, for he it was, "I thank you of your great goodness, for ye have rescued me from death." "What is your name?" said Sir Tristram. He said, "My name is Sir Palamedes." "Say ye so?" said Sir Tristram; "now know that thou art the man in the world that I most hate; therefore make thee ready, for I will do battle with thee." "What is your name?" said Sir Palamedes. "My name is Sir Tristram, your mortal enemy." "It may be so," said Sir Palamedes; "but you have done overmuch for me this day, that I should fight with you. Moreover, it will be no honor for you to have to do with me, for you are fresh and I am wounded. Therefore, if you will needs have to do with me, assign me a day, and I shall meet you without fail." "You say well, "said Sir Tristram; "now I assign you to meet me in the meadow by the river of Camelot, where Merlin set the monument." So they were agreed. Then they departed and took their ways diverse. Sir Tristram passed through a great forest into a plain, till he came to a priory, and there he reposed him with a good man six days. Then departed Sir Tristram, and rode straight into Camelot to the monument of Merlin, and there he looked about him for Sir Palamedes. And he perceived a seemly knight, who came riding against him all in white, with a covered shield. When he came nigh Sir Tristram said aloud, "Welcome, sir knight, and well and truly have you kept your promise." Then they made ready their shields and spears, and came together with all the might of their horses, so fiercely, that both the horses and the knights fell to the earth. And as soon as they might they quitted their horses, and struck together with bright swords as men of might, and each wounded the other wonderfully sore, so that the blood ran out upon the grass. Thus they fought for the space of four hours and never one would speak to the other one word. Then at last spake the white knight, and said, "Sir, thou fightest wonderful well, as ever I saw knight; therefore, if it please you, tell me your name." "Why dost thou ask my name?" said Sir Tristram; "art thou not Sir Palamedes?" "No, fair knight," said he, "I am Sir Launcelot of the Lake." "Alas!" said Sir Tristram, "what have I done? for you are the man of the world that I love best." "Fair knight," said Sir Launcelot, "tell me your name." "Truly," said he, "my name is Sir Tristram de Lionesse." "Alas! alas!" said Sir Launcelot, "what adventure has befallen me!" And therewith Sir Launcelot kneeled down and yielded him up his sword; and Sir Tristram kneeled down and yielded him up his sword; and so either gave other the degree. And then they both went to the stone, and sat them down upon it and took off their helms and each kissed the other a hundred times. And then anon they rode toward Camelot, and on the way they met with Sir Gawain and Sir Gaheris, that had made promise to Arthur never to come again to the court till they had brought Sir Tristram with them. "Return again," said Sir Launcelot, "for your quest is done; for I have met with Sir Tristram. Lo, here he is in his own person." Then was Sir Gawain glad, and said to Sir Tristram, "Ye are welcome." With this came King Arthur, and when he wist there was Sir Tristram, he ran unto him, and took him by the hand, and said, "Sir Tristram, ye are as welcome as any knight that ever came to this court." Then Sir Tristram told the king how he came thither for to have had to do with Sir Palamedes, and how he had rescued him from Sir Breuse sans Pitie and the nine knights. Then King Arthur took Sir Tristram by the hand, and went to the Table Round, and Queen Guenever came, and many ladies with her, and all the ladies said with one voice, "Welcome, Sir Tristram." "Welcome," said the knights. "Welcome," said Arthur, "for one of the best of knights, and the gentlest of the world, and the man of most worship; for of all manner of hunting thou bearest the prize, and of all measures of blowing thou art the beginning, and of all the terms of hunting and hawking ye are the inventor, and of all instruments of music ye are the best skilled; therefore, gentle knight," said Arthur, "ye are welcome to this court." And then King Arthur made Sir Tristram knight of the Table Round with great nobley and feasting as can be thought. SIR TRISTRAM AS A SPORTSMAN Tristram is often alluded to by the Romancers as the great authority and model in all matters relating to the chase. In the "Faery Queene," Tristram, in answer to the inquiries of Sir Calidore, informs him of his name and parentage, and concludes: "All which my days I have not lewdly spent, Nor spilt the blossom of my tender years In idlesse; but, as was convenient, Have trained been with many noble feres In gentle thewes, and such like seemly leers; 'Mongst which my most delight hath always been To hunt the salvage chace, amongst my peers, Of all that rangeth in the forest green, Of which none is to me unknown that yet was seen. "Ne is there hawk which mantleth on her perch, Whether high towering or accosting low, But I the measure of her flight do search, And all her prey, and all her diet know. Such be our joys, which in these forests grow." [Footnote: Feres, companions; thewes, labors; leers, learning.] CHAPTER XV THE ROUND TABLE The famous enchanter, Merlin, had exerted all his skill in fabricating the Round Table. Of the seats which surrounded it he had constructed thirteen, in memory of the thirteen Apostles. Twelve of these seats only could be occupied, and they only by knights of the highest fame; the thirteenth represented the seat of the traitor Judas. It remained always empty. It was called the PERILOUS SEAT, ever since a rash and haughty Saracen knight had dared to place himself in it, when the earth opened and swallowed him up. "In our great hall there stood a vacant chair, Fashion'd by Merlin ere he past away, And carven with strange figures; and in and out The figures, like a serpent, ran a scroll Of letters in a tongue no man could read And Merlin call'd it 'The Siege perilous,' Perilous for good and ill; 'for there,' he said, 'No man could sit but he should lose himself.'" --The Holy Grail. A magic power wrote upon each seat the name of the knight who was entitled to sit in it. No one could succeed to a vacant seat unless he surpassed in valor and glorious deeds the knight who had occupied it before him; without this qualification he would be violently repelled by a hidden force. Thus proof was made of all those who presented themselves to replace any companions of the order who had fallen. One of the principal seats, that of Moraunt of Ireland, had been vacant ten years, and his name still remained over it ever since the time when that distinguished champion fell beneath the sword of Sir Tristram. Arthur now took Tristram by the hand and led him to that seat. Immediately the most melodious sounds were heard, and exquisite perfumes filled the place; the name of Moraunt disappeared, and that of Tristram blazed forth in light. The rare modesty of Tristram had now to be subjected to a severe task; for the clerks charged with the duty of preserving the annals of the Round Table attended, and he was required by the law of his order to declare what feats of arms he had accomplished to entitle him to take that seat. This ceremony being ended, Tristram received the congratulations of all his companions. Sir Launcelot and Guenever took the occasion to speak to him of the fair Isoude, and to express their wish that some happy chance might bring her to the kingdom of Loegria. While Tristram was thus honored and caressed at the court of King Arthur, the most gloomy and malignant jealousy harassed the soul of Mark. He could not look upon Isoude without remembering that she loved Tristram, and the good fortune of his nephew goaded him to thoughts of vengeance. He at last resolved to go disguised into the kingdom of Loegria, attack Tristram by stealth, and put him to death. He took with him two knights, brought up in his court, who he thought were devoted to him; and, not willing to leave Isoude behind, named two of her maidens to attend her, together with her faithful Brengwain, and made them accompany him. Having arrived in the neighborhood of Camelot, Mark imparted his plan to his two knights, but they rejected it with horror; nay, more, they declared that they would no longer remain in his service; and left him, giving him reason to suppose that they should repair to the court to accuse him before Arthur. It was necessary for Mark to meet and rebut their accusation; so, leaving Isoude in an abbey, he pursued his way alone to Camelot. Mark had not ridden far when he encountered a party of knights of Arthur's court, and would have avoided them, for he knew their habit of challenging to a just every stranger knight whom they met. But it was too late. They had seen his armor, and recognized him as a Cornish knight, and at once resolved to have some sport with him. It happened they had with them Daguenet, King Arthur's fool, who, though deformed and weak of body, was not wanting in courage. The knights as Mark approached laid their plan that Daguenet should personate Sir Launcelot of the Lake, and challenge the Cornish knight. They equipped him in armor belonging to one of their number who was ill, and sent him forward to the cross-road to defy the strange knight. Mark, who saw that his antagonist was by no means formidable in appearance, was not disinclined to the combat; but when the dwarf rode towards him, calling out that he was Sir Launcelot of the Lake, his fears prevailed, he put spurs to his horse, and rode away at full speed, pursued by the shouts and laughter of the party. Meanwhile Isoude, remaining at the abbey with her faithful Brengwain, found her only amusement in walking occasionally in a forest adjoining the abbey. There, on the brink of a fountain girdled with trees, she thought of her love, and sometimes joined her voice and her harp in lays reviving the memory of its pains or pleasures. One day the caitiff knight, Breuse the Pitiless, heard her voice, concealed himself, and drew near. She sang: "Sweet silence, shadowy bower, and verdant lair, Ye court my troubled spirit to repose, Whilst I, such dear remembrance rises there, Awaken every echo with my woes "Within these woods, by nature's hand arrayed, A fountain springs, and feeds a thousand flowers; Ah! how my groans do all its murmurs aid! How my sad eyes do swell it with their showers! "What doth my knight the while? to him is given A double meed; in love and arms' emprise, Him the Round Table elevates to heaven! Tristram! ah me! he hears not Isoude's cries." Breuse the Pitiless, who like most other caitiffs had felt the weight of Tristram's arm, and hated him accordingly, at hearing his name breathed forth by the beautiful songstress, impelled by a double impulse, rushed forth from his concealment and laid hands on his victim. Isoude fainted, and Brengwain filled the air with her shrieks. Breuse carried Isoude to the place where he had left his horse; but the animal had got away from his bridle, and was at some distance. He was obliged to lay down his fair burden, and go in pursuit of his horse. Just then a knight came up, drawn by the cries of Brengwain, and demanded the cause of her distress. She could not speak, but pointed to her mistress lying insensible on the ground. Breuse had by this time returned, and the cries of Brengwain, renewed at seeing him, sufficiently showed the stranger the cause of the distress. Tristram spurred his horse towards Breuse, who, not unprepared, ran to the encounter. Breuse was unhorsed, and lay motionless, pretending to be dead; but when the stranger knight left him to attend to the distressed damsels, he mounted his horse, and made his escape. The knight now approached Isoude, gently raised her head, drew aside the golden hair which covered her countenance, gazed thereon for an instant, uttered a cry, and fell back insensible. Brengwain came; her cares soon restored her mistress to life, and they then turned their attention to the fallen warrior. They raised his visor, and discovered the countenance of Sir Tristram. Isoude threw herself on the body of her lover, and bedewed his face with her tears. Their warmth revived the knight, and Tristram on awaking found himself in the arms of his dear Isoude. It was the law of the Round Table that each knight after his admission should pass the next ten days in quest of adventures, during which time his companions might meet him in disguised armor and try their strength with him. Tristram had now been out seven days, and in that time had encountered many of the best knights of the Round Table, and acquitted himself with honor. During the remaining three days, Isoude remained at the abbey, under his protection, and then set out with her maidens, escorted by Sir Tristram, to rejoin King Mark at the court of Camelot. This happy journey was one of the brightest epochs in the lives of Tristram and Isoude. He celebrated it by a lay upon the harp in a peculiar measure, to which the French give the name of Triolet. "With fair Isoude, and with love, Ah! how sweet the life I lead! How blest for ever thus to rove, With fair Isoude, and with love! As she wills, I live and move, And cloudless days to days succeed: With fair Isoude, and with love, Ah! how sweet the life I lead! "Journeying on from break of day, Feel you not fatigued, my fair? Yon green turf invites to play; Journeying on from day to day, Ah! let us to that shade away, Were it but to slumber there! Journeying on from break of day, Feel you not fatigued, my fair?" They arrived at Camelot, where Sir Launcelot received them most cordially. Isoude was introduced to King Arthur and Queen Guenever, who welcomed her as a sister. As King Mark was held in arrest under the accusation of the two Cornish knights, Queen Isoude could not rejoin her husband, and Sir Launcelot placed his castle of La Joyeuse Garde at the disposal of his friends, who there took up their abode. King Mark, who found himself obliged to confess the truth of the charge against him, or to clear himself by combat with his accusers, preferred the former, and King Arthur, as his crime had not been perpetrated, remitted the penalty, only enjoining upon him, under pain of his signal displeasure, to lay aside all thoughts of vengeance against his nephew. In the presence of the king and his court all parties were formally reconciled; Mark and his queen departed for their home, and Tristram remained at Arthur's court. CHAPTER XVI SIR PALAMEDES While Sir Tristram and the fair Isoude abode yet at La Joyeuse Garde, Sir Tristram rode forth one day, without armor, having no weapon but his spear and his sword. And as he rode he came to a place where he saw two knights in battle, and one of them had gotten the better and the other lay overthrown. The knight who had the better was Sir Palamedes. When Sir Palamedes knew Sir Tristram, he cried out, "Sir Tristram, now we be met, and ere we depart we will redress our old wrongs." "As for that," said Sir Tristram, "there never yet was Christian man that might make his boast that I ever fled from him, and thou that art a Saracen shalt never say that of me." And therewith Sir Tristram made his horse to run, and with all his might came straight upon Sir Palamedes, and broke his spear upon him. Then he drew his sword and struck at Sir Palamedes six great strokes, upon his helm. Sir Palamedes saw that Sir Tristram had not his armor on, and he marvelled at his rashness and his great folly; and said to himself, "If I meet and slay him, I am shamed wheresoever I go." Then Sir Tristram cried out and said, "Thou coward knight, why wilt thou not do battle with me? for have thou no doubt I shall endure all thy malice." "Ah, Sir Tristram!" said Sir Palamedes, "thou knowest I may not fight with thee for shame; for thou art here naked, and I am armed; now I require that thou answer me a question that I shall ask you." "Tell me what it is," said Sir Tristram. "I put the case," said Palamedes, "that you were well armed, and I naked as ye be; what would you do to me now, by your true knighthood?" "Ah!" said Sir Tristram, "now I understand thee well, Sir Palamedes; and, as God bless me, what I shall say shall not be said for fear that I have of thee. But if it were so, thou shouldest depart from me, for I would not have to do with thee." "No more will I with thee," said Sir Palamedes, "and therefore ride forth on thy way." "As for that, I may choose," said Sir Tristram, "either to ride or to abide. But, Sir Palamedes, I marvel at one thing,--that thou art so good a knight, yet that thou wilt not be christened." "As for that," said Sir Palamedes, "I may not yet be christened, for a vow which I made many years ago; yet in my heart I believe in our Saviour and his mild mother, Mary; but I have yet one battle to do, and when that is done I will be christened, with a good will." "By my head," said Sir Tristram, "as for that one battle, thou shalt seek it no longer; for yonder is a knight, whom you have smitten down. Now help me to be clothed in his armor, and I will soon fulfil thy vow." "As ye will," said Sir Palamedes, "so shall it be." So they rode both unto that knight that sat on a bank; and Sir Tristram saluted him, and he full weary saluted him again. "Sir," said Sir Tristram, "I pray you to lend me your whole armor; for I am unarmed, and I must do battle with this knight." "Sir," said the hurt knight, "you shall have it, with a right good will," Then Sir Tristram unarmed Sir Galleron, for that was the name of the hurt knight, and he as well as he could helped to arm Sir Tristram. Then Sir Tristram mounted upon his own horse, and in his hand he took Sir Galleron's spear. Thereupon Sir Palamedes was ready, and so they came hurling together, and each smote the other in the midst of their shields. Sir Palamedes' spear broke, and Sir Tristram smote down the horse. Then Sir Palamedes leapt from his horse, and drew out his sword. That saw Sir Tristram, and therewith he alighted and tied his horse to a tree. Then they came together as two wild beasts, lashing the one on the other, and so fought more than two hours; and often Sir Tristram smote such strokes at Sir Palamedes that he made him to kneel, and Sir Palamedes broke away Sir Tristram's shield, and wounded him. Then Sir Tristram was wroth out of measure, and he rushed to Sir Palamedes and wounded him passing sore through the shoulder, and by fortune smote Sir Palamedes' sword out of his hand And if Sir Palamedes had stooped for his sword Sir Tristram had slain him. Then Sir Palamedes stood and beheld his sword with a full sorrowful heart. "Now," said Sir Tristram, "I have thee at a vantage, as thou hadst me to-day; but it shall never be said, in court, or among good knights, that Sir Tristram did slay any knight that was weaponless; therefore take thou thy sword, and let us fight this battle to the end." Then spoke Sir Palamedes to Sir Tristram: "I have no wish to fight this battle any more. The offence that I have done unto you is not so great but that, if it please you, we may be friends. All that I have offended is for the love of the queen, La Belle Isoude, and I dare maintain that she is peerless among ladies; and for that offence ye have given me many grievous and sad strokes, and some I have given you again. Wherefore I require you, my lord Sir Tristram, forgive me all that I have offended you, and this day have me unto the next church; and first I will be clean confessed, and after that see you that I be truly baptized, and then we will ride together unto the court of my lord, King Arthur, so that we may be there at the feast of Pentecost." "Now take your horse," said Sir Tristram, "and as you have said, so shall it be done." So they took their horses, and Sir Galleron rode with them. When they came to the church of Carlisle, the bishop commanded to fill a great vessel with water; and when he had hallowed it, he then confessed Sir Palamedes clean, and christened him, and Sir Tristram and Sir Galleron were his godfathers. Then soon after they departed, and rode towards Camelot, where the noble King Arthur and Queen Guenever were keeping a court royal. And the king and all the court were glad that Sir Palamedes was christened. Then Sir Tristram returned again to La Joyeuse Garde, and Sir Palamedes went his way. Not long after these events Sir Gawain returned from Brittany, and related to King Arthur the adventure which befell him in the forest of Breciliande, how Merlin had there spoken to him, and enjoined him to charge the king to go without delay upon the quest of the Holy Greal. While King Arthur deliberated Tristram determined to enter upon the quest, and the more readily, as it was well known to him that this holy adventure would, if achieved, procure him the pardon of all his sins. He immediately departed for the kingdom of Brittany, hoping there to obtain from Merlin counsel as to the proper course to pursue to insure success. CHAPTER XVII SIR TRISTRAM On arriving in Brittany Tristram found King Hoel engaged in a war with a rebellious vassal, and hard pressed by his enemy. His best knights had fallen in a late battle, and he knew not where to turn for assistance. Tristram volunteered his aid. It was accepted; and the army of Hoel, led by Tristram, and inspired by his example, gained a complete victory. The king, penetrated by the most lively sentiments of gratitude, and having informed himself of Tristram's birth, offered him his daughter in marriage. The princess was beautiful and accomplished, and bore the same name with the Queen of Cornwall; but this one is designated by the Romancers as Isoude of the White Hands, to distinguish her from Isoude the Fair. How can we describe the conflict that agitated the heart of Tristram? He adored the first Isoude, but his love for her was hopeless, and not unaccompanied by remorse. Moreover, the sacred quest on which he had now entered demanded of him perfect purity of life. It seemed as if a happy destiny had provided for him in the charming princess Isoude of the White Hands the best security for all his good resolutions. This last reflection determined him. They were married, and passed some months in tranquil happiness at the court of King Hoel. The pleasure which Tristram felt in his wife's society increased day by day. An inward grace seemed to stir within him from the moment when he took the oath to go on the quest of the Holy Greal; it seemed even to triumph over the power of the magic love-potion. The war, which had been quelled for a time, now burst out anew. Tristram as usual was foremost in every danger. The enemy was worsted in successive conflicts, and at last shut himself up in his principal city. Tristram led on the attack of the city. As he mounted a ladder to scale the walls he was struck on the head by a fragment of rock, which the besieged threw down upon him. It bore him to the ground, where he lay insensible. As soon as he recovered consciousness he demanded to be carried to his wife. The princess, skilled in the art of surgery, would not suffer any one but herself to touch her beloved husband. Her fair hands bound up his wounds; Tristram kissed them with gratitude, which began to grow into love. At first the devoted cares of Isoude seemed to meet with great success; but after a while these flattering appearances vanished, and, in spite of all her care, the malady grew more serious day by day. In this perplexity, an old squire of Tristram's reminded his master that the princess of Ireland, afterwards queen of Cornwall, had once cured him under circumstances quite as discouraging. He called Isoude of the White Hands to him, told her of his former cure, added that he believed that the Queen Isoude could heal him, and that he felt sure that she would come to his relief, if sent for. Isoude of the White Hands consented that Gesnes, a trusty man and skilful navigator, should be sent to Cornwall. Tristram called him, and, giving him a ring, "Take this," he said, "to the Queen of Cornwall. Tell her that Tristram, near to death, demands her aid. If you succeed in bringing her with you, place white sails to your vessel on your return, that we may know of your success when the vessel first heaves in sight. But if Queen Isoude refuses, put on black sails; they will be the presage of my impending death." Gesnes performed his mission successfully. King Mark happened to be absent from his capital, and the queen readily consented to return with the bark to Brittany. Gesnes clothed his vessel in the whitest of sails, and sped his way back to Brittany. Meantime the wound of Tristram grew more desperate day by day. His strength, quite prostrated, no longer permitted him to be carried to the seaside daily, as had been his custom from the first moment when it was possible for the bark to be on the way homeward. He called a young damsel, and gave her in charge to keep watch in the direction of Cornwall, and to come and tell him the color of the sails of the first vessel she should see approaching. When Isoude of the White Hands consented that the queen of Cornwall should be sent for, she had not known all the reasons which she had for fearing the influence which renewed intercourse with that princess might have on her own happiness. She had now learned more, and felt the danger more keenly. She thought, if she could only keep the knowledge of the queen's arrival from her husband, she might employ in his service any resources which her skill could supply, and still avert the dangers which she apprehended. When the vessel was seen approaching, with its white sails sparkling in the sun, the damsel, by command of her mistress, carried word to Tristram that the sails were black. Tristram, penetrated with inexpressible grief, breathed a profound sigh, turned away his face, and said, "Alas, my beloved! we shall never see one another again!" Then he commended himself to God, and breathed his last. The death of Tristram was the first intelligence which the queen of Cornwall heard on landing. She was conducted almost senseless into the chamber of Tristram, and expired holding him in her arms. Tristram, before his death, had requested that his body should be sent to Cornwall, and that his sword, with a letter he had written, should be delivered to King Mark. The remains of Tristram and Isoude were embarked in a vessel, along with the sword, which was presented to the king of Cornwall. He was melted with tenderness when he saw the weapon which slew Moraunt of Ireland,-- which had so often saved his life, and redeemed the honor of his kingdom. In the letter Tristram begged pardon of his uncle, and related the story of the amorous draught. Mark ordered the lovers to be buried in his own chapel. From the tomb of Tristram there sprung a vine, which went along the walls, and descended into the grave of the queen. It was cut down three times, but each time sprung up again more vigorous than before, and this wonderful plant has ever since shaded the tombs of Tristram and Isoude. Spenser introduces Sir Tristram in his "Faery Queene." In Book VI., Canto ii., Sir Calidore encounters in the forest a young hunter, whom he thus describes: "Him steadfastly he marked, and saw to be A goodly youth of amiable grace, Yet but a slender slip, that scarce did see Yet seventeen yeares; but tall and faire of face, That sure he deemed him borne of noble race. All in a woodman's jacket he was clad Of Lincoln greene, belayed with silver lace; And on his head an hood with aglets sprad, And by his side his hunter's horne he hanging had. [Footnote: Aglets, points or tags] "Buskins he wore of costliest cordawayne, Pinckt upon gold, and paled part per part, As then the guize was for each gentle swayne. In his right hand he held a trembling dart, Whose fellow he before had sent apart; And in his left he held a sharp bore-speare, With which he wont to launch the salvage heart Of many a lyon, and of many a beare, That first unto his hand in chase did happen neare." [Footnote: PINCKT UPON GOLD, ETC., adorned with golden points, or eyelets, and regularly intersected with stripes. PALED (in heraldry), striped] CHAPTER XVIII PERCEVAL The father and two elder brothers of Perceval had fallen in battle or tournaments, and hence, as the last hope of his family, his mother retired with him into a solitary region, where he was brought up in total ignorance of arms and chivalry. He was allowed no weapon but "a lyttel Scots spere," which was the only thing of all "her lordes faire gere" that his mother carried to the wood with her. In the use of this he became so skilful, that he could kill with it not only the animals of the chase for the table, but even birds on the wing. At length, however, Perceval was roused to a desire of military renown by seeing in the forest five knights who were in complete armor. He said to his mother, "Mother, what are those yonder?" "They are angels, my son," said she. "By my faith, I will go and become an angel with them." And Perceval went to the road and met them. "Tell me, good lad," said one of them, "sawest thou a knight pass this way either today or yesterday?" "I know not," said he, "what a knight is." "Such an one as I am," said the knight. "If thou wilt tell me what I ask thee, I will tell thee what thou askest me." "Gladly will I do so," said Sir Owain, for that was the knight's name. "What is this?" demanded Perceval, touching the saddle. "It is a saddle," said Owain. Then he asked about all the accoutrements which he saw upon the men and the horses, and about the arms, and what they were for, and how they were used. And Sir Owain showed him all those things fully. And Perceval in return gave him such information as he had Then Perceval returned to his mother, and said to her, "Mother, those were not angels, but honorable knights." Then his mother swooned away. And Perceval went to the place where they kept the horses that carried firewood and provisions for the castle, and he took a bony, piebald horse, which seemed to him the strongest of them. And he pressed a pack into the form of a saddle, and with twisted twigs he imitated the trappings which he had seen upon the horses. When he came again to his mother, the countess had recovered from her swoon. "My son," said she, "desirest thou to ride forth?" "Yes, with thy leave," said he. "Go forward, then," she said, "to the court of Arthur, where there are the best and the noblest and the most bountiful of men, and tell him thou art Perceval, the son of Pelenore, and ask of him to bestow knighthood on thee. And whenever thou seest a church, repeat there thy pater- noster; and if thou see meat and drink, and hast need of them, thou mayest take them. If thou hear an outcry of one in distress, proceed toward it, especially if it be the cry of a woman, and render her what service thou canst. If thou see a fair jewel, win it, for thus shalt thou acquire fame; yet freely give it to another, for thus thou shalt obtain praise. If thou see a fair woman, pay court to her, for thus thou wilt obtain love." After this discourse Perceval mounted the horse and taking a number of sharp-pointed sticks in his hand he rode forth. And he rode far in the woody wilderness without food or drink. At last he came to an opening in the wood where he saw a tent, and as he thought it might be a church he said his pater-noster to it. And he went towards it; and the door of the tent was open. And Perceval dismounted and entered the tent. In the tent he found a maiden sitting, with a golden frontlet on her forehead and a gold ring on her hand. And Perceval said, "Maiden, I salute you, for my mother told me whenever I met a lady I must respectfully salute her." Perceiving in one corner of the tent some food, two flasks full of wine, and some boar's flesh roasted, he said, "My mother told me, whenever I saw meat and drink to take it." And he ate greedily, for he was very hungry. The maiden said, "Sir, thou hadst best go quickly from here, for fear that my friends should come, and evil should befall you." But Perceval said, "My mother told me wheresoever I saw a fair jewel to take it," and he took the gold ring from her finger, and put it on his own; and he gave the maiden his own ring in exchange for hers; then he mounted his horse and rode away. Perceval journeyed on till he arrived at Arthur's court. And it so happened that just at that time an uncourteous knight had offered Queen Guenever a gross insult. For when her page was serving the queen with a golden goblet, this knight struck the arm of the page and dashed the wine in the queen's face and over her stomacher. Then he said, "If any have boldness to avenge this insult to Guenever, let him follow me to the meadow." So the knight took his horse and rode to the meadow, carrying away the golden goblet. And all the household hung down their heads and no one offered to follow the knight to take vengeance upon him. For it seemed to them that no one would have ventured on so daring an outrage unless he possessed such powers, through magic or charms, that none could be able to punish him. Just then, behold, Perceval entered the hall upon the bony, piebald horse, with his uncouth trappings. In the centre of the hall stood Kay the Seneschal. "Tell me, tall man," said Perceval, "is that Arthur yonder?" "What wouldst thou with Arthur?" asked Kay. "My mother told me to go to Arthur and receive knighthood from him." "By my faith," said he, "thou art all too meanly equipped with horse and with arms." Then all the household began to jeer and laugh at him. But there was a certain damsel who had been a whole year at Arthur's court, and had never been known to smile. And the king's fool [Footnote: A fool was a common appendage of the courts of those days when this romance was written. A fool was the ornament held in next estimation to a dwarf. He wore a white dress with a yellow bonnet, and carried a bell or bawble in his hand. Though called a fool, his words were often weighed and remembered as if there were a sort of oracular meaning in them.] had said that this damsel would not smile till she had seen him who would be the flower of chivalry. Now this damsel came up to Perceval and told him, smiling, that if he lived he would be one of the bravest and best of knights. "Truly," said Kay, "thou art ill taught to remain a year at Arthur's court, with choice of society, and smile on no one, and now before the face of Arthur and all his knights to call such a man as this the flower of knighthood;" and he gave her a box on the ear, that she fell senseless to the ground. Then said Kay to Perceval, "Go after the knight who went hence to the meadow, overthrow him and recover the golden goblet, and possess thyself of his horse and arms, and thou shalt have knighthood." "I will do so, tall man," said Perceval. So he turned his horse's head toward the meadow. And when he came there, the knight was riding up and down, proud of his strength and valor and noble mien. "Tell me," said the knight, "didst thou see any one coming after me from the court?" "The tall man that was there," said Perceval, "told me to come and overthrow thee, and to take from thee the goblet and thy horse and armor for myself." "Silence!" said the knight; "go back to the court, and tell Arthur either to come himself, or to send some other to fight with me; and unless he do so quickly, I will not wait for him." "By my faith," said Perceval, "choose thou whether it shall be willingly or unwillingly, for I will have the horse and the arms and the goblet." Upon this the knight ran at him furiously, and struck him a violent blow with the shaft of his spear, between the neck and the shoulder. "Ha, ha, lad!" said Perceval, "my mother's servants were not used to play with me in this wise; so thus will I play with thee." And he threw at him one of his sharp-pointed sticks, and it struck him in the eye, and came out at the back of his head, so that he fell down lifeless. "Verily," said Sir Owain, the son of Urien, to Kay the Seneschal, "thou wast ill-advised to send that madman after the knight, for he must either be overthrown or flee, and either way it will be a disgrace to Arthur and his warriors; therefore will I go to see what has befallen him." So Sir Owain went to the meadow, and he found Perceval trying in vain to get the dead knight's armor off, in order to clothe himself with it. Sir Owain unfastened the armor, and helped Perceval to put it on, and taught him how to put his foot in the stirrup, and use the spur; for Perceval had never used stirrup nor spur, but rode without saddle, and urged on his horse with a stick. Then Owain would have had him return to the court to receive the praise that was his due; but Perceval said, "I will not come to the court till I have encountered the tall man that is there, to revenge the injury he did to the maiden. But take thou the goblet to Queen Guenever, and tell King Arthur that, wherever I am, I will be his vassal, and will do him what profit and service I can." And Sir Owain went back to the court, and related all these things to Arthur and Guenever, and to all the household. And Perceval rode forward. And he came to a lake on the side of which was a fair castle, and on the border of the lake he saw a hoary-headed man sitting upon a velvet cushion, and his attendants were fishing in the lake. When the hoary-headed man beheld Perceval approaching, he arose and went into the castle. Perceval rode to the castle, and the door was open, and he entered the hall. And the hoary-headed man received Perceval courteously, and asked him to sit by him on the cushion. When it was time the tables were set, and they went to meat. And when they had finished their meat the hoary-headed man asked Perceval if he knew how to fight with the sword "I know not," said Perceval, "but were I to be taught, doubtless I should." And the hoary-headed man said to him, "I am thy uncle, thy mother's brother; I am called King Pecheur.[Footnote: The word means both FISHER and SINNER.] Thou shalt remain with me a space, in order to learn the manners and customs of different countries, and courtesy and noble bearing. And this do thou remember, if thou seest aught to cause thy wonder, ask not the meaning of it; if no one has the courtesy to inform thee, the reproach will not fall upon thee, but upon me that am thy teacher." While Perceval and his uncle discoursed together, Perceval beheld two youths enter the hall bearing a golden cup and a spear of mighty size, with blood dropping from its point to the ground. And when all the company saw this they began to weep and lament. But for all that, the man did not break off his discourse with Perceval. And as he did not tell him the meaning of what he saw, he forebore to ask him concerning it. Now the cup that Perceval saw was the Sangreal, and the spear the sacred spear; and afterwards King Pecheur removed with those sacred relics into a far country. One evening Perceval entered a valley, and came to a hermit's cell; and the hermit welcomed him gladly, and there he spent the night. And in the morning he arose, and when he went forth, behold! a shower of snow had fallen in the night, and a hawk had killed a wild-fowl in front of the cell. And the noise of the horse had scared the hawk away, and a raven alighted on the bird. And Perceval stood and compared the blackness of the raven and the whiteness of the snow and the redness of the blood to the hair of the lady that best he loved, which was blacker than jet, and to her skin, which was whiter than the snow, and to the two red spots upon her cheeks, which were redder than the blood upon the snow. Now Arthur and his household were in search of Perceval, and by chance they came that way. "Know ye," said Arthur, "who is the knight with the long spear that stands by the brook up yonder?" "Lord," said one of them, "I will go and learn who he is." So the youth came to the place where Perceval was, and asked him what he did thus, and who he was. But Perceval was so intent upon his thought that he gave him no answer. Then the youth thrust at Perceval with his lance; and Perceval turned upon him, and struck him to the ground. And when the youth returned to the king, and told how rudely he had been treated, Sir Kay said, "I will go myself." And when he greeted Perceval, and got no answer, he spoke to him rudely and angrily. And Perceval thrust at him with his lance, and cast him down so that he broke his arm and his shoulder-blade. And while he lay thus stunned his horse returned back at a wild and prancing pace. Then said Sir Gawain, surnamed the Golden-Tongued, because he was the most courteous knight in Arthur's court: "It is not fitting that any should disturb an honorable knight from his thought unadvisedly; for either he is pondering some damage that he has sustained, or he is thinking of the lady whom best he loves. If it seem well to thee, lord, I will go and see if this knight has changed from his thought, and if he has, I will ask him courteously to come and visit thee." And Perceval was resting on the shaft of his spear, pondering the same thought, and Sir Gawain came to him, and said: "If I thought it would be as agreeable to thee as it would be to me, I would converse with thee. I have also a message from Arthur unto thee, to pray thee to come and visit him. And two men have been before on this errand." "That is true," said Perceval; "and uncourteously they came. They attacked me, and I was annoyed thereat" Then he told him the thought that occupied his mind, and Gawain said, "This was not an ungentle thought, and I should marvel if it were pleasant for thee to be drawn from it." Then said Perceval, "Tell me, is Sir Kay in Arthur's court?" "He is," said Gawain; "and truly he is the knight who fought with thee last." "Verily," said Perceval, "I am not sorry to have thus avenged the insult to the smiling maiden. "Then Perceval told him his name, and said, "Who art thou?" And he replied, "I am Gawain." "I am right glad to meet thee," said Perceval, "for I have everywhere heard of thy prowess and uprightness; and I solicit thy fellowship." "Thou shalt have it, by my faith; and grant me thine," said he. "Gladly will I do so," answered Perceval. So they went together to Arthur, and saluted him. "Behold, lord," said Gawain, "him whom thou hast sought so long." "Welcome unto thee, chieftain," said Arthur. And hereupon there came the queen and her handmaidens, and Perceval saluted them. And they were rejoiced to see him, and bade him welcome. And Arthur did him great honor and respect and they returned towards Caerleon. CHAPTER XIX THE SANGREAL, OR HOLY GRAAL The Sangreal was the cup from which our Saviour drank at his last supper. He was supposed to have given it to Joseph of Arimathea, who carried it to Europe, together with the spear with which the soldier pierced the Saviour's side. From generation to generation, one of the descendants of Joseph of Arimathea had been devoted to the guardianship of these precious relics; but on the sole condition of leading a life of purity in thought, word, and deed. For a long time the Sangreal was visible to all pilgrims, and its presence conferred blessings upon the land in which it was preserved. But at length one of those holy men to whom its guardianship had descended so far forgot the obligation of his sacred office as to look with unhallowed eye upon a young female pilgrim whose robe was accidentally loosened as she knelt before him. The sacred lance instantly punished his frailty, spontaneously falling upon him, and inflicting a deep wound. The marvellous wound could by no means be healed, and the guardian of the Sangreal was ever after called "Le Roi Pescheur,"--The Sinner King. The Sangreal withdrew its visible presence from the crowds who came to worship, and an iron age succeeded to the happiness which its presence had diffused among the tribes of Britain. "But then the times Grew to such evil that the Holy cup Was caught away to heaven and disappear'd." --The Holy Grail. We have told in the history of Merlin how that great prophet and enchanter sent a message to King Arthur by Sir Gawain, directing him to undertake the recovery of the Sangreal, informing him at the same time that the knight who should accomplish that sacred quest was already born, and of a suitable age to enter upon it. Sir Gawain delivered his message, and the king was anxiously revolving in his mind how best to achieve the enterprise, when, at the vigil of Pentecost, all the fellowship of the Round Table being met together at Camelot, as they sat at meat, suddenly there was heard a clap of thunder, and then a bright light burst forth, and every knight, as he looked on his fellow, saw him, in seeming, fairer than ever before. All the hall was filled with sweet odors, and every knight had such meat and drink as he best loved. Then there entered into the hall the Holy Graal, covered with white samite, so that none could see it, and it passed through the hall suddenly, and disappeared. During this time no one spoke a word, but when they had recovered breath to speak King Arthur said, "Certainly we ought greatly to thank the Lord for what he hath showed us this day." Then Sir Gawain rose up, and made a vow that for twelve months and a day he would seek the Sangreal, and not return till he had seen it, if so he might speed. When they of the Round Table heard Sir Gawain say so, they arose, the most part of them, and vowed the same. When King Arthur heard this, he was greatly displeased, for he knew well that they might not gainsay their vows. "Alas!" said he to Sir Gawain, "you have nigh slain me with the vow and promise that ye have made, for ye have bereft me of the fairest fellowship that ever were seen together in any realm of the world; for when they shall depart hence, I am sure that all shall never meet more in this world." SIR GALAHAD At that time there entered the hall a good old man, and with him he brought a young knight, and these words he said: "Peace be with you, fair lords." Then the old man said unto King Arthur, "Sir, I bring you here a young knight that is of kings' lineage, and of the kindred of Joseph of Arimathea, being the son of Dame Elaine, the daughter of King Pelles, king of the foreign country." Now the name of the young knight was Sir Galahad, and he was the son of Sir Launcelot du Lac; but he had dwelt with his mother, at the court of King Pelles, his grandfather, till now he was old enough to bear arms, and his mother had sent him in the charge of a holy hermit to King Arthur's court. Then Sir Launcelot beheld his son, and had great joy of him. And Sir Bohort told his fellows, "Upon my life, this young knight shall come to great worship." The noise was great in all the court, so that it came to the queen. And she said, "I would fain see him, for he must needs be a noble knight, for so is his father." And the queen and her ladies all said that he resembled much unto his father; and he was seemly and demure as a dove, with all manner of good features, that in the whole world men might not find his match. And King Arthur said, "God make him a good man, for beauty faileth him not, as any that liveth." Then the hermit led the young knight to the Siege Perilous; and he lifted up the cloth, and found there letters that said, "This is the seat of Sir Galahad, the good knight;" and he made him sit in that seat. And all the knights of the Round Table marvelled greatly at Sir Galahad, seeing him sit securely in that seat, and said, "This is he by whom the Sangreal shall be achieved, for there never sat one before in that seat without being mischieved." On the next day the king said, "Now, at this quest of the Sangreal shall all ye of the Round Table depart, and never shall I see you again altogether; therefore I will that ye all repair to the meadow of Camelot, for to just and tourney yet once more before ye depart." But all the meaning of the king was to see Sir Galahad proved. So then were they all assembled in the meadow. Then Sir Galahad, by request of the king and queen, put on his harness and his helm, but shield would he take none for any prayer of the king. And the queen was in a tower, with all her ladies, to behold that tournament. Then Sir Galahad rode into the midst of the meadow; and there he began to break spears marvellously, so that all men had wonder of him, for he surmounted all knights that encountered with him, except two, Sir Launcelot and Sir Perceval. "So many knights, that all the people cried, And almost burst the barriers in their heat, Shouting 'Sir Galahad and Sir Perceval!'" --Sir Galahad Then the king, at the queen's request, made him to alight, and presented him to the queen; and she said, "Never two men resembled one another more than he and Sir Launcelot, and therefore it is no marvel that he is like him in prowess." Then the king and the queen went to the minster, and the knights followed them. And after the service was done they put on their helms and departed, and there was great sorrow. They rode through the streets of Camelot, and there was weeping of the rich and poor; and the king turned away, and might not speak for weeping. And so they departed, and every knight took the way that him best liked. Sir Galahad rode forth without shield, and rode four days, and found no adventure. And on the fourth day he came to a white abbey; and there he was received with great reverence, and led to a chamber. He met there two knights, King Bagdemagus and Sir Uwaine, and they made of him great solace. "Sirs," said Sir Galahad, "what adventure brought you hither?" "Sir," said they, "it is told us that within this place is a shield, which no man may bear unless he be worthy; and if one unworthy should attempt to bear it, it shall surely do him a mischief." Then King Bagdemagus said, "I fear not to bear it, and that shall ye see to- morrow." So on the morrow they arose, and heard mass; then King Bagdemagus asked where the adventurous shield was. Anon a monk led him behind an altar, where the shield hung, as white as snow; but in the midst there was a red cross. Then King Bagdemagus took the shield, and bare it out of the minster; and he said to Sir Galahad, "If it please you, abide here till ye know how I shall speed." Then King Bagdemagus and his squire rode forth: and when they had ridden a mile or two, they saw a goodly knight come towards them, in white armor, horse and all; and he came as fast as his horse might run, with his spear in the rest; and King Bagdemagus directed his spear against him, and broke it upon the white knight, but the other struck him so hard that he broke the mails, and thrust him through the right shoulder, for the shield covered him not, and so he bare him from his horse. Then the white knight turned his horse and rode away. Then the squire went to King Bagdemagus, and asked him whether he were sore wounded or not. "I am sore wounded," said he, "and full hardly shall I escape death." Then the squire set him on his horse, and brought him to an abbey; and there he was taken down softly, and unarmed, and laid in a bed, and his wound was looked to, for he lay there long, and hardly escaped with his life. And the squire brought the shield back to the abbey. The next day Sir Galahad took the shield, and within a while he came to the hermitage, where he met the white knight, and each saluted the other courteously. "Sir," said Sir Galahad, "can you tell me the marvel of the shield?" "Sir," said the white knight, "that shield belonged of old to the gentle knight, Joseph of Arimathea; and when he came to die he said, 'Never shall man bear this shield about his neck but he shall repent it, unto the time that Sir Galahad the good knight bear it, the last of my lineage, the which shall do many marvellous deeds.'" And then the white knight vanished away. SIR GAWAIN After Sir Gawain departed, he rode many days, both toward and forward, and at last he came to the abbey where Sir Galahad took the white shield. And they told Sir Gawain of the marvellous adventure that Sir Galahad had done. "Truly," said Sir Gawain, "I am not happy that I took not the way that he went, for, if I may meet with him, I will not part from him lightly, that I may partake with him all the marvellous adventures which he shall achieve." "Sir," said one of the monks, "he will not be of your fellowship." "Why?" said Sir Gawain. "Sir," said he, "because ye be sinful, and he is blissful." Then said the monk, "Sir Gawain, thou must do penance for thy sins." "Sir, what penance shall I do?" "Such as I will show," said the good man. "Nay," said Sir Gawain, "I will do no penance, for we knights adventurous often suffer great woe and pain." "Well," said the good man; and he held his peace. And Sir Gawain departed. Now it happened, not long after this, that Sir Gawain and Sir Hector rode together, and they came to a castle where was a great tournament. And Sir Gawain and Sir Hector joined themselves to the party that seemed the weaker, and they drove before them the other party. Then suddenly came into the lists a knight, bearing a white shield with a red cross, and by adventure he came by Sir Gawain, and he smote him so hard that he clave his helm and wounded his head, so that Sir Gawain fell to the earth. When Sir Hector saw that, he knew that the knight with the white shield was Sir Galahad, and he thought it no wisdom to abide him, and also for natural love, that he was his uncle. Then Sir Galahad retired privily, so that none knew where he had gone. And Sir Hector raised up Sir Gawain, and said, "Sir, me seemeth your quest is done." "It is done," said Sir Gawain; "I shall seek no further." Then Gawain was borne into the castle, and unarmed, and laid in a rich bed, and a leech found to search his wound. And Sir Gawain and Sir Hector abode together, for Sir Hector would not away till Sir Gawain were whole. CHAPTER XX THE SANGREAL (Continued) SIR LAUNCELOT Sir Launcelot rode overthwart and endlong in a wide forest, and held no path but as wild adventure lee him. "My golden spurs now bring to me, And bring to me my richest mail, For to-morrow I go over land and sea In search of the Holy, Holy Grail Shall never a bed for me be spread, Nor shall a pillow be under my head, Till I begin my vow to keep. Here on the rushes will I sleep, And perchance there may come a vision true Ere day create the world anew" --Lowell's Holy Grail. And at last he came to a stone cross. Then Sir Launcelot looked round him, and saw an old chapel. So he tied his horse to a tree, and put off his shield, and hung it upon a tree; and then he went into the chapel, and looked through a place where the wall was broken. And within he saw a fair altar, full richly arrayed with cloth of silk; and there stood a fair candlestick, which bare six great candles, and the candlestick was of silver. When Sir Launcelot saw this sight, he had a great wish to enter the chapel, but he could find no place where he might enter. Then was he passing heavy and dismayed. And he returned and came again to his horse, and took off his saddle and his bridle, and let him pasture; and unlaced his helm, and ungirded his sword, and laid him down to sleep upon his shield before the cross. And as he lay, half waking and half sleeping, he saw come by him two palfreys, both fair and white, which bare a litter, on which lay a sick knight. And when he was nigh the cross, he there abode still. And Sir Launcelot heard him say, "O sweet Lord, when shall this sorrow leave me, and when shall the holy vessel come by me whereby I shall be healed?" And thus a great while complained the knight, and Sir Launcelot heard it. Then Sir Launcelot saw the candlestick, with the lighted tapers, come before the cross, but he could see nobody that brought it. Also there came a salver of silver and the holy vessel of the Sangreal; and therewithal the sick knight sat him upright, and held up both his hands, and said, "Fair, sweet Lord, which is here within the holy vessel, take heed to me, that I may be whole of this great malady." And therewith, upon his hands and upon his knees, he went so nigh that he touched the holy vessel and kissed it. And anon he was whole. Then the holy vessel went into the chapel again, with the candlestick and the light, so that Sir Launcelot wist not what became of it. Then the sick knight rose up and kissed the cross; and anon his squire brought him his arms and asked his lord how he did. "I thank God right heartily," said he, "for, through the holy vessel, I am healed. But I have great marvel of this sleeping knight, who hath had neither grace nor power to awake during the time that the holy vessel hath been here present." "I dare it right well say," said the squire, "that this same knight is stained with some manner of deadly sin, whereof he was never confessed." So they departed. Then anon Sir Launcelot waked, and set himself upright, and bethought him of what he had seen and whether it were dreams or not. And he was passing heavy, and wist not what to do. And he said: "My sin and my wretchedness hath brought me into great dishonor. For when I sought worldly adventures and worldly desires, I ever achieved them, and had the better in every place, and never was I discomfited in any quarrel, were it right or wrong. And now I take upon me the adventure of holy things, I see and understand that mine old sin hindereth me, so that I had no power to stir nor to speak when the holy blood appeared before me." So thus he sorrowed till it was day, and heard the fowls of the air sing. Then was he somewhat comforted. Then he departed from the cross into the forest. And there he found a hermitage, and a hermit therein, who was going to mass. So when mass was done Sir Launcelot called the hermit to him, and prayed him for charity to hear his confession. "With a good will," said the good man. And then he told that good man all his life, and how he had loved a queen unmeasurably many years. "And all my great deeds of arms that I have done I did the most part for the queen's sake, and for her sake would I do battle, were it right or wrong, and never did I battle all only for God's sake, but for to win worship, and to cause me to be better beloved; and little or naught I thanked God for it. I pray you counsel me." "I will counsel you," said the hermit, "if ye will insure me that ye will never come in that queen's fellowship as much as ye may forbear." And then Sir Launcelot promised the hermit, by his faith, that he would no more come in her company. "Look that your heart and your mouth accord," said the good man, "and I shall insure you that ye shall have more worship than ever ye had." Then the good man enjoined Sir Launcelot such penance as he might do, and he assailed Sir Launcelot and made him abide with him all that day. And Sir Launcelot repented him greatly. SIR PERCEVAL Sir Perceval departed and rode till the hour of noon; and he met in a valley about twenty men of arms. And when they saw Sir Perceval, they asked him whence he was; and he answered: "Of the court of King Arthur." Then they cried all at once, "Slay him." But Sir Perceval smote the first to the earth, and his horse upon him. Then seven of the knights smote upon his shield all at once, and the remnant slew his horse, so that he fell to the earth. So had they slain him or taken him, had not the good knight Sir Galahad, with the red cross, come there by adventure. And when he saw all the knights upon one, he cried out, "Save me that knight's life." Then he rode toward the twenty men of arms as fast as his horse might drive, with his spear in the rest, and smote the foremost horse and man to the earth. And when his spear was broken, he set his hand to his sword, and smote on the right hand and on the left, that it was marvel to see; and at every stroke he smote down one, or put him to rebuke, so that they would fight no more, but fled to a thick forest, and Sir Galahad followed them. And when Sir Perceval saw him chase them so, he made great sorrow that his horse was slain. And he wist well it was Sir Galahad. Then he cried aloud, "Ah, fair knight, abide, and suffer me to do thanks unto thee; for right well have ye done for me." But Sir Galahad rode so fast that at last he passed out of his sight. When Sir Perceval saw that he would not turn, he said, "Now am I a very wretch, and most unhappy above all other knights." So in his sorrow he abode all that day till it was night; and then he was faint, and laid him down and slept till midnight; and then he awaked and saw before him a woman, who said unto him, "Sir Perceval, what dost thou here?" He answered, "I do neither good, nor great ill." "If thou wilt promise me," said she, "that thou wilt fulfil my will when I summon thee, I will lend thee my own horse, which shall bear thee whither thou wilt." Sir Perceval was glad of her proffer, and insured her to fulfil all her desire. "Then abide me here, and I will go fetch you a horse." And so she soon came again, and brought a horse with her that was inky black. When Perceval beheld that horse he marvelled, it was so great and so well apparelled. And he leapt upon him and took no heed of himself. And he thrust him with his spurs, and within an hour and less he bare him four days' journey thence, until he came to a rough water, which roared, and his horse would have borne him into it. And when Sir Perceval came nigh the brim and saw the water so boisterous he doubted to overpass it. And then he made the sign of the cross on his forehead. When the fiend felt him so charged, he shook off Sir Perceval, and went into the water crying and roaring; and it seemed unto him that the water burned. Then Sir Perceval perceived it was a fiend that would have brought him unto his perdition. Then he commended himself unto God, and prayed our Lord to keep him from all such temptations; and so he prayed all that night till it was day. Then he saw that he was in a wild place, that was closed with the sea nigh all about. And Sir Perceval looked forth over the sea, and saw a ship come sailing towards him; and it came and stood still under the rock. And when Sir Perceval saw this, he hied him thither, and found the ship covered with silk; and therein was a lady of great beauty, and clothed so richly that none might be better. And when she saw Sir Perceval, she saluted him, and Sir Perceval returned her salutation. Then he asked her of her country and her lineage. And she said, "I am a gentlewoman that am disinherited, and was once the richest woman of the world." "Damsel," said Sir Perceval, "who hath disinherited you? for I have great pity of you." "Sir," said she, "my enemy is a great and powerful lord, and aforetime he made much of me, so that of his favor and of my beauty I had a little pride more than I ought to have had. Also I said a word that pleased him not. So he drove me from his company and from mine heritage. Therefore I know no good knight nor good man, but I get him on my side if I may. And for that I know that thou art a good knight, I beseech thee to help me." Then Sir Perceval promised her all the help that he might, and she thanked him. And at that time the weather was hot, and she called to her a gentlewoman, and bade her bring forth a pavilion. And she did so, and pitched it upon the gravel. "Sir," said she, "now may ye rest you in this heat of the day." Then he thanked her, and she put off his helm and his shield, and there he slept a great while. Then he awoke, and asked her if she had any meat, and she said yea, and so there was set upon the table all manner of meats that he could think on. Also he drank there the strongest wine that ever he drank, and therewith he was a little chafed more than he ought to be. With that he beheld the lady, and he thought she was the fairest creature that ever he saw. And then Sir Perceval proffered her love, and prayed her that she would be his. Then she refused him in a manner, for the cause he should be the more ardent on her, and ever he ceased not to pray her of love. And when she saw him well enchafed, then she said, "Sir Perceval, wit you well I shall not give ye my love, unless you swear from henceforth you will be my true servant, and do no thing but that I shall command you. Will you insure me this, as ye be a true knight?" "Yea," said he, "fair lady, by the faith of my body." And as he said this, by adventure and grace, he saw his sword lie on the ground naked, in whose pommel was a red cross, and the sign of the crucifix thereon. Then he made the sign of the cross on his forehead, and therewith the pavilion shrivelled up, and changed into a smoke and a black cloud. And the damsel cried aloud, and hasted into the ship, and so she went with the wind roaring and yelling that it seemed all the water burned after her. Then Sir Perceval made great sorrow, and called himself a wretch, saying, "How nigh was I lost!" Then he took his arms, and departed thence. CHAPTER XXI THE SANGREAL (Continued) SIR BOHORT When Sir Boliort departed from Camelot he met with a religious man, riding upon an ass; and Sir Bohort saluted him. "What are ye?" said the good man. "Sir," said Sir Bohort, "I am a knight that fain would be counselled in the quest of the Sangreal." So rode they both together till they came to a hermitage; and there he prayed Sir Bohort to dwell that night with him. So he alighted, and put away his armor, and prayed him that he might be confessed. And they went both into the chapel, and there he was clean confessed. And they ate bread and drank water together. "Now," said the good man, "I pray thee that thou eat none other till thou sit at the table where the Sangreal shall be." "Sir," said Sir Bohort, "but how know ye that I shall sit there?" "Yea," said the good man, "that I know well; but there shall be few of your fellows with you." Then said Sir Bohort, "I agree me thereto" And the good man when he had heard his confession found him in so pure a life and so stable that he marvelled thereof. On the morrow, as soon as the day appeared, Sir Bohort departed thence, and rode into a forest unto the hour of midday. And there befell him a marvellous adventure. For he met, at the parting of two ways, two knights that led Sir Lionel, his brother, all naked, bound upon a strong hackney, and his hands bound before his breast; and each of them held in his hand thorns wherewith they went beating him, so that he was all bloody before and behind; but he said never a word, but, as he was great of heart, he suffered all that they did to him as though he had felt none anguish. Sir Bohort prepared to rescue his brother. But he looked on the other side of him, and saw a knight dragging along a fair gentlewoman, who cried out, "Saint Mary! succor your maid!" And when she saw Sir Bohort, she called to him, and said, "By the faith that ye owe to knighthood, help me!" When Sir Bohort heard her say thus he had such sorrow that he wist not what to do. "For if I let my brother be he must be slain, and that would I not for all the earth; and if I help not the maid I am shamed for ever." Then lift he up his eyes and said, weeping, "Fair Lord, whose liegeman I am, keep Sir Lionel, my brother, that none of these knights slay him, and for pity of you, and our Lady's sake, I shall succor this maid." Then he cried out to the knight, "Sir knight, lay your hand off that maid, or else ye be but dead." Then the knight set down the maid, and took his shield, and drew out his sword. And Sir Bohort smote him so hard that it went through his shield and habergeon, on the left shoulder, and he fell down to the earth. Then came Sir Bohort to the maid, "Ye be delivered of this knight this time." "Now," said she, "I pray you lead me there where this knight took me." "I shall gladly do it," said Sir Bohort. So he took the horse of the wounded knight, and set the gentlewoman upon it, and brought her there where she desired to be. And there he found twelve knights seeking after her; and when she told them how Sir Bohort had delivered her, they made great joy, and besought him to come to her father, a great lord, and he should be right welcomed. "Truly," said Sir Bohort, "that may not be; for I have a great adventure to do." So he commended them to God and departed. Then Sir Bohort rode after Sir Lionel, his brother, by the trace of their horses. Thus he rode seeking, a great while. Then he overtook a man clothed in a religious clothing, who said, "Sir Knight, what seek ye?" "Sir," said Sir Bohort, "I seek my brother, that I saw within a little space beaten of two knights." "Ah, Sir Bohort, trouble not thyself to seek for him, for truly he is dead." Then he showed him a new-slain body, lying in a thick bush; and it seemed him that it was the body of Sir Lionel. And then he made such sorrow that he fell to the ground in a swoon, and lay there long. And when he came to himself again, he said, "Fair brother, since the fellowship of you and me is sundered, shall I never have joy again; and now He that I have taken for my Master, He be my help!" And when he had said thus he took up the body in his arms, and put it upon the horse. And then he said to the man, "Canst thou tell me the way to some chapel, where I may bury this body?" "Come on," said the man, "here is one fast by." And so they rode till they saw a fair tower, and beside it a chapel. Then they alighted both, and put the body into a tomb of marble. Then Sir Bohort commended the good man unto God, and departed. And he rode all that day, and harbored with an old lady. And on the morrow he rode unto the castle in a valley, and there he met with a yeoman. "Tell me," said Sir Bohort, "knowest thou of any adventure?" "Sir," said he, "here shall be, under this castle, a great and marvellous tournament." Then Sir Bohort thought to be there, if he might meet with any of the fellowship that were in quest of the Sangreal; so he turned to a hermitage that was on the border of the forest. And when he was come hither, he found there Sir Lionel his brother, who sat all armed at the entry of the chapel door. And when Sir Bohort saw him, he had great joy, and he alighted off his horse, and said. "Fair brother, when came ye hither?" As soon as Sir Lionel saw him he said, "Ah, Sir Bohort, make ye no false show, for, as for you, I might have been slain, for ye left me in peril of death to go succor a gentlewoman; and for that misdeed I now assure you but death, for ye have right well deserved it." When Sir Bohort perceived his brother's wrath he kneeled down to the earth and cried him mercy, holding up both his hands, and prayed him to forgive him. "Nay," said Sir Lionel, "thou shalt have but death for it, if I have the upper hand; therefore leap upon thy horse and keep thyself, and if thou do not I will run upon thee there as thou standest on foot, and so the shame shall be mine, and the harm thine, but of that I reck not." When Sir Bohort saw that he must fight with his brother or else die, he wist not what to do. Then his heart counselled him not so to do, inasmuch as Sir Lionel was his elder brother, wherefore he ought to bear him reverence. Yet kneeled he down before Sir Lionel's horse's feet, and said, "Fair brother, have mercy upon me and slay me not." But Sir Lionel cared not, for the fiend had brought him in such a will that he should slay him. When he saw that Sir Bohort would not rise to give him battle, he rushed over him, so that he smote him with his horse's feet to the earth, and hurt him sore, that he swooned of distress. When Sir Lionel saw this he alighted from his horse for to have smitten off his head; and so he took him by the helm, and would have rent it from his head. But it happened that Sir Colgrevance, a knight of the Round Table, came at that time thither, as it was our Lord's will; and then he beheld how Sir Lionel would have slain his brother, and he knew Sir Bohort, whom he loved right well. Then leapt he down from his horse and took Sir Lionel by the shoulders, and drew him strongly back from Sir Bohort, and said, "Sir Lionel, will ye slay your brother?" "Why," said Sir Lionel, "will ye stay me? If ye interfere in this I will slay you, and him after." Then he ran upon Sir Bohort, and would have smitten him; but Sir Colgrevance ran between them, and said, "If ye persist to do so any more, we two shall meddle together." Then Sir Lionel defied him, and gave him a great stroke through the helm. Then he drew his sword, for he was a passing good knight, and defended himself right manfully. So long endured the battle, that Sir Bohort rose up all anguishly, and beheld Sir Colgrevance, the good knight, fight with his brother for his quarrel. Then was he full sorry and heavy, and thought that if Sir Colgrevance slew him that was his brother he should never have joy, and if his brother slew Sir Colgrevance the shame should ever be his. Then would he have risen for to have parted them, but he had not so much strength to stand on his feet; so he staid so long that Sir Colgrevance had the worse; for Sir Lionel was of great chivalry and right hardy. Then cried Sir Colgrevance, "Ah, Sir Bohort, why come ye not to bring me out of peril of death, wherein I have put me to succor you?" With that, Sir Lionel smote off his helm and bore him to the earth. And when he had slain Sir Colgrevance he ran upon his brother as a fiendly man, and gave him such a stroke that he made him stoop. And he that was full of humility prayed him, "for God's sake leave this battle, for if it befell, fair brother, that I slew you, or ye me, we should be dead of that sin." "Pray ye not me for mercy," said Sir Lionel. Then Sir Bohort, all weeping, drew his sword, and said, "Now God have mercy upon me, though I defend my life against my brother." With that Sir Bohort lifted up his sword, and would have smitten his brother. Then he heard a voice that said, "Flee, Sir Bohort, and touch him not." Right so alighted a cloud between them, in the likeness of a fire and a marvellous flame, so that they both fell to the earth, and lay there a great while in a swoon. And when they came to themselves, Sir Bohort saw that his brother had no harm; and he was right glad, for he dread sore that God had taken vengeance upon him. Then Sir Lionel said to his brother, "Brother, forgive me, for God's sake, all that I have trespassed against you." And Sir Bohort answered, "God forgive it thee, and I do." With that Sir Bohort heard a voice say, "Sir Bohort, take thy way anon, right to the sea, for Sir Perceval abideth thee there." So Sir Bohort departed, and rode the nearest way to the sea. And at last he came to an abbey that was nigh the sea. That night he rested him there, and in his sleep there came a voice unto him and bade him go to the sea-shore. He started up, and made a sign of the cross on his forehead, and armed himself, and made ready his horse and mounted him, and at a broken wall he rode out, and came to the sea-shore. And there he found a ship, covered all with white samite. And he entered into the ship; but it was anon so dark that he might see no man, and he laid him down and slept till it was day. Then he awaked, and saw in the middle of the ship a knight all armed, save his helm. And then he knew it was Sir Perceval de Galis, and each made of other right great joy. Then said Sir Perceval, "We lack nothing now but the good knight Sir Galahad." SIR LAUNCELOT (Resumed) It befell upon a night Sir Launcelot arrived before a castle, which was rich and fair. And there was a postern that was opened toward the sea, and was open without any keeping, save two lions kept the entry; and the moon shined clear. Anon Sir Launcelot heard a voice that said, "Launcelot, enter into the castle, where thou shalt see a great part of thy desire." So he went unto the gate, and saw the two lions; then he set hands to his sword, and drew it. Then there came suddenly as it were a stroke upon the arm, so sore that the sword fell out of his hand, and he heard a voice that said, "O man of evil faith, wherefore believest thou more in thy armor than in thy Maker?" Then said Sir Launcelot, "Fair Lord, I thank thee of thy great mercy, that thou reprovest me of my misdeed; now see I well that thou holdest me for thy servant." Then he made a cross on his forehead, and came to the lions; and they made semblance to do him harm, but he passed them without hurt, and entered into the castle, and he found no gate nor door but it was open. But at the last he found a chamber whereof the door was shut; and he set his hand thereto, to have opened it, but he might not. Then he listened, and heard a voice which sung so sweetly that it seemed none earthly thing; and the voice said, "Joy and honor be to the Father of heaven." Then Sir Launcelot kneeled down before the chamber, for well he wist that there was the Sangreal in that chamber. Then said he, "Fair, sweet Lord, if ever I did anything that pleased thee, for thy pity show me something of that which I seek." And with that he saw the chamber door open, and there came out a great clearness, that the house was as bright as though all the torches of the world had been there. So he came to the chamber door, and would have entered; and anon a voice said unto him, "Stay, Sir Launcelot, and enter not." And he withdrew him back, and was right heavy in his mind. Then looked he in the midst of the chamber, and saw a table of silver, and the holy vessel, covered with red samite, and many angels about it; whereof one held a candle of wax burning, and another held a cross, and the ornaments of the altar. "O, yet methought I saw the Holy Grail, All pall'd in crimson samite, and around Great angels, awful shapes, and wings and eyes" --The Holy Grail. Then for very wonder and thankfulness Sir Launcelot forgot himself and he stepped forward and entered the chamber. And suddenly a breath that seemed intermixed with fire smote him so sore in the visage that therewith he fell to the ground, and had no power to rise. Then felt he many hands about him, which took him up and bare him out of the chamber, without any amending of his swoon, and left him there, seeming dead to all the people. So on the morrow, when it was fair daylight, and they within were arisen, they found Sir Launcelot lying before the chamber door. And they looked upon him and felt his pulse, to know if there were any life in him. And they found life in him, but he might neither stand nor stir any member that he had. So they took him and bare him into a chamber, and laid him upon a bed, far from all folk, and there he lay many days. Then the one said he was alive, and the others said nay. But said an old man, "He is as full of life as the mightiest of you all, and therefore I counsel you that he be well kept till God bring him back again." And after twenty-four days he opened his eyes; and when he saw folk he made great sorrow, and said, "Why have ye wakened me? for I was better at ease than I am now." "What have ye seen?" said they about him. "I have seen," said he, "great marvels that no tongue can tell, and more than any heart can think." Then they said, "Sir, the quest of the Sangreal is achieved right now in you, and never shall ye see more of it than ye have seen." "I thank God," said Sir Launcelot, "of his great mercy, for that I have seen, for it sufficeth me." Then he rose up and clothed himself; and when he was so arrayed they marvelled all, for they knew it was Sir Launcelot the good knight. And after four days he took his leave of the lord of the castle, and of all the fellowship that were there, and thanked them for their great labor and care of him. Then he departed, and turned to Camelot, where he found King Arthur and Queen Guenever; but many of the knights of the Round Table were slain and destroyed, more than half. Then all the court was passing glad of Sir Launcelot; and he told the king all his adventures that had befallen him since he departed. SIR GALAHAD Now, when Sir Galahad had rescued Perceval from the twenty knights, he rode into a vast forest, wherein he abode many days. Then he took his way to the sea, and it befell him that he was benighted in a hermitage. And the good man was glad when he saw he was a knight-errant. And when they were at rest, there came a gentlewoman knocking at the door; and the good man came to the door to wit what she would. Then she said, "I would speak with the knight which is with you." Then Galahad went to her, and asked her what she would. "Sir Galahad," said she, "I will that ye arm you, and mount upon your horse, and follow me; for I will show you the highest adventure that ever knight saw." Then Galahad armed himself and commended himself to God, and bade the damsel go before, and he would follow where she led. So she rode as fast as her palfrey might bear her, till she came to the sea; and there they found the ship where Sir Bohort and Sir Perceval were, who cried from the ship, "Sir Galahad, you are welcome; we have waited you long." And when he heard them, he asked the damsel who they were. "Sir," said she, "leave your horse here, and I shall leave mine, and we will join ourselves to their company." So they entered into the ship, and the two knights received them both with great joy. For they knew the damsel, that she was Sir Perceval's sister. Then the wind arose and drove them through the sea all that day and the next, till the ship arrived between two rocks, passing great and marvellous; but there they might not land, for there was a whirlpool; but there was another ship, and upon it they might go without danger. "Go we thither," said the gentlewoman, "and there we shall see adventures, for such is our Lord's will." Then Sir Galahad blessed him, and entered therein, and then next the gentlewoman, and then Sir Bohort and Sir Perceval. And when they came on board they found there the table of silver, and the Sangreal, which was covered with red samite. And they made great reverence thereto, and Sir Galahad prayed a long time to our Lord, that at what time he should ask to pass out of this world he should do so; and a voice said to him, "Galahad, thou shalt have thy request; and when thou askest the death of thy body, thou shalt have it, and then shalt thou find the life of thy soul." And anon the wind drove them across the sea, till they came to the city of Sarras. Then took they out of the ship the table of silver, and Sir Perceval and Sir Bohort took it before, and Sir Galahad came behind, and right so they went to the city. And at the gate of the city they saw an old man, a cripple. "And Sir Launfal said, 'I behold in thee An image of Him who died on the tree Thou also hast had thy crown of thorns, Thou also hast had the world's buffets and scorns; And to thy life were not denied The wounds in thy hands and feet and side Mild Mary's son, acknowledge me; Behold, through Him I give to thee!'" --Lowell's Holy Grail. Then Galahad called him, and bade him help to bear this heavy thing. "Truly," said the old man, "it is ten years since I could not go but with crutches." "Care thou not," said Sir Galahad, "but arise up, and show thy good will." Then the old man rose up, and assayed, and found himself as whole as ever he was; and he ran to the table, and took one part with Sir Galahad. When they came to the city it chanced that the king was just dead, and all the city was dismayed, and wist not who might be their king. Right so, as they were in counsel, there came a voice among them, and bade them choose the youngest knight of those three to be their king. So they made Sir Galahad king, by all the assent of the city. And when he was made king, he commanded to make a chest of gold and of precious stones to hold the holy vessel. And every day the three companions would come before it and make their prayers. Now at the year's end, and the same day of the year that Sir Galahad received the crown, he got up early, and, with his fellows, came to where the holy vessel was; and they saw one kneeling before it that had about him a great fellowship of angels; and he called Sir Galahad, and said, "Come, thou servant of the Lord, and thou shalt see what thou hast much desired to see." And Sir Galahad's mortal flesh trembled right hard when he began to behold the spiritual things. Then said the good man, "Now wottest thou who I am?" "Nay," said Sir Galahad. "I am Joseph of Arimathea, whom our Lord hath sent here to thee, to bear thee fellowship." Then Sir Galahad held up his hands toward heaven, and said, "Now, blessed Lord, would I not longer live, if it might please thee." And when he had said these words, Sir Galahad went to Sir Perceval and to Sir Bohort and kissed them, and commended them to God. And then he kneeled down before the table, and made his prayers, and suddenly his soul departed, and a great multitude of angels bare his soul up to heaven, so as the two fellows could well behold it. Also they saw come from heaven a hand, but they saw not the body; and the hand came right to the vessel and bare it up to heaven. Since then was there never one so hardy as to say that he had seen the Sangreal on earth any more. CHAPTER XXII SIR AGRIVAIN'S TREASON When Sir Perceval and Sir Bohort saw Sir Galahad dead they made as much sorrow as ever did two men. And if they had not been good men they might have fallen into despair. As soon as Sir Galahad was buried Sir Perceval retired to a hermitage out of the city, and took a religious clothing; and Sir Bohort was always with him, but did not change his secular clothing, because he purposed to return to the realm of Loegria. Thus a year and two months lived Sir Perceval in the hermitage a full holy life, and then passed out of this world, and Sir Bohort buried him by his sister and Sir Galahad. Then Sir Bohort armed himself and departed from Sarras, and entered into a ship, and sailed to the kingdom of Loegria, and in due time arrived safe at Camelot, where the king was. Then was there great joy made of him in the whole court, for they feared he had been dead. Then the king made great clerks to come before him, that they should chronicle of the high adventures of the good knights. And Sir Bohort told him of the adventures that had befallen him, and his two fellows, Sir Perceval and Sir Galahad. And Sir Launcelot told the adventures of the Sangreal that he had seen. All this was made in great books, and put up in the church at Salisbury. So King Arthur and Queen Guenever made great joy of the remnant that were come home, and chiefly of Sir Launcelot and Sir Bohort. Then Sir Launcelot began to resort unto Queen Guenever again, and forgot the promise that he made in the quest: so that many in the court spoke of it, and in especial Sir Agrivain, Sir Gawain's brother, for he was ever open-mouthed. So it happened Sir Gawain and all his brothers were in King Arthur's chamber, and then Sir Agrivain said thus openly, "I marvel that we all are not ashamed to see and to know so noble a knight as King Arthur so to be shamed by the conduct of Sir Launcelot and the queen. "Then spoke Sir Gawain, and said, "Brother, Sir Agrivain, I pray you and charge you move not such matters any more before me, for be ye assured I will not be of your counsel." "Neither will we," said Sir Gaheris and Sir Gareth. "Then will I," said Sir Modred. "I doubt you not," said Sir Gawain, "for to all mischief ever were ye prone; yet I would that ye left all this, for I know what will come of it." "Modred's narrow foxy face, Heart-hiding smile, and gray persistent eye: Henceforward, too, the Powers that tend the soul To help it from the death that cannot die, And save it even in extremes, began To vex and plague." --Guinevere. "Fall of it what fall may," said Sir Agrivain, "I will disclose it to the king." With that came to them King Arthur. "Now, brothers, hold your peace," said Sir Gawain. "We will not," said Sir Agrivain. Then said Sir Gawain, "I will not hear your tales nor be of your counsel." "No more will I," said Sir Gareth and Sir Gaheris, and therewith they departed, making great sorrow. Then Sir Agrivain told the king all that was said in the court of the conduct of Sir Launcelot and the queen, and it grieved the king very much. But he would not believe it to be true without proof. So Sir Agrivain laid a plot to entrap Sir Launcelot and the queen, intending to take them together unawares. Sir Agrivain and Sir Modred led a party for this purpose, but Sir Launcelot escaped from them, having slain Sir Agrivain and wounded Sir Modred. Then Sir Launcelot hastened to his friends, and told them what had happened, and withdrew with them to the forest; but he left spies to bring him tidings of whatever might be done. So Sir Launcelot escaped, but the queen remained in the king's power, and Arthur could no longer doubt of her guilt. And the law was such in those days that they who committed such crimes, of what estate or condition soever they were, must be burned to death, and so it was ordained for Queen Guenever. Then said King Arthur to Sir Gawain, "I pray you make you ready, in your best armor, with your brethren, Sir Gaheris and Sir Gareth, to bring my queen to the fire, there to receive her death." "Nay, my most noble lord," said Sir Gawain, "that will I never do; for know thou well, my heart will never serve me to see her die, and it shall never be said that I was of your counsel in her death." Then the king commanded Sir Gaheris and Sir Gareth to be there, and they said, "We will be there, as ye command us, sire, but in peaceable wise, and bear no armor upon us." So the queen was led forth, and her ghostly father was brought to her to shrive her, and there was weeping and wailing of many lords and ladies. And one went and told Sir Launcelot that the queen was led forth to her death. Then Sir Launcelot and the knights that were with him fell upon the troop that guarded the queen, and dispersed them, and slew all who withstood them. And in the confusion Sir Gareth and Sir Gaheris were slain, for they were unarmed and defenceless. And Sir Launcelot carried away the queen to his castle of La Joyeuse Garde. Then there came one to Sir Gawain and told him how that Sir Launcelot had slain the knights and carried away the queen. "O Lord, defend my brethren!" said Sir Gawain. "Truly," said the man, "Sir Gareth and Sir Gaheris are slain." "Alas!" said Sir Gawain, "now is my joy gone." And then he fell down and swooned, and long he lay there as he had been dead. When he arose out of his swoon Sir Gawain ran to the king, crying, "O King Arthur, mine uncle, my brothers are slain." Then the king wept and he both. "My king, my lord, and mine uncle," said Sir Gawain, "bear witness now that I make you a promise that I shall hold by my knighthood, and from this day I will never fail Sir Launcelot until the one of us have slain the other. I will seek Sir Launcelot throughout seven kings' realms, but I shall slay him or he shall slay me." "Ye shall not need to seek him," said the king, "for as I hear, Sir Launcelot will abide me and you in the Joyeuse Garde; and much people draweth unto him, as I hear say." "That may I believe," said Sir Gawain; "but, my lord, summon your friends, and I will summon mine." "It shall be done," said the king. So then the king sent letters and writs throughout all England, both in the length and breadth, to summon all his knights. And unto Arthur drew many knights, dukes, and earls, so that he had a great host. Thereof heard Sir Launcelot, and collected all whom he could; and many good knights held with him, both for his sake and for the queen's sake. But King Arthur's host was too great for Sir Launcelot to abide him in the field; and he was full loath to do battle against the king. So Sir Launcelot drew him to his strong castle, with all manner of provisions. Then came King Arthur with Sir Gawain, and laid siege all about La Joyeuse Garde, both the town and the castle; but in no wise would Sir Launcelot ride out of his castle, neither suffer any of his knights to issue out, until many weeks were past. Then it befell upon a day in harvest-time, Sir Launcelot looked over the wall, and spoke aloud to King Arthur and Sir Gawain, "My lords both, all is in vain that ye do at this siege, for here ye shall win no worship, but only dishonor; for if I list to come out, and my good knights, I shall soon make an end of this war." "Come forth," said Arthur, "if thou darest, and I promise thee I shall meet thee in the midst of the field." "God forbid me," said Sir Launcelot, "that I should encounter with the most noble king that made me knight." "Fie upon thy fair language," said the king, "for know thou well I am thy mortal foe, and ever will be to my dying day." And Sir Gawain said, "What cause hadst thou to slay my brother, Sir Gaheris, who bore no arms against thee, and Sir Gareth, whom thou madest knight, and who loved thee more than all my kin? Therefore know thou well I shall make war to thee all the while that I may live." When Sir Bohort, and Sir Hector de Marys, and Sir Lionel heard this outcry, they called to them Sir Palamedes, and Sir Saffire his brother, and Sir Lawayn, with many more, and all went to Sir Launcelot. And they said, "My lord, Sir Launcelot, we pray you, if you will have our service keep us no longer within these walls, for know well all your fair speech and forbearance will not avail you." "Alas!" said Sir Launcelot, "to ride forth and to do battle I am full loath." Then he spake again unto the king and Sir Gawain, and willed them to keep out of the battle; but they despised his words. So then Sir Launcelot's fellowship came out of the castle in full good array. And always Sir Launcelot charged all his knights, in any wise, to save King Arthur and Sir Gawain. Then came forth Sir Gawain from the king's host and offered combat, and Sir Lionel encountered with him, and there Sir Gawain smote Sir Lionel through the body, that he fell to the earth as if dead. Then there began a great conflict, and much people were slain; but ever Sir Launcelot did what he might to save the people on King Arthur's party, and ever King Arthur followed Sir Launcelot to slay him; but Sir Launcelot suffered him, and would not strike again. Then Sir Bohort encountered with King Arthur, and smote him down; and he alighted and drew his sword, and said to Sir Launcelot, "Shall I make an end of this war?" for he meant to have slain King Arthur. "Not so," said Sir Launcelot, "touch him no more, for I will never see that most noble king that made me knight either slain or shamed;" and therewith Sir Launcelot alighted off his horse, and took up the king, and horsed him again, and said thus: "My lord Arthur, for God's love, cease this strife." And King Arthur looked upon Sir Launcelot, and the tears burst from his eyes, thinking on the great courtesy that was in Sir Launcelot more than in any other man; and therewith the king rode his way. Then anon both parties withdrew to repose them, and buried the dead. But the war continued, and it was noised abroad through all Christendom, and at last it was told afore the pope; and he, considering the great goodness of King Arthur, and of Sir Launcelot, called unto him a noble clerk, which was the Bishop of Rochester, who was then in his dominions, and sent him to King Arthur, charging him that he take his queen, dame Guenever, unto him again, and make peace with Sir Launcelot. So, by means of this bishop, peace was made for the space of one year; and King Arthur received back the queen, and Sir Launcelot departed from the kingdom with all his knights, and went to his own country. So they shipped at Cardiff, and sailed unto Benwick, which some men call Bayonne. And all the people of those lands came to Sir Launcelot, and received him home right joyfully. And Sir Launcelot stablished and garnished all his towns and castles, and he greatly advanced all his noble knights, Sir Lionel and Sir Bohort, and Sir Hector de Marys, Sir Blamor, Sir Lawayne, and many others, and made them lords of lands and castles; till he left himself no more than any one of them. "Then Arthur made vast banquets, and strange knights From the four winds came in: and each one sat, Tho' served with choice from air, land, stream and sea, Oft in mid-banquet measuring with his eyes His neighbor's make and might." --Pelleas and Ettarre. But when the year was passed, King Arthur and Sir Gawain came with a great host, and landed upon Sir Launcelot's lands, and burned and wasted all that they might overrun. Then spake Sir Bohort and said, "My lord, Sir Launcelot, give us leave to meet them in the field, and we shall make them rue the time that ever they came to this country." Then said Sir Launcelot, "I am full loath to ride out with my knights for shedding of Christian blood; so we will yet a while keep our walls, and I will send a messenger unto my lord Arthur, to propose a treaty; for better is peace than always war." So Sir Launcelot sent forth a damsel, and a dwarf with her, requiring King Arthur to leave his warring upon his lands; and so she started on a palfrey, and the dwarf ran by her side. And when she came to the pavilion of King Arthur, she alighted, and there met her a gentle knight, Sir Lucan, the butler, and said, "Fair damsel, come ye from Sir Launcelot du Lac?" "Yea, sir," she said, "I come hither to speak with the king." "Alas!" said Sir Lucan, "my lord Arthur would be reconciled to Sir Launcelot, but Sir Gawain will not suffer him." And with this Sir Lucan led the damsel to the king, where he sat with Sir Gawain, to hear what she would say. So when she had told her tale, the tears ran out of the king's eyes; and all the lords were forward to advise the king to be accorded with Sir Launcelot, save only Sir Gawain; and he said, "My lord, mine uncle, what will ye do? Will you now turn back, now you are so far advanced upon your journey? If ye do all the world will speak shame of you." "Nay," said King Arthur, "I will do as ye advise me; but do thou give the damsel her answer, for I may not speak to her for pity." Then said Sir Gawain, "Damsel, say ye to Sir Launcelot, that it is waste labor to sue to mine uncle for peace, and say that I, Sir Gawain, send him word that I promise him, by the faith I owe unto God and to knighthood, I shall never leave him till he have slain me or I him." So the damsel returned; and when Sir Launcelot had heard this answer the tears ran down his cheeks. Then it befell on a day Sir Gawain came before the gates, armed at all points, and cried with a loud voice, "Where art thou now, thou false traitor, Sir Launcelot? Why hidest thou thyself within holes and walls like a coward? Look out now, thou traitor knight, and I will avenge upon thy body the death of my three brethren." All this language heard Sir Launcelot, and the knights which were about him; and they said to him, "Sir Launcelot, now must ye defend you like a knight, or else be shamed for ever, for you have slept overlong and suffered overmuch." Then Sir Launcelot spake on high unto King Arthur, and said, "My lord Arthur, now I have forborne long, and suffered you and Sir Gawain to do what ye would, and now must I needs defend myself, inasmuch as Sir Gawain hath appealed me of treason." Then Sir Launcelot armed him and mounted upon his horse, and the noble knights came out of the city, and the host without stood all apart; and so the covenant was made that no man should come near the two knights, nor deal with them, till one were dead or yielded. Then Sir Launcelot and Sir Gawain departed a great way asunder, and then they came together with all their horses' might, and each smote the other in the middle of their shields, but neither of them was unhorsed, but their horses fell to the earth. And then they leapt from their horses, and drew their swords, and gave many sad strokes, so that the blood burst out in many places. Now Sir Gawain had this gift from a holy man, that every day in the year, from morning to noon, his strength was increased threefold, and then it fell again to its natural measure. Sir Launcelot was aware of this, and therefore, during the three hours that Sir Gawain's strength was at the height, Sir Launcelot covered himself with his shield, and kept his might in reserve. And during that time Sir Gawain gave him many sad brunts, that all the knights that looked on marvelled how Sir Launcelot might endure them. Then, when it was past noon, Sir Gawain had only his own might; and when Sir Launcelot felt him so brought down he stretched himself up, and doubled his strokes, and gave Sir Gawain such a buffet that he fell down on his side; and Sir Launcelot drew back and would strike no more. "Why withdrawest thou, false traitor?" then said Sir Gawain; "now turn again and slay me, for if thou leave me thus when I am whole again, I shall do battle with thee again." "I shall endure you, sir, by God's grace," said Sir Launcelot, "but know thou well Sir Gawain, I will never smite a felled knight." And so Sir Launcelot went into the city, and Sir Gawain was borne into King Arthur's pavilion, and his wounds were looked to. Thus the siege endured, and Sir Gawain lay helpless near a month; and when he was near recovered came tidings unto King Arthur that made him return with all his host to England. CHAPTER XXIII MORTE D'ARTHUR Sir Modred was left ruler of all England, and he caused letters to be written, as if from beyond sea, that King Arthur was slain in battle. So he called a Parliament, and made himself be crowned king; and he took the queen Guenever, and said plainly that he would wed her, but she escaped from him and took refuge in the Tower of London. And Sir Modred went and laid siege about the Tower of London, and made great assaults thereat, but all might not avail him. Then came word to Sir Modred that King Arthur had raised the siege of Sir Launcelot, and was coming home. Then Sir Modred summoned all the barony of the land; and much people drew unto Sir Modred, and said they would abide with him for better and for worse; and he drew a great host to Dover, for there he heard say that King Arthur would arrive. "I hear the steps of Modred in the west, And with him many of thy people, and knights Once thine, whom thou hast loved, but grosser grown Than heathen, spitting at their vows and thee" --The Passing of Arthur. And as Sir Modred was at Dover with his host, came King Arthur, with a great number of ships and galleys, and there was Sir Modred awaiting upon the landing. Then was there launching of great boats and small, full of noble men of arms, and there was much slaughter of gentle knights on both parts. But King Arthur was so courageous, there might no manner of knights prevent him to land, and his knights fiercely followed him; and so they landed, and put Sir Modred aback so that he fled, and all his people. And when the battle was done, King Arthur commanded to bury his people that were dead. And then was noble Sir Gawain found, in a great boat, lying more than half dead. And King Arthur went to him, and made sorrow out of measure. "Mine uncle," said Sir Gawain, "know thou well my death-day is come, and all is through mine own hastiness and wilfulness, for I am smitten upon the old wound which Sir Launcelot gave me, of which I feel I must die. And had Sir Launcelot been with you as of old, this war had never begun, and of all this I am the cause." Then Sir Gawain prayed the king to send for Sir Launcelot, and to cherish him above all other knights. And so at the hour of noon Sir Gawain yielded up his spirit, and then the king bade inter him in a chapel within Dover Castle; and there all men may see the skull of him, and the same wound is seen that Sir Launcelot gave him in battle. Then was it told the king that Sir Modred had pitched his camp upon Barrendown; and the king rode thither, and there was a great battle betwixt them, and King Arthur's party stood best, and Sir Modred and his party fled unto Canterbury. And there was a day assigned betwixt King Arthur and Sir Modred that they should meet upon a down beside Salisbury, and not far from the sea-side, to do battle yet again. And at night, as the king slept, he dreamed a wonderful dream. It seemed him verily that there came Sir Gawain unto him, with a number of fair ladies with him. And when King Arthur saw him, he said, "Welcome, my sister's son; I weened thou hadst been dead; and now I see thee alive great is my joy. But, O fair nephew, what be these ladies that hither be come with you?" "Sir," said Sir Gawain, "all these be ladies for whom I have fought when I was a living man; and because I did battle for them in righteous quarrel they have given me grace to bring me hither unto you to warn you of your death, if ye fight to-morrow with Sir Modred. Therefore take ye treaty, and proffer you largely for a month's delay; for within a month shall come Sir Launcelot and all his noble knights, and rescue you worshipfully, and slay Sir Modred and all that hold with him." And then Sir Gawain and all the ladies vanished. And anon the king called to fetch his noble lords and wise bishops unto him. And when they were come, the king told them his vision, and what Sir Gawain had told him. Then the king sent Sir Lucan, the butler, and Sir Bedivere, with two bishops, and charged them in any wise to take a treaty for a month and a day with Sir Modred. So they departed, and came to Sir Modred; and so, at the last, Sir Modred was agreed to have Cornwall and Kent during Arthur's life, and all England after his death. "Sir Modred; he the nearest to the king, His nephew, ever like a subtle beast Lay couchant with his eyes upon the throne, Ready to spring, waiting a chance." --Guinevere Then was it agreed that King Arthur and Sir Modred should meet betwixt both their hosts, and each of them should bring fourteen persons, and then and there they should sign the treaty. And when King Arthur and his knights were prepared to go forth, he warned all his host, "If so be ye see any sword drawn, look ye come on fiercely, and slay whomsoever withstandeth, for I in no wise trust that traitor, Sir Modred." In like wise Sir Modred warned his host. So they met, and were agreed and accorded thoroughly. And wine was brought, and they drank. Right then came an adder out of a little heath-bush, and stung a knight on the foot. And when the knight felt him sting, he looked down and saw the adder, and then he drew his sword to slay the adder, and thought of no other harm. And when the host on both sides saw that sword drawn, they blew trumpets and horns, and shouted greatly. And King Arthur took his horse, and rode to his party, saying, "Alas, this unhappy day!" And Sir Modred did in like wise. And never was there a more doleful battle in Christian land. And ever King Arthur rode throughout the battle, and did full nobly, as a worthy king should, and Sir Modred that day did his devoir, and put himself in great peril. And thus they fought all the long day, till the most of all the noble knights lay dead upon the ground. Then the king looked about him, and saw of all his host were left alive but two knights, Sir Lucan, the butler, and Sir Bedivere, his brother, and they were full sore wounded. Then King Arthur saw where Sir Modred leaned upon his sword among a great heap of dead men. "Now give me my spear," said Arthur unto Sir Lucan; "for yonder I espy the traitor that hast wrought all this woe." "Sir, let him be," said Sir Lucan; "for if ye pass this unhappy day, ye shall be right well revenged upon him. Remember what the sprite of Sir Gawain told you, and leave off now, for ye have won the field; and if ye leave off now this evil day of destiny is past." "Betide me life, betide me death," said King Arthur, "he shall not now escape my hands." Then the king took his spear in both hands, and ran toward Sir Modred, crying, "Traitor, now is thy death-day come." And there King Arthur smote Sir Modred under the shield, with a thrust of his spear through the body. And when Sir Modred felt that he had his death-wound, with the might that he had he smote King Arthur, with his sword holden in both his hands, on the side of the head, that the sword pierced the helmet and the brain-pan; and then Sir Modred fell stark dead upon the earth. And the noble Arthur fell in a swoon to the earth. And Sir Lucan, the butler, and Sir Bedivere raised him up, and gently led him betwixt them both to a little chapel not far from the sea-side. And when the king was there he thought him well eased. Then heard they people cry in the field. And Sir Lucan went to see what that cry betokened; and he saw by the moonlight that pillers and robbers were come to rob the dead. And he returned, and said to the king, "By my rede, it is best that we bring you to some town." "I would it were so," said the king. And when the king tried to go he fainted. Then Sir Lucan took up the king on the one part, and Sir Bedivere on the other part; and in the lifting, Sir Lucan fell in a swoon to the earth, for he was grievously wounded. And then the noble knight's heart burst. And when the king awoke he beheld Sir Lucan how he lay foaming at the mouth, and speechless. "Alas!" said the king, "this is to me a full heavy sight, to see this noble duke so die for my sake; for he would have holpen me that had more need of help than I, and he would not complain, his heart was so set to help me." Then Sir Bedivere wept for his brother. "Leave this mourning and weeping," said the king, "for wilt thou well, if I might live myself, the death of Sir Lucan would grieve me evermore; but my time hieth fast. Therefore," said Arthur unto Sir Bedivere, "take thou Excalibar, my good sword, and go with it to yonder water-side; and when thou comest there I charge thee throw my sword in that water, and come again and tell me what thou there seest." "My lord," said Sir Bedivere, "your commandment shall be done." So Sir Bedivere departed, and by the way he beheld that noble sword, that the pommel and the haft were all of precious stones; and then he said to himself, "If I throw this rich sword into the water no good shall come thereof, but only harm and loss." And then Sir Bedivere hid Excalibar under a tree. And so, as soon as he might, he came again to the king. "What sawest thou there?" said the king. "Sir," he said, "I saw nothing." "Alas! thou hast deceived me," said the king. "Go thou lightly again, and as thou love me, spare not to throw it in." Then Sir Bedivere went again, and took the sword in his hand to throw it; but again it beseemed him but sin and shame to throw away that noble sword, and he hid it away again, and returned, and told the king he had done his commandment. "What sawest thou there?" said the king. "Sir," he said, "I saw nothing but waters deep and waves wan." "Ah, traitor untrue!" said King Arthur, "now hast thou betrayed me twice. And yet thou art named a noble knight, and hast been lief and dear to me. But now go again, and do as I bid thee, for thy long tarrying putteth me in jeopardy of my life." Then Sir Bedivere went to the sword, and lightly took it up, and went to the water-side, and he bound the girdle about the hilt, and then he threw the sword as far into the water as he might. And there came an arm and a hand out of the water, and met it, and caught it, and shook it thrice and brandished it, and then vanished away the hand with the sword in the water. Then Sir Bedivere came again to the king, and told him what he saw. "Help me hence," said the king, "for I fear I have tarried too long." Then Sir Bedivere took the king on his back, and so went with him to that water-side; and when they came there, even fast by the bank there rode a little barge with many fair ladies in it, and among them was a queen; and all had black hoods, and they wept and shrieked when they saw King Arthur. "Now put me in the barge," said the king. And there received him three queens with great mourning, and in one of their laps King Arthur laid his head. And the queen said, "Ah, dear brother, why have ye tarried so long? Alas! this wound on your head hath caught over-much cold." And then they rowed from the land, and Sir Bedivere beheld them go from him. Then he cried: "Ah, my lord Arthur, will ye leave me here alone among mine enemies?" "Comfort thyself," said the king, "for in me is no further help; for I will to the Isle of Avalon, to heal me of my grievous wound." And as soon as Sir Bedivere had lost sight of the barge, he wept and wailed; then he took the forest, and went all that night, and in the morning he was ware of a chapel and a hermitage. Then went Sir Bedivere thither; and when he came into the chapel, he saw where lay an hermit on the ground, near a tomb that was newly graven. "Sir," said Sir Bedivere, "what man is there buried that ye pray so near unto?" "Fair son," said the hermit, "I know not verily. But this night there came a number of ladies, and brought hither one dead, and prayed me to bury him." "Alas!" said Sir Bedivere, "that was my lord, King Arthur." Then Sir Bedivere swooned; and when he awoke he prayed the hermit he might abide with him, to live with fasting and prayers. "Ye are welcome," said the hermit. So there bode Sir Bedivere with the hermit; and he put on poor clothes, and served the hermit full lowly in fasting and in prayers. Thus of Arthur I find never more written in books that be authorized, nor more of the very certainty of his death; but thus was he led away in a ship, wherein were three queens; the one was King Arthur's sister, Queen Morgane le Fay; the other was Viviane, the Lady of the Lake; and the third was the queen of North Galis. And this tale Sir Bedivere, knight of the Table Round, made to be written. Yet some men say that King Arthur is not dead, but hid away into another place, and men say that he shall come again and reign over England. But many say that there is written on his tomb this verse: "Hie facet Arthurus, Rex quondam, Rexque futurus." Here Arthur lies, King once and King to be. And when Queen Guenever understood that King Arthur was slain, and all the noble knights with him, she stole away, and five ladies with her; and so she went to Almesbury, and made herself a nun, and ware white clothes and black, and took great penance as ever did sinful lady, and lived in fasting, prayers, and alms-deeds. And there she was abbess and ruler of the nuns. "And when she came to Almesbury she spake There to the nuns, and said, 'Mine enemies Pursue me, but, O peaceful Sisterhood, Receive, and yield me sanctuary, nor ask Her name to whom ye yield it, till her time To tell you;' and her beauty, grace and power Wrought as a charm upon them, and they spared To ask it." --Guinevere. Now turn we from her, and speak of Sir Launcelot of the Lake. When Sir Launcelot heard in his country that Sir Modred was crowned king of England, and made war against his own uncle, King Arthur, then was Sir Launcelot wroth out of measure, and said to his kinsmen: "Alas, that double traitor, Sir Modred! now it repenteth me that ever he escaped out of my hands." Then Sir Launcelot and his fellows made ready in all haste, with ships and galleys, to pass into England; and so he passed over till he came to Dover, and there he landed with a great army. Then Sir Launcelot was told that King Arthur was slain. "Alas!" said Sir Launcelot, "this is the heaviest tidings that ever came to me." Then he called the kings, dukes, barons, and knights, and said thus: "My fair lords, I thank you all for coming into this country with me, but we came too late, and that shall repent me while I live. But since it is so," said Sir Launcelot, "I will myself ride and seek my lady, Queen Guenever, for I have heard say she hath fled into the west; therefore ye shall abide me here fifteen days, and if I come not within that time, then take your ships and your host, and depart into your country." So Sir Launcelot departed and rode westerly, and there he sought many days; and at last he came to a nunnery, and was seen of Queen Guenever as he walked in the cloister; and when she saw him she swooned away. And when she might speak she bade him to be called to her. And when Sir Launcelot was brought to her she said: "Sir Launcelot, I require thee and beseech thee, for all the love that ever was betwixt us, that thou never see me more, but return to thy kingdom and take thee a wife, and live with her with joy and bliss; and pray for me to my Lord, that I may get my soul's health." "Nay, madam," said Sir Launcelot, "wit you well that I shall never do; but the same destiny that ye have taken you to will I take me unto, for to please and serve God." And so they parted, with tears and much lamentation; and the ladies bare the queen to her chamber, and Sir Launcelot took his horse and rode away, weeping. And at last Sir Launcelot was ware of a hermitage and a chapel, and then he heard a little bell ring to mass; and thither he rode and alighted, and tied his horse to the gate, and heard mass. And he that sang the mass was the hermit with whom Sir Bedivere had taken up his abode; and Sir Bedivere knew Sir Launcelot, and they spake together after mass. But when Sir Bedivere had told his tale, Sir Launcelot's heart almost burst for sorrow. Then he kneeled down, and prayed the hermit to shrive him, and besought that he might be his brother. Then the hermit said, "I will gladly;" and then he put a habit upon Sir Launcelot, and there he served God day and night, with prayers and fastings. And the great host abode at Dover till the end of the fifteen days set by Sir Launcelot, and then Sir Bohort made them to go home again to their own country; and Sir Bohort, Sir Hector de Marys, Sir Blamor, and many others, took on them to ride through all England to seek Sir Launcelot. So Sir Bohort by fortune rode until he came to the same chapel where Sir Launcelot was; and when he saw Sir Launcelot in that manner of clothing he, prayed the hermit that he might be in that same. And so there was an habit put upon him, and there he lived in prayers and fasting. And within half a year came others of the knights, their fellows, and took such a habit as Sir Launcelot and Sir Bohort had. Thus they endured in great penance six years. And upon a night there came a vision to Sir Launcelot, and charged him to haste toward Almesbury, and "by the time thou come there, thou shalt find Queen Guenever dead." Then Sir Launcelot rose up early and told the hermit thereof. Then said the hermit, "It were well that ye disobey not this vision." And Sir Launcelot took his seven companions with him, and on foot they went from Glastonbury to Almesbury, which is more than thirty miles. And when they were come to Almesbury, they found that Queen Guenever died but half an hour before. Then Sir Launcelot saw her visage, but he wept not greatly, but sighed. And so he did all the observance of the service himself, both the "dirige" at night, and at morn he sang mass. And there was prepared an horse-bier, and Sir Launcelot and his fellows followed the bier on foot from Almesbury until they came to Glastonbury; and she was wrapped in cered clothes, and laid in a coffin of marble. And when she was put in the earth Sir Launcelot swooned, and lay long as one dead. And Sir Launcelot never after ate but little meat, nor drank; but continually mourned. And within six weeks Sir Launcelot fell sick; and he sent for the hermit and all his true fellows, and said, "Sir hermit, I pray you give me all my rights that a Christian man ought to have." "It shall not need," said the hermit and all his fellows; "it is but heaviness of your blood, and to-morrow morn you shall be well" "My fair lords," said Sir Launcelot, "my careful body will into the earth; I have warning more than now I will say; therefore give me my rights." So when he was houseled and aneled, and had all that a Christian man ought to have, he prayed the hermit that his fellows might bear his body to Joyous Garde. (Some men say it was Alnwick, and some say it was Bamborough.) "It repenteth me sore," said Sir Launcelot, "but I made a vow aforetime that in Joyous Garde I would be buried." Then there was weeping and wringing of hands among his fellows. And that night Sir Launcelot died; and when Sir Bohort and his fellows came to his bedside the next morning they found him stark dead; and he lay as if he had smiled, and the sweetest savor all about him that ever they knew. And they put Sir Launcelot into the same horse-bier that Queen Guenever was laid in, and the hermit and they altogether went with the body till they came to Joyous Garde. And there they laid his corpse in the body of the quire, and sang and read many psalms and prayers over him. And ever his visage was laid open and naked, that all folks might behold him. And right thus, as they were at their service, there came Sir Hector de Maris, that had seven years sought Sir Launcelot, his brother, through all England, Scotland and Wales. And when Sir Hector heard such sounds in the chapel of Joyous Garde he alighted and came into the quire. And all they knew Sir Hector. Then went Sir Bohort, and told him how there lay Sir Launcelot, his brother, dead. Then Sir Hector threw his shield, his sword, and helm from him. And when he beheld Sir Launcelot's visage it were hard for any tongue to tell the doleful complaints he made for his brother. "Ah, Sir Launcelot!" he said, "there thou liest. And now I dare to say thou wert never matched of none earthly knight's hand. And thou wert the courteousest knight that ever bare shield; and thou wert the truest friend to thy lover that ever bestrode horse; and thou wert the truest lover, of a sinful man, that ever loved woman; and thou wert the kindest man that ever struck with sword. And thou wert the goodliest person that ever came among press of knights. And thou wert the meekest man, and the gentlest, that ever ate in hall among ladies. And thou wert the sternest knight to thy mortal foe that ever put spear in the rest." Then there was weeping and dolor out of measure. Thus they kept Sir Launcelot's corpse fifteen days, and then they buried it with great devotion. Then they went back with the hermit to his hermitage. And Sir Bedivere was there ever still hermit to his life's end. And Sir Bohort, Sir Hector, Sir Blamor, and Sir Bleoberis went into the Holy Land. And these four knights did many battles upon the miscreants, the Turks; and there they died upon a Good Friday, as it pleased God. Thus endeth this noble and joyous book, entitled "La Morte d'Arthur;" notwithstanding it treateth of the birth, life, and acts of the said King Arthur, and of his noble Knights of the Round Table, their marvellous enquests and adventures, the achieving of the Sangreal, and, in the end, le Morte d'Arthur, with the dolorous death and departing out of this world of them all. Which book was reduced into English by Sir Thomas Mallory, Knight, and divided into twenty-one books, chaptered and imprinted and finished in the Abbey Westmestre, the last day of July, the year of our Lord MCCCCLXXXV. Caxton me fieri fecit. THE MABINOGEON INTRODUCTORY NOTE It has been well known to the literati and antiquarians of Europe that there exist in the great public libraries voluminous manuscripts of romances and tales once popular, but which on the invention of printing had already become antiquated, and fallen into neglect. They were therefore never printed, and seldom perused even by the learned, until about half a century ago, when attention was again directed to them, and they were found very curious monuments of ancient manners, habits, and modes of thinking. Several have since been edited, some by individuals, as Sir Walter Scott and the poet Southey, others by antiquarian societies. The class of readers which could be counted on for such publications was so small that no inducement of profit could be found to tempt editors and publishers to give them to the world. It was therefore only a few, and those the most accessible, which were put in print. There was a class of manuscripts of this kind which were known, or rather suspected, to be both curious and valuable, but which it seemed almost hopeless to expect ever to see in fair printed English. These were the Welsh popular tales called Mabinogeon, a plural word, the singular being Mabinogi, a tale. Manuscripts of these were contained in the Bodleian Library at Oxford and elsewhere, but the difficulty was to find translators and editors. The Welsh is a spoken language among the peasantry of Wales, but is entirely neglected by the learned, unless they are natives of the principality. Of the few Welsh scholars none were found who took sufficient interest in this branch of learning to give these productions to the English public. Southey and Scott, and others, who like them, loved the old romantic legends of their country, often urged upon the Welsh literati the duty of reproducing the Mabinogeon. Southey, in the preface of his edition of "Moted'Arthur," says: "The specimens which I have seen are exceedingly curious; nor is there a greater desideratum in British literature than an edition of these tales, with a literal version, and such comments as Mr. Davies of all men is best qualified to give. Certain it is that many of the round table fictions originated in Wales, or in Bretagne, and probably might still be traced there." Again, in a letter to Sir Charles W. W. Wynn, dated 1819, he says: "I begin almost to despair of ever seeing more of the Mabinogeon; and yet if some competent Welshman could be found to edit it carefully, with as literal a version as possible, I am sure it might be made worth his while by a subscription, printing a small edition at a high price, perhaps two hundred at five guineas. I myself would gladly subscribe at that price per volume for such an edition of the whole of your genuine remains in prose and verse. Till some such collection is made, the 'gentlemen of Wales' ought to be prohibited from wearing a leek; ay, and interdicted from toasted cheese also. Your bards would have met with better usage if they had been Scotchmen." Sharon Turner and Sir Walter Scott also expressed a similar wish for the publication of the Welsh manuscripts. The former took part in an attempt to effect it, through the instrumentality of a Mr. Owen, a Welshman, but, we judge, by what Southey says of him, imperfectly acquainted with English. Southey's language is "William Owen lent me three parts of the Mabinogeon, delightfully translated into so Welsh an idiom and syntax that such a translation is as instructive as an original." In another letter he adds, "Let Sharon make his language grammatical, but not alter their idiom in the slightest point." It is probable Mr. Owen did not proceed far in an undertaking which, so executed, could expect but little popular patronage. It was not till an individual should appear possessed of the requisite knowledge of the two languages, of enthusiasm sufficient for the task, and of pecuniary resources sufficient to be independent of the booksellers and of the reading public, that such a work could be confidently expected. Such an individual has, since Southey's day and Scott's, appeared in the person of Lady Charlotte Guest, an English lady united to a gentleman of property in Wales, who, having acquired the language of the principality, and become enthusiastically fond of its literary treasures, has given them to the English reader, in a dress which the printer's and the engraver's arts have done their best to adorn. In four royal octavo volumes containing the Welsh originals, the translation, and ample illustrations from French, German, and other contemporary and affiliated literature, the Mabinogeon is spread before us. To the antiquarian and the student of language and ethnology an invaluable treasure, it yet can hardly in such a form win its way to popular acquaintance. We claim no other merit than that of bringing it to the knowledge of our readers, of abridging its details, of selecting its most attractive portions, and of faithfully preserving throughout the style in which Lady Guest has clothed her legends. For this service we hope that our readers will confess we have laid them under no light obligation. CHAPTER I THE BRITONS The earliest inhabitants of Britain are supposed to have been a branch of that great family known in history by the designation of Celts. Cambria, which is a frequent name for Wales, is thought to be derived from Cymri, the name which the Welsh traditions apply to an immigrant people who entered the island from the adjacent continent. This name is thought to be identical with those of Cimmerians and Cimbri, under which the Greek and Roman historians describe a barbarous people, who spread themselves from the north of the Euxine over the whole of Northwestern Europe. The origin of the names Wales and Welsh has been much canvassed. Some writers make them a derivation from Gael or Gaul, which names are said to signify "woodlanders;" others observe that Walsh, in the northern languages, signifies a stranger, and that the aboriginal Britons were so called by those who at a later era invaded the island and possessed the greater part of it, the Saxons and Angles. The Romans held Britain from the invasion of Julius Caesar till their voluntary withdrawal from the island, A.D. 420,--that is, about five hundred years. In that time there must have been a wide diffusion of their arts and institutions among the natives. The remains of roads, cities, and fortifications show that they did much to develop and improve the country, while those of their villas and castles prove that many of the settlers possessed wealth and taste for the ornamental arts. Yet the Roman sway was sustained chiefly by force, and never extended over the entire island. The northern portion, now Scotland, remained independent, and the western portion, constituting Wales and Cornwall, was only nominally subjected. Neither did the later invading hordes succeed in subduing the remoter sections of the island. For ages after the arrival of the Saxons under Hengist and Horsa, A.D. 449, the whole western coast of Britain was possessed by the aboriginal inhabitants, engaged in constant warfare with the invaders. It has, therefore, been a favorite boast of the people of Wales and Cornwall that the original British stock flourishes in its unmixed purity only among them. We see this notion flashing out in poetry occasionally, as when Gray, in "The Bard," prophetically describing Queen Elizabeth, who was of the Tudor, a Welsh race, says: "Her eye proclaims her of the Briton line;" and, contrasting the princes of the Tudor with those of the Norman race, he exclaims: "All hail, ye genuine kings, Britannia's issue, hail!" THE WELSH LANGUAGE AND LITERATURE The Welsh language is one of the oldest in Europe. It possesses poems the origin of which is referred with probability to the sixth century. The language of some of these is so antiquated that the best scholars differ about the interpretation of many passages; but, generally speaking, the body of poetry which the Welsh possess, from the year 1000 downwards, is intelligible to those who are acquainted with the modern language. Till within the last half-century these compositions remained buried in the libraries of colleges or of individuals, and so difficult of access that no successful attempt was made to give them to the world. This reproach was removed after ineffectual appeals to the patriotism of the gentry of Wales, by Owen Jones, a furrier of London, who at his own expense collected and published the chief productions of Welsh literature, under the title of the Myvyrian Archaeology of Wales. In this task he was assisted by Dr. Owen and other Welsh scholars. After the cessation of Jones' exertions the old apathy returned, and continued till within a few years. Dr. Owen exerted himself to obtain support for the publication of the Mabinogeon or Prose Tales of the Welsh, but died without accomplishing his purpose, which has since been carried into execution by Lady Charlotte Guest. The legends which fill the remainder of this volume are taken from this work, of which we have already spoken more fully in the introductory chapter to the First Part. THE WELSH BARDS The authors to whom the oldest Welsh poems are attributed are Aneurin, who is supposed to have lived A.D. 500 to 550, and Taliesin, Llywarch Hen (Llywarch the Aged), and Myrddin or Merlin, who were a few years later. The authenticity of the poems which bear their names has been assailed, and it is still an open question how many and which of them are authentic, though it is hardly to be doubted that some are so. The poem of Aneurin entitled the "Gododin" bears very strong marks of authenticity. Aneurin was one of the Northern Britons of Strath-Clyde, who have left to that part of the district they inhabited the name of Cumberland, or Land of the Cymri. In this poem he laments the defeat of his countrymen by the Saxons at the battle of Cattraeth, in consequence of having partaken too freely of the mead before joining in combat. The bard himself and two of his fellow-warriors were all who escaped from the field. A portion of this poem has been translated by Gray, of which the following is an extract: "To Cattraeth's vale, in glittering row, Twice two hundred warriors go; Every warrior's manly neck Chains of regal honor deck, Wreathed in many a golden link; From the golden cup they drink Nectar that the bees produce, Or the grape's exalted juice. Flushed with mirth and hope they burn, But none to Cattraeth's vale return, Save Aeron brave, and Conan strong, Bursting through the bloody throng, And I, the meanest of them all, That live to weep, and sing their fall." The works of Taliesin are of much more questionable authenticity. There is a story of the adventures of Taliesin so strongly marked with mythical traits as to cast suspicion on the writings attributed to him. This story will be found in the subsequent pages. THE TRIADS The Triads are a peculiar species of poetical composition, of which the Welsh bards have left numerous examples. They are enumerations of a triad of persons, or events, or observations, strung together in one short sentence. This form of composition, originally invented, in all likelihood, to assist the memory, has been raised by the Welsh to a degree of elegance of which it hardly at first sight appears susceptible. The Triads are of all ages, some of them probably as old as anything in the language. Short as they are individually, the collection in the Myvyrian Archaeology occupies more than one hundred and seventy pages of double columns. We will give some specimens, beginning with personal triads, and giving the first place to one of King Arthur's own composition: "I have three heroes in battle: Mael the tall, and Llyr, with his army, And Caradoc, the pillar of Wales." "The three principal bards of the island of Britain:-- Merlin Ambrose Merlin the son of Mprfyn, called also Merlin the Wild, And Taliesin, the chief of the bards." "The three golden-tongued knights of the court of Arthur:-- Gawain, son of Gwyar, Drydvas, son of Tryphin, And Ehwlod, son of Madag, ap Uther." "The three honorable feasts of the island of Britain:-- The feast of Caswallaun, after repelling Julius Caesar from this isle; The feast of Aurelius Ambrosius, after he had conquered the Saxons; And the feast of King Arthur, at Carleon upon Usk." "Guenever, the daughter of Laodegan the giant, Bad when little, worse when great." Next follow some moral triads: "Hast thou heard what Dremhidydd sung, An ancient watchman on the castle walls? A refusal is better than a promise unperformed." "Hast thou heard what Llenleawg sung, The noble chief wearing the golden torques? The grave is better than a life of want." "Hast thou heard what Garselit sung, The Irishman whom it is safe to follow? Sin is bad, if long pursued." "Hast thou heard what Avaon sung, The son of Taliesin, of the recording verse? The cheek will not conceal the anguish of the heart." "Didst thou hear what Llywarch sung, The intrepid and brave old man? Greet kindly, though there be no acquaintance." CHAPTER II THE LADY OF THE FOUNTAIN KYNON'S ADVENTURE King Arthur was at Caerleon upon Usk; and one day he sat in his chamber, and with him were Owain, the son of Urien, and Kynon, the son of Clydno, and Kay, the son of Kyner, and Guenever and her handmaidens at needlework by the window. In the centre of the chamher King Arthur sat, upon a seat of green rushes, [Footnote: The use of green rushes in apartments was by no means peculiar to the court of Carleon upon Usk. Our ancestors had a great predilection for them, and they seem to have constituted an essential article, not only of comfort, but of luxury. The custom of strewing the floor with rushes is well known to have existed in England during the Middle Ages, and also in France.] over which was spread a covering of flame-covered satin, and a cushion of red satin was under his elbow. Then Arthur spoke. "If I thought you would not disparage me," said he, "I would sleep while I wait for my repast; and you can entertain one another with relating tales, and can obtain a flagon of mead and some meat from Kay." And the king went to sleep. And Kynon the son of Clydno asked Kay for that which Arthur had promised them. "I too will have the good tale which he promised me," said Kay. "Nay," answered Kynon; "fairer will it be for thee to fulfil Arthur's behest in the first place, and then we will tell thee the best tale that we know." So Kay went to the kitchen and to the mead-cellar, and returned, bearing a flagon of mead, and a golden goblet, and a handful of skewers, upon which were broiled collops of meat. Then they ate the collops, and began to drink the mead. "Now," said Kay, "it is time for you to give me my story." "Kynon," said Owain, "do thou pay to Kay the tale that is his due." "I will do so," answered Kynon. "I was the only son of my mother and father, and I was exceedingly aspiring, and my daring was very great. I thought there was no enterprise in the world too mighty for me: and after I had achieved all the adventures that were in my own country, I equipped myself, and set forth to journey through deserts and distant regions. And at length it chanced that I came to the fairest valley in the world, wherein were trees all of equal growth; and a river ran through the valley, and a path was by the side of the river. And I followed the path until midday, and continued my journey along the remainder of the valley until the evening; and at the extremity of the plain I came to a large and lustrous castle, at the foot of which was a torrent. And I approached the castle, and there I beheld two youths with yellow curling hair, each with a frontlet of gold upon his head, and clad in a garment of yellow satin; and they had gold clasps upon their insteps. In the hand of each of them was an ivory bow, strung with the sinews of the stag, and their arrows and their shafts were of the bone of the whale, and were winged with peacock's feathers. The shafts also had golden heads. And they had daggers with blades of gold, and with hilts of the bone of the whale. And they were shooting at a mark. "And a little away from them I saw a man in the prime of life, with his beard newly shorn, clad in a robe and mantle of yellow satin, and round the top of his mantle was a band of gold lace. On his feet were shoes of variegated leather, [Footnote: Cordwal is the word in the original, and from the manner in which it is used it is evidently intended for the French Cordouan or Cordovan leather, which derived its name from Cordova, where it was manufactured. From this comes also our English word cordwainer.] fastened by two bosses of gold. When I saw him I went towards him and saluted him; and such was his courtesy, that he no sooner received my greeting than he returned it. And he went with me towards the castle. Now there were no dwellers in the castle, except those who were in one hall. And there I saw four and twenty damsels, embroidering satin at a window. And this I tell thee, Kay, that the least fair of them was fairer than the fairest maid thou didst ever behold in the island of Britain; and the least lovely of them was more lovely than Guenever, the wife of Arthur, when she appeared loveliest, at the feast of Easter. They rose up at my coming, and six of them took my horse, and divested me of my armor, and six others took my arms and washed them in a vessel till they were perfectly bright. And the third six spread cloths upon the tables and prepared meat. And the fourth six took off my soiled garments and placed others upon me, namely, an under vest and a doublet of fine linen, and a robe and a surcoat, and a mantle of yellow satin, with a broad gold band upon the mantle. And they placed cushions both beneath and around me, with coverings of red linen, and I sat down. Now the six maidens who had taken my horse unharnessed him as well as if they had been the best squires in the island of Britain. "Then behold they brought bowls of silver, wherein was water to wash and towels of linen, some green and some white; and I washed. And in a little while the man sat down at the table. And I sat next to him, and below me sat all the maidens, except those who waited on us. And the table was of silver, and the cloths upon the table were of linen. And no vessel was served upon the table that was not either of gold or of silver or of buffalo horn. And our meat was brought to us. And verily, Kay, I saw there every sort of meat, and every sort of liquor that I ever saw elsewhere; but the meat and the liquor were better served there than I ever saw them in any other place. "Until the repast was half over, neither the man nor any one of the damsels spoke a single word to me; but when the man perceived that it would be more agreeable for me to converse than to eat any more, he began to inquire of me who I was. Then I told the man who I was and what was the cause of my journey, and said that I was seeking whether any one was superior to me, or whether I could gain mastery over all. The man looked upon me, and he smiled and said, 'If I did not fear to do thee a mischief, I would show thee that which thou seekest.' Then I desired him to speak freely. And he said: 'Sleep here to-night, and in the morning arise early, and take the road upwards through the valley, until thou readiest the wood. A little way within the wood thou wilt come to a large sheltered glade, with a mound in the centre. And thou wilt see a black man of great stature on the top of the mound. He has but one foot, and one eye in the middle of his forehead. He is the wood- ward of that wood. And thou wilt see a thousand wild animals grazing around him. Inquire of him the way out of the glade, and he will reply to thee briefly, and will point out the road by which thou shalt find that which thou art in quest of.' "And long seemed that night to me. And the next morning I arose and equipped myself, and mounted my horse, and proceeded straight through the valley to the wood, and at length I arrived at the glade. And the black man was there, sitting upon the top of the mound; and I was three times more astonished at the number of wild animals that I beheld than the man had said I should be. Then I inquired of him the way and he asked me roughly whither I would go. And when I had told him who I was and what I sought, 'Take,' said he, 'that path that leads toward the head of the glade, and there thou wilt find an open space like to a large valley, and in the midst of it a tall tree. Under this tree is a fountain, and by the side of the fountain a marble slab, and on the marble slab a silver bowl, attached by a chain of silver, that it may not be carried away. Take, the bowl and throw a bowlful of water on the slab. And if thou dost not find trouble in that adventure, thou needest not seek it during the rest of thy life.' "So I journeyed on until I reached the summit of the steep. And there I found everything as the black man had described it to me. And I went up to the tree, and beneath it I saw the fountain, and by its side the marble slab, and the silver bowl fastened by the chain. Then I took the bowl, and cast a bowlful of water upon the slab, and immediately I heard a mighty peal of thunder, so that heaven and earth seemed to tremble with its fury. And after the thunder came a, shower; and of a truth I tell thee, Kay, that it was such a shower as neither man nor beast could endure and live. I turned my horse's flank toward the shower, and placed the beak of my shield over his head and neck, while I held the upper part of it over my own neck. And thus I withstood the shower. And presently the sky became clear, and with that, behold, the birds lighted upon the tree, and sang. And truly, Kay, I never heard any melody equal to that, either before or since. And when I was most charmed with listening to the birds, lo! a chiding voice was heard of one approaching me and saying: 'O knight, what has brought thee hither? What evil have I done to thee that thou shouldst act towards me and my possessions as thou hast this day? Dost thou not know that the shower to-day has left in my dominions neither man nor beast alive that was exposed to it?' And thereupon, behold, a knight on a black horse appeared, clothed in jet-black velvet, and with a tabard of black linen about him. And we charged each other, and, as the onset was furious, it was not long before I was overthrown. Then the knight passed the shaft of his lance through the bridle-rein of my horse, and rode off with the two horses, leaving me where I was. And he did not even bestow so much notice upon me as to imprison me, nor did he despoil me of my arms. So I returned along the road by which I had come. And when I reached the glade where the black man was, I confess to thee, Kay, it is a marvel that I did not melt down into a liquid pool, through the shame that I felt at the black man's derision. And that night I came to the same castle where I had spent the night preceding. And I was more agreeably entertained that night than I had been the night before. And I conversed freely with the inmates of the castle; and none of them alluded to my expedition to the fountain, neither did I mention it to any. And I remained there that night. When I arose on the morrow I found ready saddled a dark bay palfrey, with nostrils as red as scarlet. And after putting on my armor, and leaving there my blessing, I returned to my own court. And that horse I still possess, and he is in the stable yonder. And I declare that I would not part with him for the best palfrey in the island of Britain. "Now, of a truth, Kay, no man ever before confessed to an adventure so much to his own discredit; and verily it seems strange to me that neither before nor since have I heard of any person who knew of this adventure, and that the subject of it should exist within King Arthur's dominions without any other person lighting upon it." CHAPTER III THE LADY OF THE FOUNTAIN (Continued) OWAIN'S ADVENTURE [Footnote: Amongst all the characters of early British history none is the more interesting, or occupies more conspicuous place, than the hero of this tale. Urien, his father, was prince of Rheged, a district comprising the present Cumberland and part of the adjacent country. His valor, and the consideration in which he was held, are a frequent theme of Bardic song, and form the subject of several very spirited odes by Taliesin. Among the Triads there is one relating to him; it is thus translated: "Three Knights of Battle were in court of Arthur Cadwr, the Earl of Cornwall, Launcelot du Lac, and Owain, the son of Urien. And this was their characteristic--that they would not retreat from battle, neither for spear, nor for arrow, nor for sword. And Arthur never had shame in battle the day he saw their faces there. And they were called the Knights of Battle."] "Now," quoth Owain, "would it not be well to go and endeavor to discover that place?" "By the hand of my friend," said Kay, "often dost thou utter that with thy tongue which thou wouldest not make good with thy deeds." "In very truth," said Guenever, "it were better thou wert hanged, Kay, than to use such uncourteous speech towards a man like Owain." "By the hand of my friend, good lady," said Kay, "thy praise of Owain is not greater than mine." With that Arthur awoke, and asked if he had not been sleeping a little. "Yes, lord," answered Owain, "thou hast slept awhile." "Is it time for us to go to meat?" "It is, lord," said Owain. Then the horn for washing was sounded, and the king and all his household sat down to eat. And when the meal was ended Owain withdrew to his lodging, and made ready his horse and his arms. On the morrow with the dawn of day he put on his armor, and mounted his charger, and travelled through distant lands, and over desert mountains. And at length he arrived at the valley which Kynon had described to him, and he was certain that it was the same that he sought. And journeying along the valley, by the side of the river, he followed its course till he came to the plain, and within sight of the castle. When he approached the castle he saw the youths shooting with their bows, in the place where Kynon had seen them, and the yellow man, to whom the castle belonged, standing hard by. And no sooner had Owain saluted the yellow man, than he was saluted by him in return. And he went forward towards the castle, and there he saw the chamber; and when he had entered the chamber, he beheld the maidens working at satin embroidery, in chains of gold. And their beauty and their comeliness seemed to Owain far greater than Kynon had represented to him. And they arose to wait upon Owain, as they had done to Kynon. And the meal which they set before him gave even more satisfaction to Owain than it had done to Kynon. About the middle of the repast the yellow man asked Owain the object of his journey. And Owain made it known to him, and said, "I am in quest of the knight who guards the fountain." Upon this the yellow man smiled, and said that he was as loth to point out that adventure to him as he had been to Kynon. However, he described the whole to Owain, and they retired to rest. The next morning Owain found his horse made ready for him by the damsels, and he set forward and came to the glade where the black man was. And the stature of the black man seemed more wonderful to Owain than it had done to Kynon; and Owain asked of him his road, and he showed it to him. And Owain followed the road till he came to the green tree; and he beheld the fountain, and the slab beside the fountain, with the bowl upon it. And Owain took the bowl and threw a bowlful of water upon the slab. And, lo! the thunder was heard, and after the thunder came the shower, more violent than Kynon had described, and after the shower the sky became bright. And immediately the birds came and settled upon the tree and sang. And when their song was most pleasing to Owain he beheld a knight coming towards him through the valley; and he prepared to receive him, and encountered him violently. Having broken both their lances, they drew their swords and fought blade to blade. Then Owain struck the knight a blow through his helmet, head-piece, and visor, and through the skin, and the flesh, and the bone, until it wounded the very brain. Then the black knight felt that he had received a mortal wound, upon which he turned his horse's head and fled. And Owain pursued him and followed close upon him, although he was not near enough to strike him with his sword. Then Owain descried a vast and resplendent castle; and they came to the castle gate. And the black knight was allowed to enter, and the portcullis was let fall upon Owain; and it struck his horse behind the saddle, and cut him in two, and carried away the rowels of the spurs that were upon Owains' heels. And the portcullis descended to the floor. And the rowels of the spurs and part of the horse were without, and Owain with the other part of the horse remained between the two gates, and the inner gate was closed, so that Owain could not go thence; and Owain was in a perplexing situation. And while he was in this state, he could see through an aperture in the gate a street facing him, with a row of houses on each side. And he beheld a maiden, with yellow, curling hair, and a frontlet of gold upon her head; and she was clad in a dress of yellow satin, and on her feet were shoes of variegated leather. And she approached the gate, and desired that it should be opened. "Heaven knows, lady," said Owain, "it is no more possible for me to open to thee from hence, than it is for thee to set me free." And he told her his name, and who he was. "Truly," said the damsel, "it is very sad that thou canst not be released; and every woman ought to succor thee, for I know there is no one more faithful in the service of ladies than thou. Therefore," quoth she, "whatever is in my power to do for thy release, I will do it. Take this ring and put it on thy finger, with the stone inside thy hand, and close thy hand upon the stone. And as long as thou concealest it, it will conceal thee. When they come forth to fetch thee, they will be much grieved that they cannot find thee. And I will await thee on the horseblock yonder, and thou wilt be able to see me, though I cannot see thee. Therefore come and place thy hand upon my shoulder, that I may know that thou art near me. And by the way that I go hence do thou accompany me." Then the maiden went away from Owain, and he did all that she had told him. And the people of the castle came to seek Owain to put him to death; and when they found nothing but the half of his horse, they were sorely grieved. And Owain vanished from among them, and went to the maiden, and placed his hand upon her shoulder; whereupon she set off, and Owain followed her, until they came to the door of a large and beautiful chamber, and the maiden opened it, and they went in. And Owain looked around the chamber, and behold there was not a single nail in it that was not painted with gorgeous colors, and there was not a single panel that had not sundry images in gold portrayed upon it. The maiden kindled a fire, and took water in a silver bowl, and gave Owain water to wash. Then she placed before him a silver table, inlaid with gold; upon which was a cloth of yellow linen, and she brought him food. And, of a truth, Owain never saw any kind of meat that was not there in abundance, but it was better cooked there than he had ever found it in any other place. And there was not one vessel from which he was served that was not of gold or of silver. And Owain eat and drank until late in the afternoon, when lo! they heard a mighty clamor in the castle, and Owain asked the maiden what it was. "They are administering extreme unction," said she, "to the nobleman who owns the castle." And she prepared a couch for Owain which was meet for Arthur himself, and Owain went to sleep. And a little after daybreak he heard an exceeding loud clamor and wailing, and he asked the maiden what was the cause of it. "They are bearing to the church the body of the nobleman who owned the castle." And Owain rose up, and clothed himself, and opened a window of the chamber, and looked towards the castle; and he could see neither the bounds nor the extent of the hosts that filled the streets. And they were fully armed; and a vast number of women were with them, both on horseback and on foot, and all the ecclesiastics in the city singing. In the midst of the throng he beheld the bier, over which was a veil of white linen; and wax tapers were burning beside and around it; and none that supported the bier was lower in rank than a powerful baron. Never did Owain see an assemblage so gorgeous with silk [Footnote: Before the sixth century all the silk used by Europeans had been brought to them by the Seres, the ancestors of the present Boukharians, whence it derived its Latin name of Serica. In 551 the silkworm was brought by two monks to Constantinople, but the manufacture of silk was confined to the Greek empire till the year 1130, when Roger, king of Sicily, returning from a crusade, collected some manufacturers from Athens and Corinth, and established them at Palermo, whence the trade was gradually disseminated over Italy. The varieties of silk stuffs known at this time were velvet, satin (which was called samite), and taffety (called cendal or sendall), all of which were occasionally stitched with gold and silver.] and satin. And, following the train, he beheld a lady with yellow hair falling over her shoulders, and stained with blood; and about her a dress of yellow satin, which was torn. Upon her feet were shoes of variegated leather. And it was a marvel that the ends of her fingers were not bruised from the violence with which she smote her hands together. Truly she would have been the fairest lady Owain ever saw, had she been in her usual guise. And her cry was louder than the shout of the men or the clamor of the trumpets. No sooner had he beheld the lady than he became inflamed with her love, so that it took entire possession of him. Then he inquired of the maiden who the lady was. "Heaven knows," replied the maiden, "she is the fairest and the most chaste, and the most liberal, and the most noble of women. She is my mistress, and she is called the Countess of the Fountain, the wife of him whom thou didst slay yesterday." "Verily," said Owain, "she is the woman that I love best." "Verily," said the maiden, "she shall also love thee, not a little." Then the maiden prepared a repast for Owain, and truly he thought he had never before so good a meal, nor was he ever so well served. Then she left him, and went towards the castle. When she came there, she found nothing but mourning and sorrow; and the Countess in her chamber could not bear the sight of any one through grief. Luned, for that was the name of the maiden, saluted her, but the Countess answered her not. And the maiden bent down towards her, and said, "What aileth thee, that thou answereth no one to-day?" "Luned," said the Countess, "what change hath befallen thee, that thou hast not come to visit me in my grief. It was wrong in thee, and I so sorely afflicted." "Truly," said Luned, "I thought thy good sense was greater than I find it to be. Is it well for thee to mourn after that good man, or for anything else that thou canst not have?" "I declare to Heaven," said the Countess, "that in the whole world there is not a man equal to him." "Not so," said Luned, "for an ugly man would be as good as or better than he." "I declare to Heaven," said the Countess, "that were it not repugnant to me to put to death one whom I have brought up, I would have thee executed for making such a comparison to me. As it is, I will banish thee." "I am glad," said Luned, "that thou hast no other cause to do so than that I would have been of service to thee, where thou didst not know what was to thine advantage. Henceforth, evil betide whichever of us shall make the first advance towards reconciliation to the other, whether I should seek an invitation from thee, or thou of thine own accord should send to invite." With that Luned went forth; and the Countess arose and followed her to the door of the chamber, and began coughing loudly. And when Luned looked back, the Countess beckoned to her, and she returned to the Countess. "In truth," said the Countess, "evil is thy disposition; but if thou knowest what is to my advantage, declare it to me." "I will do so," said she. "Thou knowest that, except by warfare and arms, it is impossible for thee to preserve thy possessions; delay not, therefore, to seek some one who can defend them." "And how can I do that?" said the Countess. "I will tell thee," said Luned; "unless thou canst defend the fountain, thou canst not maintain thy dominions; and no one can defend the fountain except it be a knight of Arthur's household. I will go to Arthur's court, and ill betide me if I return not thence with a warrior who can guard the fountain as well as, or even better than, he who defended it formerly." "That will be hard to perform," said the Countess. "Go, however, and make proof of that which thou hast promised," Luned set out under the pretence of going to Arthur's court; but she went back to the mansion where she had left Owain, and she tarried there as long as it might have taken her to travel to the court of King Arthur and back. And at the end of that time she apparelled herself, and went to visit the Countess. And the Countess was much rejoiced when she saw her, and inquired what news she brought from the court. "I bring thee the best of news," said Luned, "for I have compassed the object of my mission. When wilt thou that I should present to thee the chieftain who has come with me hither?" "Bring him here to visit me to-morrow," said the Countess, "and I will cause the town to be assembled by that time." And Luned returned home. And the next day at noon, Owain arrayed himself in a coat and a surcoat, and a mantle of yellow satin, upon which was a broad band of gold lace; and on his feet were high shoes of variegated leather, which were fastened by golden clasps, in the form of lions. And they proceeded to the chamber of the Countess. Right glad was the Countess of their coming. And she gazed steadfastly upon Owain, and said, "Luned, this knight has not the look of a traveller." "What harm is there in that, lady?" said Luned. "I am certain," said the Countess, "that no other man than this chased the soul from the body of my lord." "So much the better for thee, lady," said Luned, "for had he not been stronger than thy lord, he could not have deprived him of life. There is no remedy for that which is past, be it as it may." "Go back to thine abode," said the Countess, "and I will take counsel." The next day the Countess caused all her subjects to assemble, and showed them that her earldom was left defenceless, and that it could not be protected but with horse and arms, and military skill. "Therefore," said she, "this is what I offer for your choice: either let one of you take me, or give your consent for me to take a husband from elsewhere, to defend my dominions." So they came to the determination that it was better that she should have permission to marry some one from elsewhere; and thereupon she sent for the bishops and archbishops, to celebrate her nuptials with Owain. And the men of the earldom did Owain homage. And Owain defended the fountain with lance and sword. And this is the manner in which he defended it. Whensoever a knight came there, he overthrew him, and sold him for his full worth. And what he thus gained he divided among his barons and his knights, and no man in the whole world could be more beloved than he was by his subjects. And it was thus for the space of three years. [Footnote: There exists an ancient poem, printed among those of Taliesin, called the "Elegy of Owain ap Urien," and containing several very beautiful and spirited passages It commences "The soul of Owain ap Urien, May its Lord consider its exigencies' Reged's chief the green turf covers." In the course of this Elegy the bard, alluding to the incessant warfare with which this chieftain harassed his Saxon foes, exclaims, "Could England sleep with the light upon her eyes'"] CHAPTER IV THE LADY OF THE FOUNTAIN (Continued) GAWAIN'S ADVENTURE It befell that, as Gawain went forth one day with King Arthur, he perceived him to be very sad and sorrowful. And Gawain was much grieved to see Arthur in his state, and he questioned him, saying, "O my lord, what has befallen thee?" "In sooth, Gawain," said Arthur, "I am grieved concerning Owain, whom I have lost these three years; and I shall certainly die if the fourth year pass without my seeing him. Now I am sure that it is through the tale which Kynon, the son of Clydno, related, that I have lost Owain." "There is no need for thee," said Gawain, "to summon to arms thy whole dominions on this account, for thou thyself, and the men of thy household, will be able to avenge Owain if he be slain or to set him free if he be in prison; and, if alive, to bring him back with thee." And it was settled according to what Gawain had said. Then Arthur and the men of his household prepared to go and seek Owain. And Kynon, the son of Clydno, acted as their guide. And Arthur came to the castle where Kynon had been before. And when he came there, the youths were shooting in the same place, and the yellow man was standing hard by. When the yellow man saw Arthur, he greeted him, and invited him to the castle. And Arthur accepted his invitation, and they entered the castle together. And great as was the number of his retinue, their presence was scarcely observed in the castle, so vast was its extent. And the maidens rose up to wait on them. And the service of the maidens appeared to them all to excel any attendance they had ever met with; and even the pages, who had charge of the horses, were no worse served that night than Arthur himself would have been in his own palace. The next morning Arthur set out thence, with Kynon for his guide, and came to the place where the black man was. And the stature of the black man was more surprising to Arthur than it had been represented to him. And they came to the top of the wooded steep, and traversed the valley, till they reached the green tree, where they saw the fountain and the bowl and the slab. And upon that Kay came to Arthur, and spoke to him. "My lord," said he, "I know the meaning of all this, and my request is that thou wilt permit me to throw the water on the slab, and to receive the first adventure that may befall." And Arthur gave him leave. Then Kay threw a bowlful of water upon the slab, and immediately there came the thunder, and after the thunder the shower. And such a thunder-storm they had never known before. After the shower had ceased, the sky became clear, and on looking at the tree, they beheld it completely leafless. Then the birds descended upon the tree. And the song of the birds was far sweeter than any strain they had ever heard before. Then they beheld a knight, on a coal- black horse, clothed in black satin, coming rapidly towards them. And Kay met him and encountered him, and it was not long before Kay was overthrown. And the knight withdrew. And Arthur and his host encamped for the night. And when they arose in the morning, they perceived the signal of combat upon the lance of the knight. Then, one by one, all the household of Arthur went forth to combat the knight, until there was not one that was not overthrown by him, except Arthur and Gawain. And Arthur armed himself to encounter the knight. "O my lord," said Gawain, "permit me to fight with him first." And Arthur permitted him. And he went forth to meet the knight, having over himself and his horse a satin robe of honor, which had been sent him by the daughter of the Earl of Rhangyr, and in this dress he was not known by any of the host. And they charged each other, and fought all that day until the evening. And neither of them was able to unhorse the other. And so it was the next day; they broke their lances in the shock, but neither of them could obtain the mastery. And the third day they fought with exceeding strong lances. And they were incensed with rage, and fought furiously, even until noon. And they gave each other such a shock that the girths of their horses were broken, so that they fell over their horses' cruppers to the ground. And they rose up speedily and drew their swords, and resumed the combat. And all they that witnessed their encounter felt assured that they had never before seen two men so valiant or so powerful. And had it been midnight, it would have been light, from the fire that flashed from their weapons. And the knight gave Gawain a blow that turned his helmet from off his face, so that the knight saw that it was Gawain. Then Owain said, "My lord Gawain, I did not know thee for my cousin, owing to the robe of honor that enveloped thee; take my sword and my arms." Said Gawain, "Thou, Owain, art the victor; take thou my sword." And with that Arthur saw that they were conversing, and advanced toward them. "My lord Arthur," said Gawain, "here is Owain who has vanquished me, and will not take my arms." "My lord," said Owain, "it is he that has vanquished me, and he will not take my sword." "Give me your swords," said Arthur, "and then neither of you has vanquished the other." Then Owain put his arms around Arthur's neck, and they embraced. And all the host hurried forward to see Owain, and to embrace him. And there was nigh being a loss of life, so great was the press. And they retired that night, and the next day Arthur prepared to depart. "My lord," said Owain, "this is not well of thee. For I have been absent from thee these three years, and during all that time, up to this very day, I have been preparing a banquet for thee, knowing that thou wouldst come to seek me. Tarry with me, therefore, until thou and thy attendants have recovered the fatigues of the journey, and have been anointed." And they all proceeded to the castle of the Countess of the Fountain, and the banquet which had been three years preparing was consumed in three months. Never had they a more delicious or agreeable banquet. And Arthur prepared to depart. Then he sent an embassy to the Countess to beseech her to permit Owain to go with him, for the space of three months, that he might show him to the nobles and the fair dames of the island of Britain. And the Countess gave her consent, although it was very painful to her. So Owain came with Arthur to the island of Britain. And when he was once more amongst his kindred and friends, he remained three years, instead of three months, with them. THE ADVENTURE OF THE LION And as Owain one day sat at meat, in the city of Caerleon upon Usk, behold a damsel entered the hall, upon a bay horse, with a curling mane, and covered with foam; and the bridle, and as much as was seen of the saddle, were of gold. And the damsel was arrayed in a dress of yellow satin. And she came up to Owain, and took the ring from off his hand. "Thus," said she, "shall be treated the deceiver, the traitor, the faithless, the disgraced, and the beardless." And she turned her horse's head and departed. [Footnote: The custom of riding into a hall while the lord and his guests sat at meat might be illustrated by numerous passages of ancient romance and history. But a quotation from Chaucer's beautiful and half-told tale of "Cambuscan" is sufficient: "And so befell that after the thridde cours, While that this king sat thus in his nobley, Herking his minstralles thir thinges play, Beforne him at his bord deliciously, In at the halle door all sodenly Ther came a knight upon a stede of bras, And in his hond a brod mirrour of glas; Upon his thombe he had of gold a ring, And by his side a naked sword hanging; And up he rideth to the highe bord. In all the halle ne was ther spoke a word, For meryaille of this knight; him to behold Full besily they waiten, young and old."] Then his adventure came to Owain's remembrance, and he was sorrowful. And having finished eating, he went to his own abode, and made preparations that night. And the next day he arose, but did not go to the court, nor did he return to the Countess of the Fountain, but wandered to the distant parts of the earth and to uncultivated mountains. And he remained there until all his apparel was worn out, and his body was wasted away, and his hair was grown long. And he went about with the wild beasts, and fed with them, until they became familiar with him. But at length he became so weak that he could no longer bear them company. Then he descended from the mountains to the valley, and came to a park, that was the fairest in the world, and belonged to a charitable lady. One day the lady and her attendants went forth to walk by a lake that was in the middle of the park. And they saw the form of a man, lying as if dead. And they were terrified. Nevertheless they went near him, and touched him, and they saw that there was life in him. And the lady returned to the castle, and took a flask full of precious ointment and gave it to one of her maidens. "Go with this," said she, "and take with thee yonder horse, and clothing, and place them near the man we saw just now; and anoint him with this balsam near his heart; and if there is life in him, he will revive, through the efficiency of this balsam. Then watch what he will do." And the maiden departed from her, and went and poured of the balsam upon Owain, and left the horse and the garments hard by, and went a little way off and hid herself to watch him. In a short time, she saw him begin to move; and he rose up, and looked at his person, and became ashamed of the unseemliness of his appearance. Then he perceived the horse and the garments that were near him. And he clothed himself, and with difficulty mounted the horse. Then the damsel discovered herself to him, and saluted him. And he and the maiden proceeded to the castle, and the maiden conducted him to a pleasant chamber, and kindled a fire, and left him. And he stayed at the castle three months, till he was restored to his former guise, and became even more comely than he had ever been before. And Owain rendered signal service to the lady, in a controversy with a powerful neighbor, so that he made ample requital to her for her hospitality; and he took his departure. And as he journeyed he heard a loud yelling in a wood. And it was repeated a second and a third time. And Owain went towards the spot, and beheld a huge craggy mound, in the middle of the wood, on the side of which was a gray rock. And there was a cleft in the rock, and a serpent was within the cleft. And near the rock stood a black lion, and every time the lion sought to go thence the serpent darted towards him to attack him. And Owain unsheathed his sword, and drew near to the rock; and as the serpent sprung out he struck him with his sword and cut him in two. And he dried his sword, and went on his way as before. But behold the lion followed him, and played about him, as though it had been a greyhound that he had reared. They proceeded thus throughout the day, until the evening. And when it was time for Owain to take his rest he dismounted, and turned his horse loose in a flat and wooded meadow. And he struck fire, and when the fire was kindled, the lion brought him fuel enough to last for three nights. And the lion disappeared. And presently the lion returned, bearing a fine large roebuck. And he threw it down before Owain, who went towards the fire with it. And Owain took the roebuck, and skinned it, and placed collops of its flesh upon skewers round the fire. The rest of the buck he gave to the lion to devour. While he was so employed, he heard a deep groan near him, and a second, and a third. And the place whence the groans proceeded was a cave in the rock; and Owain went near, and called out to know who it was that groaned so piteously. And a voice answered, "I am Luned, the hand-maiden of the Countess of the Fountain." "And what dost thou here?" said he. "I am imprisoned," said she, "on account of the knight who came from Arthur's court, and married the Countess. And he staid a short time with her, but he afterwards departed for the court of Arthur, and has not returned since. And two of the Countess's pages traduced him, and called him a deceiver. And because I said I would vouch for it he would come before long and maintain his cause against both of them, they imprisoned me in this cave, and said that I should be put to death, unless he came to deliver me, by a certain day; and that is no further off than to-morrow, and I have no one to send to seek him for me. His name is Owain, the son of Urien." "And art thou certain that if that knight knew all this, he would come to thy rescue?" "I am most certain of it," said she. When the collops were cooked, Owain divided them into two parts, between himself and the maiden, and then Owain laid himself down to sleep; and never did sentinel keep stricter watch over his lord than the lion that night over Owain. And the next day there came the two pages with a great troop of attendants to take Luned from her cell, and put her to death. And Owain asked them what charge they had against her. And they told him of the compact that was between them; as the maiden had done the night before. "And," said they, "Owain has failed her, therefore we are taking her to be burnt." "Truly," said Owain, "he is a good knight; and if he knew that the maiden was in such peril, I marvel that he came not to her rescue. But if you will accept me in his stead, I will do battle with you." "We will," said the youth. And they attacked Owain, and he was hard beset by them. And with that, the lion came to Owain's assistance, and they two got the better of the young men And they said to him, "Chieftain, it was not agreed that we should fight save with thyself alone, and it is harder for us to contend with yonder animal than with thee." And Owain put the lion in the place where Luned had been imprisoned, and blocked up the door with stones. And he went to fight with the young men as before. But Owain had not his usual strength, and the two youths pressed hard upon him. And the lion roared incessantly at seeing Owain in trouble. And he brust through the wall, until he found a way out, and rushed upon the young men and instantly slew them. So Luned was saved from being burned. Then Owain returned with Luned to the castle of the Lady of the Fountain. And when he went thence, he took the Countess with him to Arthur's court, and she was his wife as long as she lived. CHAPTER V GERAINT, THE SON OF ERBIN Arthur was accustomed to hold his court at Caerleon upon Usk. And there he held it seven Easters and five Christmases. And once upon a time he held his court there at Whitsuntide. For Caerleon was the place most easy of access in his dominions, both by sea and by land. And there were assembled nine crowned kings, who were his tributaries, and likewise earls and barons. For they were his invited guests at all the high festivals, unless they were prevented by any great hinderatice. And when he was at Caerleon holding his court, thirteen churches were set apart for mass. And thus they were appointed: one church for Arthur and his kings, and his guests; and the second for Guenever and her ladies; and the third for the steward of the household and the suitors; and the fourth for the Franks and the other officers; and the other nine churches were for the nine masters of the household, and chiefly for Gawain, for he, from the eminence of his warlike fame, and from the nobleness of his birth, was the most exalted of the nine. And there was no other arrangement respecting the churches than that which we have here mentioned. And on Whit-Tuesday, as the king sat at the banquet, lo, there entered a tall, fair-headed youth, clad in a coat and surcoat of satin, and a golden-hilted sword about his neck, and low shoes of leather upon his feet. And he came and stood before Arthur. "Hail to thee, lord," said he. "Heaven prosper thee," he answered, "and be thou welcome. Dost thou bring any new tidings?" "I do, lord," he said. "I am one of thy foresters, lord, in the forest of Dean, and my name is Madoc, son of Turgadarn. In the forest I saw a stag, the like of which beheld I never yet." "What is there about him," asked Arthur, "that thou never yet didst see his like?" "He is of pure white, lord, and he does not herd with any other animal, through stateliness and pride, so royal is his bearing. And I come to seek thy counsel, lord, and to know thy will concerning him." "It seems best to me," said Arthur, "to go and hunt him to-morrow at break of day, and to cause general notice thereof to be given to-night, in all quarters of the court." "For Arthur on the Whitsuntide before Held court at old Caerleon upon Usk. There on a day, he sitting high in hall, Before him came a forester of Dean, Wet from the woods, with notice of a hart Taller than all his fellows, milky-white, First seen that day: these things he told the king. Then the good king gave order to let blow His horns for hunting on the morrow morn." --Enid. And Arryfuerys was Arthur's chief huntsman, and Arelivri his chief page. And all received notice; and thus it was arranged. Then Guenever said to Arthur, "Wilt thou permit me, lord, to go to-morrow to see and hear the hunt of the stag of which the young man spoke?" "I will gladly," said Arthur. And Gawain said to Arthur, "Lord, if it seem well to thee, permit that into whose hunt soever the stag shall come, that one, be he a knight or one on foot, may cut off his head, and give it to whom he pleases, whether to his own lady-love, or to the lady of his friend." "I grant it gladly," said Arthur, "and let the steward of the household be chastised, if all things are not ready to-morrow for the chase." And they passed the night with songs, and diversions, and discourse, and ample entertainment. And when it was time for them all to go to sleep, they went. And when the next day came, they arose. And Arthur called the attendants who guarded his couch. And there were four pages whose names were Cadyrnerth, the son of Gandwy, and Ambreu, the son of Bedwor and Amhar, the son of Arthur and Goreu, the son of Custennin. And these men came to Arthur and saluted him, and arrayed him in his garments. And Arthur wondered that Guenever did not awake, and the attendants wished to awaken her. "Disturb her not," said Arthur, "for she had rather sleep than go to see the hunting." Then Arthur went forth, and he heard two horns sounding, one from near the lodging of the chief huntsman, and the other from near that of the chief page. And the whole assembly of the multitudes came to Arthur, and they took the road to the forest. And after Arthur had gone forth from the palace, Guenever awoke, and called to her maidens, and apparalled herself. "Maidens," said she, "I had leave last night to go and see the hunt. Go one of you to the stable, and order hither a horse such as a woman may ride." And one of them went, and she found but two horses in the stable; and Guenever and one of her maidens mounted them, and went through the Usk, and followed the track of the men and the horses. And as they rode thus, they heard a loud and rushing sound; and they looked behind them, and beheld a knight upon a hunter foal of mighty size. And the rider was a fairhaired youth, bare-legged, and of princely mien; and a golden-hilted sword was at his side, and a robe and a surcoat of satin were upon him, and two low shoes of leather upon his feet; and around him was a scarf of blue purple, at each corner of which was a golden apple. "For Prince Geraint, Late also, wearing neither hunting-dress Nor weapon, save a golden-hilted brand, Came quickly flashing through the shallow ford." --Enid. And his horse stepped stately, and swift, and proud; and he overtook Guenever, and saluted her. "Heaven prosper thee, Geraint," said she; "and why didst thou not go with thy lord to hunt?" "Because I knew not when he went," said he. "I marvel too," said she, "how he could go, unknown to me. But thou, O young man, art the most agreeable companion I could have in the whole kingdom; and it may be I shall be more amused with the hunting than they; for we shall hear the horns when they sound and we shall hear the dogs when they are let loose and begin to cry." So they went to the edge of the forest, and there they stood. "From this place," said she, "we shall hear when the dogs are let loose." And thereupon they heard a loud noise; and they looked towards the spot whence it came, and they beheld a dwarf riding upon a horse, stately and foaming and prancing and strong and spirited. And in the hand of the dwarf was a whip. And near the dwarf they saw a lady upon a beautiful white horse, of steady and stately pace; and she was clothed in a garment of gold brocade. And near her was a knight upon a war-horse of large size, with heavy and bright armor both upon himself and upon his horse. And truly they never before saw a knight, or a horse, or armor, of such remarkable size. "Geraint," said Guenever, "knowest thou the name of that tall knight yonder?" "I know him not," said he, "and the strange armor that he wears prevents my either seeing his face or his features." "Go, maiden," said Guenever, "and ask the dwarf who that knight is." Then the maiden went up to the dwarf; and she inquired of the dwarf who the knight was. "I will not tell thee," he answered. "Since thou art so churlish," said she, "I will ask him, himself." "Thou shalt not ask him, by my faith," said he. "Wherefore not?" said she. "Because thou art not of honor sufficient to befit thee to speak to my lord." Then the maiden turned her horse's head towards the knight, upon which the dwarf struck her with the whip that was in his hand across the face and the eyes, so that the blood flowed forth. And the maiden returned to Guenever, complaining of the hurt she had received. "Very rudely has the dwarf treated thee," said Geraint, and he put his hand upon the hilt of his sword. But he took counsel with himself, and considered that it would be no vengeance for him to slay the dwarf, and to be attacked unarmed by the armed knight; so he refrained. "Lady," said he, "I will follow him, with thy permission, and at last he will come to some inhabited place, where I may have arms, either as a loan or for a pledge, so that I may encounter the knight." "Go," said she, "and do not attack him until thou hast good arms; and I shall be very anxious concerning thee, until I hear tidings of thee." "If I am alive," said he, "thou shalt hear tidings of me by to-morrow afternoon;" and with that he departed. And the road they took was below the palace of Caerleon, and across the ford of the Usk; and they went along a fair and even and lofty ridge of ground, until they came to a town, and at the extremity of the town they saw a fortress and a castle. And as the knight passed through the town all the people arose and saluted him, and bade him welcome. And when Geraint came into the town, he looked at every house to see if he knew any of those whom he saw. But he knew none, and none knew him, to do him the kindness to let him have arms, either as a loan or for a pledge. And every house he saw was full of men, and arms, and horses. And they were polishing shields, and burnishing swords, and washing armor, and shoeing horses. And the knight and the lady and the dwarf rode up to the castle, that was in the town, and every one was glad in the castle. And from the battlements and the gates they risked their necks, through their eagerness to greet them, and to show their joy. Geraint stood there to see whether the knight would remain in the castle; and when he was certain that he would do so, he looked around him. And at a little distance from the town he saw an old palace in ruins, wherein was a hall that was falling to decay. "And high above a piece of turret-stair, Worn by the feet that now were silent, wound Bare to the sun" --Enid. And as he knew not any one in the town, he went towards the old palace. And when he came near to the palace, he saw a hoary-headed man, standing by it, in tattered garments. And Geraint gazed steadfastly upon him. Then the hoary-headed man said to him, "Young man, wherefore art thou thoughtful?" "I am thoughtful," said he, "because I know not where to pass the night." "Wilt thou come forward this way, chieftain," said he, "and thou shalt have of the best that can be procured for thee." So Geraint went forward. And the hoary-headed man led the way into the hall. And in the hall he dismounted, and he left there his horse. Then he went on to the upper chamber with the hoary-headed man. And in the chamber he beheld an old woman, sitting on a cushion, with old, worn-out garments upon her; yet it seemed to him that she must have been comely when in the bloom of youth. And beside her was a maiden, upon whom were a vest and a veil that were old and beginning to be worn out. And truly he never saw a maiden more full of comeliness and grace and beauty than she. And the hoary- headed man said to the maiden, "There is no attendant for the horse of this youth but thyself." "I will render the best service I am able," said she, "both to him and to his horse." And the maiden disarrayed the youth, and then she furnished his horse with straw and corn; and then she returned to the chamber. And the hoary-headed man said to the maiden, "Go to the town and bring hither the best that thou canst find, both of food and of liquor." "I will gladly, lord," said she. And to the town went the maiden. And they conversed together while the maiden was at the town. And, behold, the maiden came back, and a youth with her, bearing on his back a costrel full of good purchased mead, and a quarter of a young bullock. And in the hands of the maiden was a quantity of white bread, and she had some manchet bread in her veil, and she came into the chamber. "I would not obtain better than this," said she, "nor with better should I have been trusted." "It is good enough," said Geraint. And they caused the meat to be boiled; and when their food was ready, they sat down. And it was in this wise. Geraint sat between the hoary-headed man and his wife, and the maiden served them. And they ate and drank. And when they had finished eating, Geraint talked with the hoary- headed man, and he asked him in the first place to whom belonged the palace that he was in. "Truly," said he, "it was I that built it, and to me also belonged the city and the castle which thou sawest." "Alas!" said Geraint, "how is it that thou hast lost them now?" "I lost a great earldom as well as these," said he, "and this is how I lost them. I had a nephew, the son of my brother, and I took care of his possessions; but he was impatient to enter upon them, so he made war upon me, and wrested from me not only his own, but also my estates, except this castle." "Good sir," said Geraint, "wilt thou tell me wherefore came the knight and the lady and the dwarf just now into the town, and what is the preparation which I saw, and the putting of arms in order?" "I will do so," said he. "The preparations are for the game that is to be held to-morrow by the young earl, which will be on this wise. In the midst of a meadow which is here, two forks will be set up, and upon the two forks a silver rod, and upon the silver rod a sparrow-hawk, and for the sparrow-hawk there will be a tournament. And to the tournament will go all the array thou didst see in the city, of men and of horses and of arms. And with each man will go the lady he loves best; and no man can joust for the sparrow-hawk, except the lady he loves best be with him. And the knight that thou sawest has gained the sparrow-hawk these two years; and if he gains it the third year, he will be called the Knight of the Sparrow-hawk from that time forth." "Sir," said Geraint, "what is thy counsel to me concerning this knight, on account of the insult which the maiden of Guenever received from the dwarf?" And Geraint told the hoary-headed man what the insult was that the maiden had received. "It is not easy to counsel thee, inasmuch as thou hast neither dame nor maiden belonging to thee, for whom thou canst joust. Yet I have arms here, which thou couldst have, and there is my horse also, if he seem to thee better than thine own." "Ah, sir," said he, "Heaven reward thee! But my own horse to which I am accustomed, together with thine arms, will suffice me. And if, when the appointed time shall come to-morrow thou wilt permit me, sir, to challenge for yonder maiden that is thy daughter, I will engage, if I escape from the tournament, to love the maiden as long as I live." "Gladly will I permit thee," said the hoary-headed man; "and since thou dost thus resolve, it is necessary that thy horse and arms should be ready to-morrow at break of day. For then the Knight of the Sparrow-hawk will make proclamation, and ask the lady he loves best to take the sparrow-hawk; and if any deny it to her, by force will he defend her claim. And therefore," said the hoary-headed man, "it is needful for thee to be there at daybreak, and we three will be with thee." And thus was it settled. And at night they went to sleep. And before the dawn they arose and arrayed themselves; and by the time that it was day, they were all four in the meadow. And there was the Knight of the Sparrow- hawk making the proclamation, and asking his lady-love to take the sparrow-hawk. "Take it not," said Geraint, "for here is a maiden who is fairer, and more noble, and more comely, and who has a better claim to it than thou." Then said the knight, "If thou maintainest the sparrow-hawk to be due to her, come forward and do battle with me." And Geraint went forward to the top of the meadow, having upon himself and upon his horse armor which was heavy and rusty, and of uncouth shape. Then they encountered each other, and they broke a set of lances; and they broke a second set, and a third. And when the earl and his company saw the Knight of the Sparrow-hawk gaining the mastery, there was shouting and joy and mirth amongst them; and the hoary-headed man and his wife and his daughter were sorrowful. And the hoary-headed man served Geraint with lances as often as he broke them, and the dwarf served the Knight of the Sparrow-hawk. Then the hoary-headed man said to Geraint, "O chieftain, since no other will hold with thee, behold, here is the lance which was in my hand on the day when I received the honor of knighthood, and from that time to this I never broke it, and it has an excellent point." Then Geraint took the lance, thanking the hoary-headed man. And thereupon the dwarf also brought a lance to his lord. "Behold, here is a lance for thee, not less good than his," said the dwarf. "And bethink thee that no knight ever withstood thee so long as this one has done." "I declare to Heaven," said Geraint, "that unless death takes me quickly hence, he shall fare never the better for thy service." And Geraint pricked his horse towards him from afar, and, warning him, he rushed upon him, and gave him a blow so severe, and furious, and fierce, upon the face of his shield, that he cleft it in two, and broke his armor, and burst his girths, so that both he and his saddle were borne to the ground over the horse's crupper. And Geraint dismounted quickly. And he was wroth, and he drew his sword, and rushed fiercely upon him. Then the knight also arose, and drew his sword against Geraint. And they fought on foot with their swords until their arms struck sparks of fire like stars from one another; and thus they continued fighting until the blood and sweat obscured the light from their eyes. At length Geraint called to him all his strength, and struck the knight upon the crown of his head, so that he broke all his head-armor, and cut through all the flesh and the skin, even to the skull, until he wounded the bone. Then the knight fell upon his knees, and cast his sword from his hand, and besought mercy from Geraint. "Of a truth," said he, "I relinquish my overdaring and my pride, and crave thy mercy; and unless I have time to commit myself to Heaven for my sins, and to talk with a priest, thy mercy will avail me little." "I will grant thee grace upon this condition," said Geraint, "that thou go to Guenever, the wife of Arthur, to do her satisfaction for the insult which her maiden received from thy dwarf. Dismount not from the time thou goest hence until thou comest into the presence of Guenever, to make her what atonement shall be adjudged at the court of Arthur." "This will I do gladly; and who art thou?" "I am Geraint, the son of Erbin; and declare thou also who thou art." "I am Edeym, the son of Nudd." Then he threw himself upon his horse, and went forward to Arthur's court; and the lady he loved best went before him, and the dwarf, with much lamentation. Then came the young earl and his hosts to Geraint, and saluted him, and bade him to his castle. "I may not go," said Geraint; "but where I was last night, there will I be to-night also." "Since thou wilt none of my inviting, thou shalt have abundance of all that I can command for thee; and I will order ointment for thee, to recover thee from thy fatigues, and from the weariness that is upon thee." "Heaven reward thee," said Geraint, "and I will go to my lodging." And thus went Geraint and Earl Ynywl, and his wife and his daughter. And when they reached the old mansion, the household servants and attendants of the young earl had arrived, and had arranged all the apartments, dressing them with straw and with fire; and in a short time the ointment was ready, and Geraint came there, and they washed his head. Then came the young earl, with forty honorable knights from among his attendants, and those who were bidden to the tournament. And Geraint came from the anointing. And the earl asked him to go to the hall to eat. "Where is the Earl Ynywl," said Geraint, "and his wife and his daughter?" "They are in the chamber yonder," said the earl's chamberlain, "arraying themselves in garments which the earl has caused to be brought for them." "Let not the damsel array herself," said he, "except in her vest and her veil, until she come to the court of Arthur, to be clad by Guenever in such garments as she may choose." So the maiden did not array herself. Then they all entered the hall, and they washed, and sat down to meat. And thus were they seated. On one side of Geraint sat the young earl, and Earl Ynywl beyond him, and on the other side of Geraint was the maiden and her mother. And after these all sat according to their precedence in honor. And they ate. And they were served abundantly, and they received a profusion of divers kinds of gifts. Then they conversed together. And the young earl invited Geraint to visit him next day. "I will not, by Heaven," said Geraint. "To the court of Arthur will I go with this maiden to-morrow. And it is enough for me, as long as Earl Ynywl is in poverty and trouble; and I go chiefly to seek to add to his maintenance." "Ah, chieftain," said the young earl, "it is not by my fault that Earl Ynywl is without his possessions." "By my faith," said Geraint, "he shall not remain without them, unless death quickly takes me hence." "O chieftain," said he, "with regard to the disagreement between me and Ynywl, I will gladly abide by thy counsel, and agree to what thou mayest judge right between us." "I but ask thee," said Geraint, "to restore to him what is his, and what he should have received from the time he lost his possessions even until this day." "That will I do, gladly, for thee," answered he. "Then," said Geraint, "whosoever is here who owes homage to Ynywl, let him come forward, and perform it on the spot." And all the men did so; and by that treaty they abided. And his castle and his town, and all his possessions, were restored to Ynywl. And he received back all that he had lost, even to the smallest jewel. Then spoke Earl Ynywl to Geraint. "Chieftain," said he, "behold the maiden for whom thou didst challenge at the tournament; I bestow her upon thee." "She shall go with me," said Geraint, "to the court of Arthur, and Arthur and Guenever, they shall dispose of her as they will." And the next day they proceeded to Arthur's court. So far concerning Geraint. CHAPTER VI GERAINT, THE SON OF ERBIN (Continued) Now this is how Arthur hunted the stag. The men and the dogs were divided into hunting-parties, and the dogs were let loose upon the stag. And the last dog that was let loose was the favorite dog of Arthur; Cavall was his name. And he left all the other dogs behind him and turned the stag. And at the second turn the stag came toward the hunting-party of Arthur. And Arthur set upon him; and before he could be slain by any other, Arthur cut off his head. Then they sounded the death-horn for slaying and they all gathered round. They came Kadyriath to Arthur and spoke to him. "Lord," said he, "behold, yonder is Guenever, and none with her save only one maiden." "Command Gildas, the son of Caw, and all the scholars of the court," said Arthur, "to attend Guenever to the palace." And they did so. Then they all set forth, holding converse together concerning the head of the stag, to whom it should be given. One wished that it should be given to the lady best beloved by him, and another to the lady whom he loved best. And so they came to the palace. And when Arthur and Guenever heard them disputing about the head of the stag, Guenever said to Arthur: "My lord, this is my counsel concerning the stag's head; let it not be given away until Geraint, the son of Erbin, shall return from the errand he is upon." And Guenever told Arthur what that errand was. "Right gladly shall it be so," said Arthur. And Guenever caused a watch to be set upon the ramparts for Geraint's coming. And after midday they beheld an unshapely little man upon a horse, and after him a dame or a damsel, also on horseback, and after her a knight of large stature, bowed down, and hanging his head low and sorrowfully, and clad in broken and worthless armor. And before they came near to the gate one of the watch went to Guenever, and told her what kind of people they saw, and what aspect they bore. "I know not who they are," said he, "But I know," said Guenever; "this is the knight whom Geraint pursued, and methinks that he comes not here by his own free will. But Geraint has overtaken him, and avenged the insult to the maiden to the uttermost." And thereupon, behold, a porter came to the spot where Guenever was. "Lady," said he, "at the gate there is a knight, and I saw never a man of so pitiful an aspect to look upon as he. Miserable and broken is the armor that he wears, and the hue of blood is more conspicuous upon it than its own color." "Knowest thou his name?" said she. "I do," said he; "he tells me that he is Edeyrn, the son of Nudd." Then she replied, "I know him not." So Guenever went to the gate to meet him and he entered. And Guenever was sorry when she saw the condition he was in, even though he was accompanied by the churlish dwarf. Then Edeyrn saluted Guenever. "Heaven protect thee," said she. "Lady," said he, "Geraint, the son of Erbin, thy best and most valiant servant, greets thee." "Did he meet with thee?" she asked. "Yes," said he, "and it was not to my advantage; and that was not his fault, but mine, lady. And Geraint greets thee well; and in greeting thee he compelled me to come hither to do thy pleasure for the insult which thy maiden received from the dwarf." "Now where did he overtake thee?" "At the place where we were jousting and contending for the sparrow-hawk, in the town which is now called Cardiff. And it was for the avouchment of the love of the maiden, the daughter of Earl Ynywl, that Geraint jousted at the tournament. And thereupon we encountered each other, and he left me, lady, as thou seest." "Sir," said she, "when thinkest thou that Geraint will be here?" "To-morrow, lady, I think he will be here with the maiden." Then Arthur came to them. And he saluted Arthur, and Arthur gazed a long time upon him and was amazed to see him thus. And thinking that he knew him, he inquired of him, "Art thou Edeyrn, the son of Nudd?" "I am, lord," said he, "and I have met with much trouble and received wounds unsupportable." Then he told Arthur all his adventure. "Well," said Arthur, "from what I hear it behooves Guenever to be merciful towards thee." "The mercy which thou desirest, lord," said she. "will I grant to him, since it is as insulting to thee that an insult should be offered to me as to thyself." "Thus will it be best to do," said Arthur; "let this man have medical care until it be known whether he may live. And if he live, he shall do such satisfaction as shall be judged best by the men of the court. And if he die, too much will be the death of such a youth as Edeyrn for an insult to a maiden." "This pleases me," said Guenever. And Arthur caused Morgan Tud to be called to him. He was the chief physician. "Take with thee Edeyrn, the son of Nudd, and cause a chamber to be prepared for him, and let him have the aid of medicine as thou wouldst do unto myself, if I were wounded, and let none into his chamber to molest him, but thyself and thy disciples, to administer to him remedies." "I will do so, gladly, lord," said Morgan Tud. Then said the steward of the household, "Whither is it right, lord, to order the maiden?" "To Guenever and her handmaidens," said he. And the steward of the household so ordered her. "And rising up, he rode to Arthur's court, And there the queen forgave him easily. And being young, he changed himself, and grew To hate the sin that seem'd so like his own Of Modred, Arthur's nephew, and fell at last In the great battle fighting for the king." --Enid. The next day came Geraint towards the court; and there was a watch set on the ramparts by Guenever, lest he should arrive unawares. And one of the watch came to Guenever. "Lady," said he, "methinks that I see Geraint, and a maiden with him. He is on horseback, but he has his walking gear upon him, and the maiden appears to be in white, seeming to be clad in a garment of linen." "Assemble all the women," said Guenever, "and come to meet Geraint, to welcome him, and wish him joy." And Guenever went to meet Geraint and the maiden. And when Geraint came to the place where Guenever was, he saluted her. "Heaven prosper thee," said she, "and welcome to thee." "Lady," said he, "I earnestly desired to obtain thee satisfaction, according to thy will; and, behold, here is the maiden through whom thou hadst thy revenge." "Verily," said Guenever, "the welcome of Heaven be unto her; and it is fitting that we should receive her joyfully." Then they went in and dismounted. And Geraint came to where Arthur was, and saluted him. "Heaven protect thee," said Arthur, "and the welcome of Heaven be unto thee. And inasmuch as thou hast vanquished Edeyrn, the son of Nudd, thou hast had a prosperous career." "Not upon me be the blame," said Geraint; "it was through the arrogance of Edeyrn, the son of Nudd, himself, that we were not friends." "Now," said Arthur, "where is the maiden for whom I heard thou didst give challenge?" "She is gone with Guenever to her chamber." Then went Arthur to see the maiden. And Arthur, and all his companions, and his whole court, were glad concerning the maiden. And certain were they all, that, had her array been suitable to her beauty, they had never seen a maid fairer than she. And Arthur gave away the maiden to Geraint. And the usual bond made between two persons was made between Geraint and the maiden, and the choicest of all Guenever's apparel was given to the maiden; and thus arrayed, she appeared comely and graceful to all who beheld her. And that day and the night were spent in abundance of minstrelsy, and ample gifts of liquor, and a multiude of games. And when it was time for them to go to sleep they went. And in the chamber where the couch of Arthur and Guenever was, the couch of Geraint and Enid was prepared. And from that time she became his wife. And the next day Arthur satisfied all the claimants upon Geraint with bountiful gifts. And the maiden took up her abode in the palace, and she had many companions, both men and women, and there was no maiden more esteemed than she in the island of Britain. Then spake Guenever. "Rightly did I judge," said she, "concerning the head of the stag, that it should not be given to any until Geraint's return; and behold, here is a fit occasion for bestowing it. Let it be given to Enid, the daughter of Ynywl, the most illustrious maiden. And I do not believe that any will begrudge it her, for between her and every one here there exists nothing but love and friendship." Much applauded was this by them all, and by Arthur also. And the head of the stag was given to Enid. And thereupon her fame increased, and her friends became more in number than before. And Geraint from that time forth loved the hunt, and the tournament, and hard encounters; and he came victorious from them all. And a year, and a second, and a third, he proceeded thus, until his fame had flown over the face of the kingdom. And, once upon a time, Arthur was holding his court at Caerleon upon Usk; and behold, there came to him ambassadors, wise and prudent, full of knowledge and eloquent of speech, and they saluted Arthur. "Heaven prosper you!" said Arthur; "and whence do you come?" "We come, lord," said they, "from Cornwall; and we are ambassadors from Erbin, the son of Custennin, thy uncle, and our mission is unto thee. And he greets thee well, as an uncle should greet his nephew, and as a vassal should greet his lord. And he represents unto thee that he waxes heavy and feeble, and is advancing in years. And the neighboring chiefs, knowing this, grow insolent towards him, and covet his land and possessions. And he earnestly beseeches thee, lord, to permit Geraint, his son, to return to him, to protect his possessions, and to become acquainted with his boundaries. And unto him he represents that it were better for him to spend the flower of his youth and the prime of his age in preserving his own boundaries, than in tournaments which are productive of no profit, although he obtains glory in them." "Well," said Arthur, "go and divest yourselves of your accoutrements, and take food, and refresh yourselves after your fatigues; and before you go from hence you shall have an answer." And they went to eat. And Arthur considered that it would go hard with him to let Geraint depart from him, and from his court; neither did he think it fair that his cousin should be restrained from going to protect his dominions and his boundaries, seeing that his father was unable to do so. No less was the grief and regret of Guenever, and all her women, and all her damsels, through fear that the maiden would leave them. And that day and that night were spent in abundance of feasting. And Arthur told Geraint the cause of the mission, and of the coming of the ambassadors to him out of Cornwall. "Truly," said Geraint, "be it to my advantage or disadvantage, lord, I will do according to thy will concerning this embassy." "Behold," said Arthur, "though it grieves me to part with thee, it is my counsel that thou go to dwell in thine own dominions, and to defend thy boundaries, and take with thee to accompany thee as many as thou wilt of those thou lovest best among my faithful ones, and among thy friends, and among thy companions in arms." "Heaven reward thee! and this will I do," said Geraint. "What discourse," said Guenever, "do I hear between you? Is it of those who are to conduct Geraint to his country?" "It is," said Arthur. "Then is it needful for me to consider," said she, "concerning companions and a provision for the lady that is with me." "Thou wilt do well," said Arthur. And that night they went to sleep. And the next day the ambassadors were permitted to depart, and they were told that Geraint should follow them. And on the third day Geraint set forth, and many went with him--Gawain, the son of Gwyar, and Riogoned, the son of the king of Ireland, and Ondyaw, the son of the Duke of Burgundy, Gwilim, the son of the ruler of the Franks, Howel, the son of the Earl of Brittany, Perceval, the son of Evrawk, Gwyr, a judge in the court of Arthur, Bedwyr, the son of Bedrawd, Kai, the son of Kyner, Odyar, the Frank, and Ederyn, the son of Nudd. Said Geraint, "I think I shall have enough of knighthood with me." And they set forth. And never was there seen a fairer host journeying towards the Severn. And on the other side of the Severn were the nobles of Erbin, the son of Custennin, and his foster-father at their head, to welcome Geraint with gladness; and many of the women of the court, with his mother, came to receive Enid, the daughter of Ynywl, his wife. And there was great rejoicing and gladness throughout the whole court, and through all the country, concerning Geraint, because of the greatness of their love to him, and of the greatness of the fame which he had gained since he went from amongst them, and because he was come to take possession of his dominions, and to preserve his boundaries. And they came to the court. And in the court they had ample entertainment, and a multitude of gifts, and abundance of liquor, and a sufficiency of service, and a variety of games. And to do honor to Geraint, all the chief men of the country were invited that night to visit him. And they passed that day and that night in the utmost enjoyment. And at dawn next day Erbin arose and summoned to him Geraint, and the noble persons who had borne him company. And he said to Geraint: "I am a feeble and an aged man, and whilst I was able to maintain the dominion for thee and for myself, I did so. But thou art young, and in the flower of thy vigor and of thy youth. Henceforth do thou preserve thy possessions." "Truly," said Geraint, "with my consent thou shalt not give the power over thy dominions at this time into my hands, and thou shalt not take me from Arthur's court." "Into thy hands will I give them," said Erbin, "and this day also shalt thou receive the homage of thy subjects." Then said Gawain, "It were better for thee to satisfy those who have boons to ask, to-day, and to-morrow thou canst receive the homage of thy dominions." So all that had boons to ask were summoned into one place. And Kadyriath came to them to know what were their requests. And every one asked that which he desired. And the followers of Arthur began to make gifts, and immediately the men of Cornwall came, and gave also. And they were not long in giving, so eager was every one to bestow gifts, and of those who came to ask gifts, none departed unsatisfied. And that day and that night were spent in the utmost enjoyment. And the next day at dawn, Erbin desired Geraint to send messengers to the men to ask them whether it was displeasing to them that he should come to receive their homage, and whether they had anything to object to him. Then Geraint sent ambassadors to the men of Cornwall to ask them this. And they all said that it would be the fulness of joy and honor to them for Geraint to come and receive their homage. So he received the homage of such as were there. And the day after the followers of Arthur intended to go away. "It is too soon for you to go away yet," said he; "stay with me until I have finished receiving the homage of my chief men, who have agreed to come to me." And they remained with him until he had done so. Then they set forth towards the court of Arthur. And Geraint went to bear them company, and Enid also, as far as Diganwy; there they parted. And Ondyaw, the son of the Duke of Burgundy, said to Geraint, "Go, now, and visit the uttermost parts of thy dominions, and see well to the boundaries of thy territories; and if thou hast any trouble respecting them, send unto thy companions." "Heaven reward thee!" said Geraint; "and this will I do." And Geraint journeyed to the uttermost parts of his dominions. And experienced guides, and the chief men of his country, went with him. And the furthermost point that they showed him he kept possession of. CHAPTER VII GERAINT, THE SON OF ERBIN (Continued) Geraint, as he had been used to do when he was at Arthur's court, frequented tournaments. And he became acquainted with valiant and mighty men, until he had gained as much fame there as he had formerly done elsewhere. And he enriched his court, and his companions, and his nobles, with the best horses and the best arms, and with the best and most valuable jewels, and he ceased not until his fame had flown over the face of the whole kingdom. "Before Geraint, the scourge of the enemy, I saw steeds white with foam, And after the shout of battle a fearful torrent." --Hen. When he knew that it was thus, he began to love ease and pleasure, for there was no one who was worth his opposing. And he loved his wife, and liked to continue in the palace with minstrelsy and diversions. So he began to shut himself up in the chamber of his wife, and he took no delight in anything besides, insomuch that he gave up the friendship of his nobles, together with his hunting and his amusements, and lost the hearts of all the host in his court. And there was murmuring and scoffing concerning him among the inhabitants of the palace, on account of his relinquishing so completely their companionship for the love of his wife. "They Began to scoff and jeer and babble of him As of a prince whose manhood was all gone, And molten down in mere uxoriousness." These tidings came to Erbin. And when Erbin had heard these things, he spoke unto Enid, and inquired of her whether it was she that had caused Geraint to act thus, and to forsake his people and his hosts. "Not I, by my confession unto Heaven," said she; "there is nothing more hateful unto me than this." And she knew not what she should do, for, although it was hard for her to own this to Geraint, yet was it not more easy for her to listen to what she heard, without warning Geraint concerning it. And she was very sorrowful. 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; [Footnote: The terms of admiration in which the older writers invariably speak of GLASS WINDOWS would be sufficient proof, if other evidence were wanting, how rare an article of luxury they were in the houses of our ancestors. They were first introduced in ecclesiastical architecture, to which they were for a long time confined. Glass is said not to have been employed in domestic architecture before the fourteenth century.] 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!" 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. 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 rise," 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. Then Geraint went to see Erbin. "Sir," said he, "I am going upon a quest, and I am not certain when I may come back. Take heed, therefore, unto thy possessions until my return." "I will do so," said he; "but it is strange to me that thou shouldst go so suddenly. And who will proceed with thee, since thou art not strong enough to traverse the land of Loegyr alone?" "But one person only will go with me." "Heaven counsel thee, my son," said Erbin, "and may many attach themselves to thee in Loegyr." Then went Geraint to the place where his horse was, and it was equipped with foreign armor, heavy and shining. And he desired Enid to mount her horse, and to ride forward, and to keep a long way before him. "And whatever thou mayst see, and whatever thou mayst hear concerning me," said he, "do thou not turn back. And unless I speak unto thee, say not thou one word, either." So they set forward. And he did not choose the pleasantest and most frequented road, but that which was the wildest and most beset by thieves and robbers and venomous animals. And they came to a high road, which they followed till they saw a vast forest; and they saw four armed horsemen come forth from the forest. When the armed men saw them, they said one to another. "Here is a good occasion for us to capture two horses and armor, and a lady likewise; for this we shall have no difficulty in doing against yonder single knight who hangs his head so pensively and heavily." Enid heard this discourse, and she knew not what she should do through fear of Geraint, who had told her to be silent. "The vengeance of Heaven be upon me," said she, "if I would not rather receive my death from his hand than from the hand of any other; and though he should slay me, yet will I speak to him, lest I should have the misery to witness his death." So she waited for Geraint until he came near to her. "Lord," said she, "didst thou hear the words of those men concerning thee?" Then he lifted up his eyes, and looked at her angrily. "Thou hadst only," said he, "to hold thy peace as I bade thee. I wish but for silence, and not for warning. And though thou shouldst desire to see my defeat and my death by the hands of those men, yet do I feel no dread." Then the foremost of them couched his lance, and rushed upon Geraint. And he received him, and that not feebly. But he let the thrust go by him, while he struck the horseman upon the centre of his shield, in such a manner that his shield was split, and his armor broken, so that a cubit's length of the shaft of Geraint's lance passed through his body, and sent him to the earth, the length of the lance over his horse's crupper. Then the second horseman attacked him furiously, being wroth at the death of his companion. But with one thrust Geraint overthrew him also, and killed him as he had done the other. Then the third set upon him, and he killed him in like manner. And thus also he slew the fourth. Sad and sorrowful was the maiden as she saw all this. Geraint dismounted his horse, and took the arms of the men he had slain, and placed them upon their saddles, and tied together the reins of their horses; and he mounted his horse again. "Behold what thou must do," said he; "take the four horses and drive them before thee, and proceed forward as I bade thee just now. And say not one word unto me, unless I speak first unto thee. And I declare unto Heaven," said he, "if thou doest not thus, it will be to thy cost." "I will do as far as I can, lord," said she, "according to thy desire." So the maiden went forward, keeping in advance of Geraint, as he had desired her; and it grieved him as much as his wrath would permit, to see a maiden so illustrious as she having so much trouble with the care of the horses. Then they reached a wood, and it was both deep and vast, and in the wood night overtook them. "Ah, maiden," said he, "it is vain to attempt proceeding forward." "Well, lord," said she, "whatever thou wishest, we will do." "It will be best for us," he answered, "to rest and wait for the day, in order to pursue our journey." "That we will, gladly," said she. And they did so. Having dismounted himself, he took her down from her horse. "I cannot by any means refrain from sleep, through weariness," said he; "do thou therefore watch the horses, and sleep not." "I will, lord," said she. Then he went to sleep in his armor, and thus passed the night, which was not long at that season. And when she saw the dawn of day appear, she looked around her to see if he were waking, and thereupon he woke. Then he arose, and said unto her, "Take the horses and ride on, and keep straight on as thou didst yesterday." And they left the wood, and they came to an open country, with meadows on one hand, and mowers mowing the meadows. And there was a river before them, and the horses bent down and drank of the water. And they went up out of the river by a lofty steep; and there they met a slender stripling with a satchel about his neck, and they saw that there was something in the satchel, but they knew not what it was. And he had a small blue pitcher in his hand, and a bowl on the mouth of the pitcher. And the youth saluted Geraint. "Heaven prosper thee!" said Geraint; "and whence dost thou come?" "I come," said he, "from the city that lies before thee. My lord," he added, "will it be displeasing to thee if I ask whence thou comest also?" "By no means; through yonder wood did I come." "Thou camest not through the wood to-day." "No," he replied, "we were in the wood last night." "I warrant," said the youth, "that thy condition there last night was not the most pleasant, and that thou hadst neither meat nor drink." "No, by my faith," said he. "Wilt thou follow my counsel," said the youth, "and take thy meal from me?" "What sort of meal?" he inquired. "The breakfast which is sent for yonder mowers, nothing less than bread and meat and wine, and if thou wilt, sir, they shall have none of it." "I will," said he, "and Heaven reward thee for it." So Geraint alighted, and the youth took the maiden from off her horse. Then they washed, and took their repast. And the youth cut the bread in slices, and gave them drink, and served them withal. And when they had finished, the youth arose and said to Geraint, "My lord, with thy permission, I will now go and fetch some food for the mowers." "Go first to the town," said Geraint, "and take a lodging for me in the best place that thou knowest, and the most commodious one for the horses; and take thou whichever horse and arms thou choosest, in payment for thy service and thy gift." "Heaven reward thee, lord!" said the youth; "and this would be ample to repay services much greater than those I have rendered unto thee." And to the town went the youth, and he took the best and the most pleasant lodgings that he knew; and after that he went to the palace, having the horse and armor with him, and proceeded to the place where the earl was, and told him all his adventure. "I go now, lord," said he, "to meet the knight, and to conduct him to his lodging." "Go, gladly," said the earl; "and right joyfully shall he be received here, if he so come." And the youth went to meet Geraint, and told him that he would be received gladly by the earl in his own palace; but he would go only to his lodgings. And he had a goodly chamber, in which was plenty of straw and drapery, and a spacious and commodious place he had for the horses; and the youth prepared for them plenty of provender. After they had disarrayed themselves, Geraint spoke thus to Enid: "Go," said he, "to the other side of the chamber, and come not to this side of the house; and thou mayst call to thee the woman of the house, if thou wilt." "I will do, lord," said she, "as thou sayest." Thereupon the man of the house came to Geraint and welcomed him. And after they had eaten and drank, Geraint went to sleep, and so did Enid also. In the evening, behold, the earl came to visit Geraint, and his twelve honorable knights with him. And Geraint rose up and welcomed him. Then they all sat down according to their precedence in honor. And the earl conversed with Geraint, and inquired of him the object of his journey. "I have none," he replied, "but to seek adventures and to follow mine own inclination." Then the earl cast his eye upon Enid, and he looked at her steadfastly. And he thought he had never seen a maiden fairer or more comely than she. And he set all his thoughts and his affections upon her. Then he asked of Geraint, "Have I thy permission to go and converse with yonder maiden, for I see that she is apart from thee?" "Thou hast it gladly," said he. So the earl went to the place where the maiden was, and spake with her. "Ah! maiden," said he, "it cannot be pleasant to thee to journey with yonder man." "It is not unpleasant to me," said she. "Thou hast neither youths nor maidens to serve thee," said he. "Truly," she replied, "it is more pleasant for me to follow yonder man, than to be served by youths and maidens." "I will give thee good counsel," said he: "all my earldom will I place in thy possession, if thou wilt dwell with me." "Enid, the pilot star of my lone life, Enid, my early and my only love." --Enid. "That will I not, by Heaven," she said; "yonder man was the first to whom my faith was ever pledged; and shall I prove inconstant to him?" "Thou art in the wrong," said the earl; "if I slay the man yonder, I can keep thee with me as long as I choose; and when thou no longer pleasest me, I can turn thee away. But if thou goest with me by thy own good-will, I protest that our union shall continue as long as I remain alive." Then she pondered those words of his, and she considered that it was advisable to encourage him in his request. "Behold then, chieftain, this is most expedient for thee to do to save me from all reproach; come here to-morrow and take me away as though I knew nothing thereof." "I will do so," said he. So he arose and took his leave, and went forth with his attendants. And she told not then to Geraint any of the conversation which she had had with the earl, lest it should rouse his anger, and cause him uneasiness and care. And at the usual hour they went to sleep. And at the beginning of the night Enid slept a little; and at midnight she arose, and placed all Geraint's armor together so that it might be ready to put on. And although fearful of her errand, she came to the side of Geraint's bed; and she spoke to him softly and gently, saying, "My lord, arise, and clothe thyself, for these were the words of the earl to me and his intention concerning me." So she told Geraint all that had passed. And although he was wroth with her, he took warning, and clothed himself. And she lighted a candle, that he might have light to do so. "Leave there the candle," said he, "and desire the man of the house to come here." Then she went, and the man of the house came to him. "Dost thou know how much I owe thee?" asked Geraint. "I think thou owest but little." "Take the three horses and the three suits of armor." "Heaven reward thee, lord," said he, "but I spent not the value of one suit of armor upon thee." "For that reason," said he, "thou wilt be the richer. And now, wilt thou come to guide me out of the town?" "I will gladly," said he; "and in which direction dost thou intend to go?" "I wish to leave the town by a different way from that by which I entered it." So the man of the lodgings accompanied him as far as he desired. Then he bade the maiden to go on before him, and she did so, and went straight forward, and his host returned home. And Geraint and the maiden went forward along the high-road. And as they journeyed thus, they heard an exceeding loud wailing near to them. "Stay thou here," said he, "and I will go and see what is the cause of this wailing." "I will," said she. Then he went forward into an open glade that was near the road. And in the glade he saw two horses, one having a man's saddle, and the other a woman's saddle upon it. And behold there was a knight lying dead in his armor, and a young damsel in a riding-dress standing over him lamenting. "Ah, lady," said Geraint, "what hath befallen thee?" "Behold," she answered, "I journeyed here with my beloved husband, when lo! three giants came upon us, and without any cause in the world, they slew him." "Which way went they hence?" said Geraint. "Yonder by the high-road," she replied. So he returned to Enid. "Go," said he, "to the lady that is below yonder, and await me there till I come." She was sad when he ordered her to do thus, but nevertheless she went to the damsel, whom it was ruth to hear, and she felt certain that Geraint would never return. Meanwhile Geraint followed the giants, and overtook them. And each of them was greater in stature than three other men, and a huge club was on the shoulder of each. Then he rushed upon one of them, and thrust his lance through his body. And having drawn it forth again, he pierced another of them through likewise. But the third turned upon him and struck him with his club so that he split his shield and crushed his shoulder. But Geraint drew his sword and gave the giant a blow on the crown of his head, so severe, and fierce, and violent, that his head and his neck were split down to his shoulders, and he fell dead. So Geraint left him thus and returned to Enid. And when he reached the place where she was he fell down lifeless from his horse. Piercing and loud and thrilling was the cry that Enid uttered. And she came and stood over him where he had fallen. And at the sound of her cries came the Earl of Limours, and they who journeyed with him, whom her lamentations brought out of their road. And the earl said to Enid, "Alas, lady, what hath befallen thee?" "Ah, good sir," said she, "the only man I have loved, or ever shall love, is slain." Then he said to the other, "And what is the cause of thy grief?" "They have slain my beloved husband also," said she. "And who was it that slew them?" "Some giants," she answered, "slew my best-beloved, and the other knight went in pursuit of them, and came back in the state thou seest." The earl caused the knight that was dead to be buried, but he thought that there still remained some life in Geraint; and to see if he yet would live, he had him carried with him in the hollow of his shield, and upon a bier. And the two damsels went to the court; and when they arrived there, Geraint was placed upon a little couch in front of the table that was in the hall. Then they all took off their traveling-gear, and the earl besought Enid to do the same, and to clothe herself in other garments. "I will not, by Heaven," said she. "Ah, lady," said he, "be not so sorrowful for this matter." "It were hard to persuade me to be otherwise," said she. "I will act towards thee in such wise that thou needest not be sorrowful, whether yonder knight live or die. Behold, a good earldom, together with myself, will I bestow upon thee; be therefore happy and joyful." "I declare to Heaven," said she, "that henceforth I shall never be joyful while I live." "Come," said he, "and eat." "No, by Heaven, I will not." "But, by Heaven, thou shalt," said he. So he took her with him to the table against her will, and many times desired her to eat. "I call Heaven to witness," said she, "that I will not until the man that is upon yonder bier shall eat likewise." "Thou canst not fulfil that," said the earl, "yonder man is dead already." "I will prove that I can," said she. Then he offered her a goblet of liquor. "Drink this goblet," he said, "and it will cause thee to change thy mind." "Evil betide me," she answered, "if I drink aught until he drink also." "Truly," said the earl, "it is of no more avail for me to be gentle with thee than ungentle." And he gave her a box in the ear. Thereupon she raised a loud and piercing shriek, and her lamentations were much greater than they had been before; for she considered in her mind, that, had Geraint been alive, he durst not have struck her thus. But, behold, at the sound of her cry, Geraint revived from his swoon, and he sat upon the bier; and finding his sword in the hollow of his shield, he rushed to the place where the earl was, and struck him a fiercely-wounding, severely-venomous, and sternly-smiting blow upon the crown of his head, so that he clove him in twain, until his sword was staid by the table. Then all left the board and fled away. And this was not so much through fear of the living, as through the dread they felt at seeing the dead man rise up to slay them. And Geraint looked upon Enid, and he was grieved for two causes; one was to see that Enid had lost her color and her wonted aspect; and the other, to know that she was in the right. "Lady," said he, "knowest thou where our horses are?" "I know, lord, where thy horse is," she replied, "but I know not where is the other. Thy horse is in the house yonder." So he went to the house, and brought forth his horse, and mounted him, and took up Enid, and placed her upon the horse with him. And he rode forward. And their road lay between two hedges; and the night was gaining on the day. And lo! they saw behind them the shafts of spears betwixt them and the sky, and they heard the tramping of horses, and the noise of a host approaching. "I hear something following us," said he, "and I will put thee on the other side of the hedge." And thus he did. And thereupon, behold a knight pricked towards him, and couched his lance. When Enid saw this, she cried out, saying, "O chieftain, whoever thou art, what renown wilt thou gain by slaying a dead man?" "O Heaven!" said he, "is it Geraint?" "Yes, in truth," said she; "and who art thou?" "I am Gwiffert Petit," said he, "thy husband's ally, coming to thy assistance, for I heard that thou wast in trouble. Come with me to the court of a son-in-law of my sister, which is near here, and thou shalt have the best medical assistance in the kingdom." "I will do so gladly," said Geraint. And Enid was placed upon the horse of one of Gwiffert's squires, and they went forward to the baron's palace. And they were received there with gladness, and they met with hospitality and attention. The next morning they went to seek physicians; and it was not long before they came, and they attended Geraint until he was perfectly well. And while Geraint was under medical care Gwiffert caused his armor to be repaired, until it was as good as it had ever been. And they remained there a month and a fortnight. Then they separated, and Geraint went towards his own dominions, and thenceforth he reigned prosperously, and his warlike fame and splendor lasted with renown and honor, both to him and to Enid, from that time forward. [Footnote: Throughout the broad and varied region of romance it would be difficult to find a character of greater simplicity and truth than that of Enid, the daughter of Earl Ynywl. Conspicuous for her beauty and noble bearing, we are at a loss whether more to admire the patience with which she bore all the hardships she was destined to undergo or the constancy and affection which finally achieved the truimph she so richly deserved. The character of Enid is admirably sustained through the whole tale; and as it is more natural, because less overstrained, so perhaps it is even more touching than that of Griselda, over which, however, Chaucer has thrown a charm that leads us to forget the improbability of her story.] CHAPTER VIII PWYLL, PRINCE OF DYVED Once upon a time Pwyll was at Narberth, his chief palace, where a feast had been prepared for him, and with him was a great host of men. And after the first meal Pwyll arose to walk; and he went to the top of a mound that was above the palace, and was called Gorsedd Arberth. "Lord," said one of the court, "it is peculiar to the mound that whosoever sits upon it cannot go thence without either receiving wounds or blows, or else seeing a wonder." "I fear not to receive wounds or blows," said Pwyll; "but as to the wonder, gladly would I see it. I will therefore go and sit upon the mound." And upon the mound he sat. And while he sat there, they saw a lady, on a pure white horse of large size, with a garment of shining gold around her, coming along the highway that led from the mound. "My men," said Pwyll, "is there any among you who knows yonder lady?" "There is not, lord," said they. "Go one of you and meet her, that we may know who she is." And one of them arose, and as he came upon the road to meet her, she passed by; and he followed as fast as he could, being on foot, and the greater was his speed, the further was she from him. And when he saw that it profited him nothing to follow her, he returned to Pwyll, and said unto him, "Lord, it is idle for any one in the world to follow her on foot." "Verily," said Pwyll, "go unto the palace, and take the fleetest horse that thou seest, and go after her." And he took a horse and went forward. And he came to an open, level plain, and put spurs to his horse; and the more he urged his horse, the further was she from him. And he returned to the place where Pwyll was, and said, "Lord, it will avail nothing for any one to follow yonder lady. I know of no horse in these realms swifter than this, and it availed me not to pursue her." "Of a truth," said Pwyll, "there must be some illusion here; let us go towards the palace." So to the palace they went, and spent the day. And the next day they amused themselves until it was time to go to meat. And when meat was ended, Pwyll said, "Where are the hosts that went yesterday to the top of the mound?" "Behold, lord, we are here," said they. "Let us go," said he, "to the mound, and sit there. And do thou," said he to the page who tended his horse, "saddle my horse well, and hasten with him to the road, and bring also my spurs with thee." And the youth did thus. And they went and sat upon the mound; and ere they had been there but a short time, they beheld the lady coming by the same road, and in the same manner, and at the same pace. "Young man," said Pwyll, "I see the lady coming; give me my horse." And before he had mounted his horse she passed him. And he turned after her and followed her. And he let his horse go bounding playfully, and thought that he should soon come up with her. But he came no nearer to her than at first. Then he urged his horse to his utmost speed, yet he found that it availed not. Then said Pwyll, "O maiden, for the sake of him whom thou best lovest, stay for me." "I will stay gladly," said she; "and it were better for thy horse hadst thou asked it long since." So the maiden stopped; and she threw back that part of her head-dress which covered her face. Then he thought that the beauty of all the maidens and all the ladies that he had ever seen was as nothing compared to her beauty. "Lady," he said, "wilt thou tell me aught concerning thy purpose?" "I will tell thee," said she; "my chief quest was to see thee." "Truly," said Pwyll, "this is to me the most pleasing quest on which thou couldst have come; and wilt thou tell me who thou art?" "I will tell thee, lord," said she. "I am Rhiannon, the daughter of Heveydd, and they sought to give me a husband against my will. But no husband would I have, and that because of my love for thee; neither will I yet have one, unless thou reject me; and hither have I come to hear thy answer." "By Heaven," said Pwyll, "behold this is my answer. If I might choose among all the ladies and damsels in the world, thee would I choose." "Verily," said she, "if thou art thus minded, make a pledge to meet me ere I am given to another." "The sooner I may do so, the more pleasing will it be to me," said Pwyll; "and wheresoever thou wilt, there will I meet with thee." "I will that thou meet me this day twelvemonth at the palace of Heveydd." "Gladly," said he, "will I keep this tryst." So they parted, and he went back to his hosts, and to them of his household. And whatsoever questions they asked him respecting the damsel, he always turned the discourse upon other matters. And when a year from that time was gone, he caused a hundred knights to equip themselves, and to go with him to the palace of Heveydd. And he came to the palace, and there was great joy concerning him, with much concourse of people, and great rejoicing, and vast preparations for his coming. And the whole court was placed under his orders. And the hall was garnished, and they went to meat, and thus did they sit: Heveydd was on one side of Pwyll, and Rhiannon on the other; and all the rest according to their rank. And they ate and feasted, and talked one with another. And at the beginning of the carousal after the meat, there entered a tall, auburn-haired youth, of royal bearing, clothed in a garment of satin. And when he came into the hall, he saluted Pwyll and his companions. "The greeting of Heaven be unto thee," said Pwyll; "come thou and sit down." "Nay," said he, "a suitor am I, and I will do my errand." "Do so willingly," said Pwyll. "Lord," said he, "my errand is unto thee, and it is to crave a boon of thee that I come." "What boon soever thou mayest ask of me, so far as I am able, thou shalt have." "Ah!" said Rhiannon, "wherefore didst thou give that answer?" "Has he not given it before the presence of these nobles?" asked the youth. "My soul," said Pwyll, "what is the boon thou askest?" "The lady whom best I love is to be thy bride this night; I come to ask her of thee, with the feast and the banquet that are in this place." And Pwyll was silent, because of the promise which he had given. "Be silent as long as thou wilt," said Rhiannon, "never did man make worse use of his wits than thou hast done." "Lady," said he, "I knew not who he was." "Behold, this is the man to whom they would have given me against my will," said she; "and he is Gawl, the son of Clud, a man of great power and wealth, and because of the word thou hast spoken, bestow me upon him, lest shame befall thee." "Lady," said he, "I understand not thy answer; never can I do as thou sayest." "Bestow me upon him," said she, "and I will cause that I shall never be his." "By what means will that be?" asked Pwyll. Then she told him the thought that was in her mind. And they talked long together. Then Gawl said, "Lord, it is meet that I have an answer to my request." "As much of that thou hast asked as it is in my power to give, thou shalt have," replied Pwyll. "My soul," said Rhiannon unto Gawl, "as for the feast and the banquet that are here, I have bestowed them upon the men of Dyved, and the household and the warriors that are with us. These can I not suffer to be given to any. In a year from to-night, a banquet shall be prepared for thee in this palace, that I may become thy bride." So Gawl went forth to his possessions, and Pwyll went also back to Dyved. And they both spent that year until it was the time for the feast at the palace of Heveydd. Then Gawl, the son of Clud, set out to the feast that was prepared for him; and he came to the palace, and was received there with rejoicing. Pwyll, also, the chief of Dyved, came to the orchard with a hundred knights, as Rhiannon had commanded him. And Pwyll was clad in coarse and ragged garments, and wore large, clumsy old shoes upon his feet. And when he knew that the carousal after the meat had begun, he went toward the hall; and when he came into the hall he saluted Gawl, the son of Clud, and his company, both men and women. "Heaven prosper thee," said Gawl, "and friendly greeting be unto thee!" "Lord," said he, "may Heaven reward thee! I have an errand unto thee." "Welcome be thine errand, and if thou ask of me that which is right, thou shalt have it gladly." "It is fitting," answered he; "I crave but from want, and the boon I ask is to have this small bag that thou seest filled with meat." "A request within reason is this," said he, "and gladly shalt thou have it. Bring him food." A great number of attendants arose and began to fill the bag; but for all they put into it, it was no fuller than at first. "My soul," said Gawl, "will thy bag ever be full?" "It will not, I declare to Heaven," said he, "for all that may be put into it, unless one possessed of lands, and domains, and treasure, shall arise and tread down with both his feet the food that is within the bag, and shall say, 'Enough has been put therein.'" Then said Rhiannon unto Gawl, the son of Clud, "Rise up quickly." "I will willingly arise," said he. So he rose up, and put his two feet into the bag. And Pwyll turned up the sides of the bag, so that Gawl was over his head in it. And he shut it up quickly, and slipped a knot upon the thongs, and blew his horn. And thereupon, behold, his knights came down upon the palace. And they seized all the host that had come with Gawl, and cast them into his own prison. And Pwyll threw off his rags, and his old shoes, and his tattered array. And as they came in, every one of Pwyll's knights struck a blow upon the bag, and asked, "What is here?" "A badger," said they. And in this manner they played, each of them striking the bag, either with his foot or with a staff. And thus played they with the bag. And then was the game of Badger in the Bag first played. "Lord," said the man in the bag, "if thou wouldst but hear me, I merit not to be slain in a bag." Said Heveydd, "Lord, he speaks truth; it were fitting that thou listen to him, for he deserves not this." "Verily," said Pwyll, "I will do thy counsel concerning him." "Behold, this is my counsel then," said Rhiannon. "Thou art now in a position in which it behooves thee to satisfy suitors and minstrels. Let him give unto them in thy stead, and take a pledge from him that he will never seek to revenge that which has been done to him. And this will be punishment enough." "I will do this gladly," said the man in the bag. "And gladly will I accept it," said Pwyll, "since it is the counsel of Heveydd and Rhiannon. Seek thyself sureties." "We will be for him," said Heveydd, "until his men be free to answer for him." And upon this he was let out of the bag, and his liegemen were liberated. "Verily, lord," said Gawl, "I am greatly hurt, and I have many bruises. With thy leave, I will go forth. I will leave nobles in my stead to answer for me in all that thou shalt require." "Willingly," said Pwyll, "mayest thou do this." So Gawl went to his own possessions. And the hall was set in order for Pwyll and the men of his host, and for them also of the palace, and they went to the tables and sat down. And as they had sat that time twelvemonth, so sat they that night. And they ate and feasted, and spent the night in mirth and tranquility. And the time came that they should sleep, and Pwyll and Rhiannon went to their chamber. And next morning at break of day, "My lord," said Rhiannon, "arise and begin to give thy gifts unto the minstrels. Refuse no one to- day that may claim thy bounty." "Thus shall it be gladly," said Pwyll, "both to-day and every day while the feast shall last." So Pwyll arose, and he caused silence to be proclaimed, and desired all the suitors and minstrels to show and to point out what gifts they desired. And this being done, the feast went on, and he denied no one while it lasted. And when the feast was ended, Pwyll said unto Heveydd, "My lord, with thy permission, I will set out for Dyved to-morrow." "Certainly," said Heveydd; "may Heaven prosper thee! Fix also a time when Rhiannon shall follow thee." "By Heaven," said Pwyll, "we will go hence together." "Willest thou this, lord?" said Heveydd. "Yes, lord," answered Pwyll. And the next, day they set forward towards Dyved, and journeyed to the palace of Narberth, where a feast was made ready for them. And there came to them great numbers of the chief men and the most noble ladies of the land, and of these there were none to whom Rhiannon did not give some rich gift, either a bracelet, or a ring, or a precious stone. And they ruled the land prosperously that year and the next. CHAPTER IX BRANWEN, THE DAUGHTER OF LLYR Bendigeid Vran, the son of Llyr, was the crowned king of this island, and he was exalted from the crown of London. And one afternoon he was at Harlech, in Ardudwy, at his court; and he sat upon the rock of Harlech, looking over the sea. And with him were his brother, Manawyddan, the son of Llyr, and his brothers by the mother's side, Nissyen and Evnissyen, and many nobles likewise, as was fitting to see around a king. His two brothers by the mother's side were the sons of Euroswydd, and one of these youths was a good youth, and of gentle nature, and would make peace between his kindred, and cause his family to be friends when their wrath was at the highest, and this one was Nissyen; but the other would cause strife between his two brothers when they were most at peace. And as they sat thus they beheld thirteen ships coming from the south of Ireland, and making towards them; and they came with a swift motion, the wind being behind them; and they neared them rapidly. "I see ships afar," said the king, "coming swiftly towards the land. Command the men of the court that they equip themselves, and go and learn their intent." So the men equipped themselves, and went down towards them. And when they saw the ships near, certain were they that they had never seen ships better furnished. Beautiful flags of satin were upon them. And, behold, one of the ships outstripped the others, and they saw a shield lifted up above the side of the ship, and the point of the shield was upwards, in token of peace. And the men drew near, that they might hold converse. Then they put out boats, and came toward the land. And they saluted the king. Now the king could hear them from the place where he was upon the rock above their heads. "Heaven prosper you." said he, "and be ye welcome! To whom do these ships belong, and who is the chief amongst you?" "Lord," said they, "Matholch, king of Ireland, is here, and these ships belong to him." "Wherefore comes he?" asked the king, "and will he come to the land?" "He is a suitor unto thee, lord," said they, "and he will not land unless he have his boon." "And what may that be?" inquired the king. "He desires to ally himself, lord, with thee," said they, "and he comes to ask Branwen, the daughter of Llyr, that, if it seem well to thee, the Island of the Mighty [Footnote: The Island of the Mighty is one of the many names bestowed upon Britain by the Welsh.] may be leagued with Ireland, and both become more powerful." "Verily," said he, "let him come to land, and we will take counsel thereupon." And this answer was brought to Matholch. "I will go willingly," said he. So he landed, and they received him joyfully; and great was the throng in the palace that night, between his hosts and those of the court; and next day they took counsel, and they resolved to bestow Branwen upon Matholch. Now she was one of the three chief ladies of this island, and she was the fairest damsel in the world. And they fixed upon Aberfraw as the place where she should become his bride. And they went thence, and towards Aberfraw the hosts proceeded, Matholch and his host in their ships, Bendigeid Vran and his host by land, until they came to Aberfraw. And at Aberfraw they began the feast, and sat down. And thus sat they: the king of the Island of the Mighty and Manawyddan, the son of Llyr, on one side, and Matholch on the other side, and Branwen, the daughter of Llyr, beside him. And they were not within a house, but under tents. No house could ever contain Bendigeid Vran. And they began the banquet, and caroused and discoursed. And when it was more pleasing to them to sleep than to carouse, they went to rest, and Branwen became Matholch's bride. And next day they arose, and all they of the court, and the officers began to equip, and to range the horses and the attendants, and they ranged them in order as far as the sea. And, behold, one day Evnissyen, the quarrelsome man, of whom it is spoken above, came by chance into the place where the horses of Matholch were, and asked whose horses they might be. "They are the horses of Matholch, king of Ireland, who is married to Branwen, thy sister; his horses are they." "And is it thus they have done with a maiden such as she, and moreover my sister, bestowing her without my consent? They could have offered no greater insult to me than this," said he. And thereupon he rushed under the horses, and cut off their lips at the teeth, and their ears close to their heads, and their tails close to their backs; and he disfigured the horses, and rendered them useless. And they came with these tidings unto Matholch, saying that the horses were disfigured and injured, so that not one of them could ever be of any use again. "Verily, lord," said one, "it was an insult unto thee, and as such was it meant." "Of a truth, it is a marvel to me that, if they desire to insult me, they should have given me a maiden of such high rank, and so much beloved of her kindred, as they have done." "Lord," said another, "thou seest that thus it is, and there is nothing for thee to do but to go to thy ships." And thereupon towards his ships he set out. And tidings came to Bendigeid Vran that Matholch was quitting the court without asking leave, and messengers were sent to inquire of him wherefore he did so. And the messengers that went were Iddic, the son of Anarawd, and Heveyd Hir. And these overtook him, and asked of him what he designed to do, and wherefore he went forth. "Of a truth," said he, "if I had known, I had not come hither. I have been altogether insulted; no one had ever worse treatment than I have had here." "Truly, lord, it was not the will of any that are of the court," said they, "nor of any that are of the council, that thou shouldst have received this insult; and as thou hast been insulted, the dishonor is greater unto Bendigeid Vran than unto thee." "Verily," said he, "I think so. Nevertheless, he cannot recall the insult." These men returned with that answer to the place where Bendigeid Vran was, and they told him what reply Matholch had given them. "Truly," said he, "there are no means by which we may prevent his going away at enmity with us that we will not take." "Well, lord," said they, "send after him another embassy." "I will do so," said he. "Arise, Manawyddan, son of Llyr, and Heveyd Hir, and go after him, and tell him that he shall have a sound horse for every one that has been injured. And beside that, as an atonement for the insult, he shall have a staff of silver as large and as tall as himself, and a plate of gold of the breadth of his face. And show unto him who it was that did this, and that it was done against my will; but that he who did it is my brother, and therefore it would be hard for me to put him to death. And let him come and meet me," said he, "and we will make peace in any way he may desire." The embassy went after Matholch, and told him all these sayings in a friendly manner; and he listened thereunto. "Men," said he, "I will take counsel." So to the council he went. And in the council they considered that, if they should refuse this, they were likely to have more shame rather than to obtain so great an atonement. They resolved, therefore, to accept it, and they returned to the court in peace. Then the pavilions and the tents were set in order, after the fashion of a hall; and they went to meat, and as they had sat at the beginning of the feast so sat they there. And Matholch and Bendigeid Vran began to discourse; and, behold, it seemed to Bendigeid Vran, while they talked, that Matholch was not so cheerful as he had been before. And he thought that the chieftain might be sad because of the smallness of the atonement which he had for the wrong that had been done him. "O man," said Bendigeid Vran, "thou dost not discourse to-night so cheerfully as thou wast wont. And if it be because of the smallness of the atonement, thou shalt add thereunto whatsoever thou mayest choose, and to-morrow I will pay thee for the horses." "Lord," said he, "Heaven reward thee!" "And I will enhance the atonement," said Bendigeid Vran, "for I will give unto thee a caldron, the property of which is, that if one of thy men be slain to-day, and be cast therein, to- morrow he will be as well as ever he was at the best, except that he will not regain his speech." And thereupon he gave him great thanks, and very joyful was he for that cause. That night they continued to discourse as much as they would, and had minstrelsy and carousing; and when it was more pleasant to them to sleep than to sit longer, they went to rest. And thus was the banquet carried on with joyousness; and when it was finished, Matholch journeyed towards Ireland, and Branwen with him; and they went from Aber Menei with thirteen ships, and came to Ireland. And in Ireland was there great joy because of their coming. And not one great man nor noble lady visited Branwen unto whom she gave not either a clasp or a ring, or a royal jewel to keep, such as it was honorable to be seen departing with. And in these things she spent that year in much renown, and she passed her time pleasantly, enjoying honor and friendship. And in due time a son was born unto her, and the name that they gave him was Gwern, the son of Matholch, and they put the boy out to be nursed in a place where were the best men of Ireland. And, behold, in the second year a tumult arose in Ireland, on account of the insult which Matholch had received in Wales, and the payment made him for his horses. And his foster-brothers, and such as were nearest to him, blamed him openly for that matter. And he might have no peace by reason of the tumult, until they should revenge upon him this disgrace. And the vengeance which they took was to drive away Branwen from the same chamber with him, and to make her cook for the court; and they caused the butcher, after he had cut up the meat, to come to her and give her every day a blow on the ear; and such they made her punishment. "Verily, lord," said his men to Matholch, "forbid now the ships and the ferry-boats, and the coracles, that they go not into Wales, and such as come over from Wales hither, imprison them, that they go not back for this thing to be known there." And he did so; and it was thus for no less than three years. And Branwen reared a starling in the cover of the kneading-trough, and she taught it to speak, and she taught the bird what manner of man her brother was. And she wrote a letter of her woes, and the despite with which she was treated, and she bound the letter to the root of the bird's wing, and sent it toward Wales. And the bird came to that island; and one day it found Bendigeid Vran at Caer Seiont in Arvon, conferring there, and it alighted upon his shoulder, and ruffled its feathers, so that the letter was seen, and they knew that the bird had been reared in a domestic manner. Then Bendigeid Vran took the letter and looked upon it. And when he had read the letter, he grieved exceedingly at the tidings of Branwen's woes. And immediately he began sending messengers to summon the island together. And he caused seven-score and four of his chief men to come unto him, and he complained to them of the grief that his sister endured. So they took counsel. And in the counsel they resolved to go to Ireland, and to leave seven men as princes at home, and Caradoc, [Footnote: Caractacus.] the son of Bran, as the chief of them. Bendigeid Vran, with the host of which we spoke, sailed towards Ireland; and it was not far across the sea, and he came to shoal water. Now the swine-herds of Matholch were upon the sea-shore, and they came to Matholch. "Lord," said they, "greeting be unto thee." "Heaven protect you!" said he; "have you any news?" "Lord," said they, "we have marvellous news. A wood have we seen upon the sea, in a place where we never yet saw a single tree." "This is indeed a marvel," said he; "saw you aught else?" "We saw, lord," said they, "a vast mountain beside the wood, which moved, and there was a lofty ridge on the top of the mountain, and a lake on each side of the ridge. And the wood and the mountain, and all these things, moved." "Verily," said he, "there is none who can know aught concerning this unless it be Branwen." Messengers then went unto Branwen. "Lady," said they, "what thinkest thou that this is?" "The men of the Island of the Mighty, who have come hither on hearing of my ill-treatment and of my woes." "What is the forest that is seen upon the sea?" asked they. "The yards and the masts of ships," she answered. "Alas!" said they; "what is the mountain that is seen by the side of the ships?" "Bendigeid Vran, my brother," she replied, "coming to shoal water, and he is wading to the land." "What is the lofty ridge, with the lake on each side thereof?" "On looking towards this island he is wroth, and his two eyes on each side of his nose are the two lakes on each side of the ridge." The warriors and chief men of Ireland were brought together in haste, and they took counsel. "Lord," said the neighbors unto Matholch, "there is no other counsel than this alone. Thou shalt give the kingdom to Gwern, the son of Branwen his sister, as a compensation for the wrong and despite that have been done unto Branwen. And he will make peace with thee." And in the council it was resolved that this message should be sent to Bendigeid Vran, lest the country should be destroyed. And this peace was made. And Matholch caused a great house to be built for Bendigeid Vran, and his host. Thereupon came the hosts into the house. The men of the island of Ireland entered the house on the one side, and the men of the Island of the Mighty on the other. And as soon as they had sat down, there was concord between them; and the sovereignty was conferred upon the boy. When the peace was concluded, Bendigeid Vran called the boy unto him, and from Bendigeid Vran the boy went unto Manawyddan; and he was beloved by all that beheld him. And from Manawyddan the boy was called by Nissyen, the son of Euroswydd, and the boy went unto him lovingly. "Wherefore," said Evnissyen, "comes not my nephew, the son of my sister, unto me? Though he were not king of Ireland, yet willingly would I fondle the boy." "Cheerfully let him go to thee," said Bendigeid Vran; and the boy went unto him cheerfully. "By my confession to Heaven," said Evnissyen in his heart, "unthought of is the slaughter that I will this instant commit." Then he arose and took up the boy, and before any one in the house could seize hold of him he thrust the boy headlong into the blazing fire. And when Branwen saw her son burning in the fire, she strove to leap into the fire also, from the place where she sat between her two brothers. But Bendigeid Vran grasped her with one hand, and his shield with the other. Then they all hurried about the house, and never was there made so great a tumult by any host in one house as was made by them, as each man armed himself. And while they all sought their arms Bendigeid Vran supported Branwen between his shield and his shoulder. And they fought. Then the Irish kindled a fire under the caldron of renovation, and they cast the dead bodies into the caldron until it was full; and the next day they came forth fighting men, as good as before, except that they were not able to speak. Then when Evnissyen saw the dead bodies of the men of the Island of the Mighty nowhere resuscitated, he said in his heart, "Alas! woe is me, that I should have been the cause of bringing the men of the Island of the Mighty into so great a strait. Evil betide me if I find not a deliverance therefrom." And he cast himself among the dead bodies of the Irish; and two unshod Irishmen came to him, and, taking him to be one of the Irish, flung him into the caldron. And he stretched himself out in the caldron, so that he rent the caldron into four pieces, and burst his own heart also. In consequence of this, the men of the Island of the Mighty obtained such success as they had; but they were not victorious, for only seven men of them all escaped, and Bendigeid Vran himself was wounded in the foot with a poisoned dart. Now the men that escaped were Pryderi, Manawyddan, Taliesin, and four others. And Bendigeid Vran commanded them that they should cut off his head. "And take you my head," said he, "and bear it even unto the White Mount in London, and bury it there with the face towards France. And so long as it lies there, no enemy shall ever land on the island." So they cut off his head, and these seven went forward therewith. And Branwen was the eighth with them. And they came to land on Aber Alaw, and they sat down to rest. And Branwen looked towards Ireland, and towards the Island of the Mighty, to see if she could descry them. "Alas!" said she, "woe is me that I was ever born; two islands have been destroyed because of me." Then she uttered a groan, and there broke her heart. And they made her a four-sided grave, and buried her upon the banks of the Alaw. Then the seven men journeyed forward, bearing the head with them; and as they went, behold there met them a multitude of men and women. "Have you any tidings?" said Manawyddan. "We have none," said they, "save that Caswallawn, [Footnote: Cassivellaunus.] the son of Beli, has conquered the Island of the Mighty, and is crowned king in London." "What has become," said they, "of Caradoc, the son of Bran, and the seven men who were left with him in this island?" "Caswallawn came upon them, and slew six of the men, and Caradoc's heart broke for grief thereof." And the seven men journeyed on towards London, and they buried the head in the White Mount, as Bendigeid Vran had directed them. [Footnote: There is a Triad upon the story of the head buried under the White Tower of London, as a charm against invasion. Arthur, it seems, proudly disinterred the head, preferring to hold the island by his own strength alone.] CHAPTER X MANAWYDDAN Pwyll and Rhiannon had a son, whom they named Pryderi. And when he was grown up, Pwyll, his father, died. And Pryderi married Kicva, the daughter of Gwynn Gloy. Now Manawyddan returned from the war in Ireland, and he found that his cousin had seized all his possessions, and much grief and heaviness came upon him. "Alas! woe is me!" he exclaimed; "there is none save myself without a home and a resting-place." "Lord," said Pryderi, "be not so sorrowful. Thy cousin is king of the Island of the Mighty, and though he has done thee wrong, thou hast never been a claimant of land or possessions." "Yea," answered he, "but although this man is my cousin, it grieveth me to see any one in the place of my brother, Bendigeid Vran; neither can I be happy in the same dwelling with him." "Wilt thou follow the counsel of another?" said Pryderi. "I stand in need of counsel," he answered, "and what may that counsel be?" "Seven cantrevs belong unto me," said Pryderi, "wherein Rhiannon, my mother, dwells. I will bestow her upon thee, and the seven cantrevs with her; and though thou hadst no possessions but those cantrevs only, thou couldst not have any fairer than they. Do thou and Rhiannon enjoy them, and if thou desire any possessions thou wilt not despise these." "I do not, chieftain," said he. "Heaven reward thee for the friendship! I will go with thee to seek Rhiannon, and to look at thy possessions." "Thou wilt do well," he answered; "and I believe that thou didst never hear a lady discourse better than she, and when she was in her prime, none was ever fairer. Even now her aspect is not uncomely." They set forth, and, however long the journey, they came at last to Dyved; and a feast was prepared for them by Rhiannon and Kicva. Then began Manawyddan and Rhiannon to sit and to talk together; and his mind and his thoughts became warmed towards her, and he thought in his heart he had never beheld any lady more fulfilled of grace and beauty than she. "Pryderi," said he, "I will that it be as thou didst say." "What saying was that?" asked Rhiannon. "Lady," said Pryderi, "I did offer thee as a wife to Manawyddan, the son of Llyr." "By that will I gladly abide," said Rhiannon. "Right glad am I also," said Manawyddan, "may Heaven reward him who hath shown unto me friendship so perfect as this!" And before the feast was over she became his bride. Said Pryderi, "Tarry ye here the rest of the feast, and I will go into England to tender my homage unto Caswallawn, the son of Beli." "Lord," said Rhiannon, "Caswallawn is in Kent; thou mayest therefore tarry at the feast, and wait until he shall be nearer." "We will wait," he answered. So they finished the feast. And they began to make the circuit of Dyved, and to hunt, and to take their pleasure. And as they went through the country, they had never seen lands more pleasant to live in, nor better hunting grounds, nor greater plenty of honey and fish. And such was the friendship between these four, that they would not be parted from each other by night nor by day. And in the midst of all this he went to Caswallawn at Oxford, and tendered his homage; and honorable was his reception there, and highly was he praised for offering his homage. And after his return Pryderi and Manawyddan feasted and took their ease and pleasure. And they began a feast at Narberth, for it was the chief palace. And when they had ended the first meal, while those who served them ate, they arose and went forth, and proceeded to the Gorsedd, that is, the Mount of Narberth, and their retinue with them. And as they sat thus, behold a peal of thunder, and with the violence of the thunder-storm, lo! there came a fall of mist, so thick that not one of them could see the other. And after the mist it became light all around. And when they looked towards the place where they were wont to see the cattle and herds and dwellings, they saw nothing now, neither house, nor beast, nor smoke, nor fire, nor man, nor dwelling, but the buildings of the court empty, and desert, and uninhabited, without either man or beast within them. And truly all their companions were lost to them, without their knowing aught of what had befallen them, save those four only. "In the name of Heaven," said Manawyddan, "where are they of the court, and all my host beside? Let us go and see." So they came to the castle, and saw no man, and into the hall, and to the sleeping-place, and there was none; and in the mead-cellar and in the kitchen there was naught but desolation. Then they began to go through the land, and all the possessions that they had; and they visited the houses and dwellings, and found nothing but wild beasts. And when they had consumed their feast and all their provisions, they fed upon the prey they killed in hunting, and the honey of the wild swans. And one morning Pryderi and Manawyddan rose up to hunt, and they ranged their dogs and went forth. And some of the dogs ran before them, and came to a bush which was near at hand; but as soon as they were come to the bush, they hastily drew back, and returned to the men, their hair bristling up greatly. "Let us go near to the bush," said Pryderi, "and see what is in it." And as they came near, behold, a wild boar of a pure white color rose up from the bush. Then the dogs, being set on by the men, rushed towards him; but he left the bush, and fell back a little way from the men, and made a stand against the dogs, without retreating from them, until the men had come near. And when the men came up, he fell back a second time, and betook him to flight. Then they pursued the boar until they beheld a vast and lofty castle, all newly built, in a place where they had never before seen either stone or building. And the boar ran swiftly into the castle, and the dogs after him. Now when the boar and the dogs had gone into the castle, the men began to wonder at finding a castle in a place where they had never before seen any building whatsoever. And from the top of the Gorsedd they looked and listened for the dogs. But so long as they were there, they heard not one of the dogs, nor aught concerning them. "Lord," said Pryderi, "I will go into the castle to get tidings of the dogs." "Truly," he replied, "thou wouldst be unwise to go into this castle, which thou hast never seen till now. If thou wouldst follow my counsel, thou wouldst not enter therein. Whosoever has cast a spell over this land, has caused this castle to be here." "Of a truth," answered Pryderi, "I cannot thus give up my dogs." And for all the counsel that Manawyddan gave him, yet to the castle he went. When he came within the castle, neither man nor beast, nor boar, nor dogs, nor house, nor dwelling, saw he within it. But in the centre of the castle-floor he beheld a fountain with marble-work around it, and on the margin of the fountain a golden bowl upon a marble slab, and chains hanging from the air, to which he saw no end. And he was greatly pleased with the beauty of the gold, and with the rich workmanship of the bowl; and he went up to the bowl, and laid hold of it. And when he had taken hold of its his hands stuck to the bowl, and his feet to the slab on which the bowl was placed; and all his joyousness forsook him, so that he could not utter a word. And thus he stood. And Manawyddan waited for him till near the close of the day. And late in the evening, being certain that he should have no tidings of Pryderi or the dogs, he went back to the palace. And as he entered, Rhiannon looked at him. "Where," said she, "are thy companion and thy dogs?" "Behold," he answered, "the adventure that has befallen me." And he related it all unto her. "An evil companion hast thou been," said Rhiannon, "and a good companion hast thou lost." And with that word she went out, and proceeded towards the castle, according to the direction which he gave her. The gate of the castle she found open. She was nothing daunted, and she went in. And as she went in, she perceived Pryderi laying hold of the bowl, and she went towards him. "O my lord," said she, "what dost thou here?" And she took hold of the bowl with him; and as she did so, her hands also became fast to the bowl, and her feet to the slab, and she was not able to utter a word. And with that, as it became night, lo! there came thunder upon them, and a fall of mist; and thereupon the castle vanished, and they with it. When Kicva, the daughter of Gwynn Gloy, saw that there was no one in the palace but herself and Manawyddan, she sorrowed so that she cared not whether she lived or died. And Manawyddan saw this. "Thou art in the wrong," said he, "if through fear of me thou grievest thus. I call Heaven to witness that thou hast never seen friendship more pure than that which I will bear thee as long as Heaven will that thou shouldst be thus. I declare to thee, that, were I in the dawn of youth, I would keep my faith unto Pryderi, and unto thee also will I keep it. Be there no fear upon thee, therefore." "Heaven reward thee!" she said; "and that is what I deemed of thee." And the damsel thereupon took courage, and was glad. "Truly, lady," said Manawyddan, "it is not fitting for us to stay here; we have lost our dogs, and cannot get food. Let us go into England; it is easiest for us to find support there." "Gladly, lord," said she, "we will do so." And they set forth together to England. "Lord," said she, "what craft wilt thou follow? Take up one that is seemly." "None other will I take," answered he, "but that of making shoes." "Lord," said she, "such a craft becomes not a man so nobly born as thou." "By that however will I abide," said he. "I know nothing thereof," said Kicva. "But I know," answered Manawyddan, "and I will teach thee to stitch. We will not attempt to dress the leather, but we will buy it ready dressed, and will make the shoes from it." So they went into England, and went as far as Hereford; and they betook themselves to making shoes. And he began by buying the best cordwain that could be had in the town, and none other would buy. And he associated himself with the best goldsmith in the town, and caused him to make clasps for the shoes, and to gild the clasps; and he marked how it was done until he learned the method. And therefore is he called one of the three makers of gold shoes. And when they could be had from him, not a shoe nor hose was bought of any of the cordwainers in the town. But when the cordwainers perceived that their gains were failing (for as Manawyddan shaped the work, so Kicva stitched it), they came together and took counsel, and agreed that they would slay them. And he had warning thereof, and it was told him how the cordwainers had agreed together to slay him. "Lord," said Kicva, "wherefore should this be borne from these boors?" "Nay," said he, "we will go back unto Dyved." So towards Dyved they set forth. Now Manawyddan, when he set out to return to Dyved, took with him a burden of wheat. And he proceeded towards Narberth, and there he dwelt. And never was he better pleased than when he saw Narberth again, and the lands where he had been wont to hunt with Pryderi and with Rhiannon. And he accustomed himself to fish, and to hunt the deer in their covert. And then he began to prepare some ground, and he sowed a croft, and a second, and a third. And no wheat in the world ever sprung up better. And the three crofts prospered with perfect growth, and no man ever saw fairer wheat than it. And thus passed the seasons of the year until the harvest came. And he went to look at one of his crofts, and, behold, it was ripe. "I will reap this to-morrow," said he. And that night he went back to Narberth, and on the morrow, in the gray dawn, he went to reap the croft; and when he came there, he found nothing but the bare straw. Every one of the ears of the wheat was cut off from the stalk, and all the ears carried entirely away, and nothing but the straw left. And at this he marvelled greatly. Then he went to look at another croft, and, behold, that also was ripe. "Verily," said he, "this will I reap to-morrow." And on the morrow he came with the intent to reap it; and when he came there, he found nothing but the bare straw. "O gracious Heaven!" he exclaimed. "I know that whosoever has begun my ruin is completing it, and has also destroyed the country with me." Then he went to look at the third croft; and when he came there, finer wheat had there never been seen, and this also was ripe. "Evil betide me," said he, "if I watch not here to-night. Whoever carried off the other corn will come in like manner to take this, and I will know who it is." And he told Kicva all that had befallen. "Verily," said she, "what thinkest thou to do?" "I will watch the croft to-night," said he. And he went to watch the croft. And at midnight he heard something stirring among the wheat; and he looked, and behold, the mightiest host of mice in the world, which could neither be numbered nor measured. And he knew not what it was until the mice had made their way into the croft, and each of them, climbing up the straw, and bending it down with its weight, had cut off one of the ears of wheat, and had carried it away, leaving there the stalk; and he saw not a single straw there that had not a mouse to it. And they all took their way, carrying the ears with them. In wrath and anger did he rush upon the mice; but he could no more come up with them than if they had been gnats or birds of the air, except one only, which, though it was but sluggish, went so fast that a man on foot could scarce overtake it. And after this one he went, and he caught it, and put it in his glove, and tied up the opening of the glove with a string, and kept it with him, and returned to the palace. Then he came to the hall where Kicva was, and he lighted a fire, and hung the glove by the string upon a peg. "What hast thou there, lord?" said Kicva. "A thief," said he, "that I found robbing me." "What kind of a thief may it be, lord, that thou couldst put into thy glove?" said she. Then he told her how the mice came to the last of the fields in his sight. "And one of them was less nimble than the rest, and is now in my glove; to- morrow I will hang it." "My lord," said she, "this is marvellous; but yet it would be unseemly for a man of dignity like thee to be hanging such a reptile as this." "Woe betide me," said he, "if I would not hang them all, could I catch them, and such as I have I will hang." "Verily, lord," said she, "there is no reason that I should succor this reptile, except to prevent discredit unto thee. Do therefore, lord, as thou wilt." Then he went to the Mound of Narberth, taking the mouse with him. And he set up two forks on the highest part of the mound. And while he was doing this, behold, he saw a scholar coming towards him, in old and poor and tattered garments. And it was now seven years since he had seen in that place either man or beast, except those four persons who had remained together until two of them were lost. "My lord," said the scholar, "good-day to thee." "Heaven prosper thee, and my greeting be unto thee! And whence dost thou come, scholar?" asked he. "I come, lord, from singing in England; and wherefore dost thou inquire?" "Because for the last seven years," answered he, "I have seen no man here save four secluded persons, and thyself this moment." "Truly, lord," said he, "I go through this land unto mine own. And what work art thou upon, lord?" "I am hanging a thief that I caught robbing me," said he. "What manner of thief is that?" asked the scholar. "I see a creature in thy hand like unto a mouse, and ill does it become a man of rank equal to thine to touch a reptile such as this. Let it go forth free." "I will not let it go free, by Heaven," said he; "I caught it robbing me, and the doom of a thief will I inflict upon it, and I will hang it." "Lord," said he, "rather than see a man of rank equal to thine at such a work as this, I would give thee a pound, which I have received as alms, to let the reptile go forth free." "I will not let it go free," said he, "neither will I sell it." "As thou wilt, lord," he answered; "I care naught." And the scholar went his way. And as he was placing the cross-beam upon the two forks, behold, a priest came towards him, upon a horse covered with trappings. "Good day to thee, lord," said he. "Heaven prosper thee!" said Manawyddan; "thy blessing." "The blessing of Heaven be upon thee! And what, lord, art thou doing?" "I am hanging a thief that I caught robbing me," said he. "What manner of thief, lord?" asked he. "A creature," he answered, "in form of a mouse. It has been robbing me, and I am inflicting upon it the doom of a thief." "Lord," said he, "rather than see thee touch this reptile, I would purchase its freedom." "By my confession to Heaven, neither will I sell it nor set it free." "It is true, lord, that it is worth nothing to buy; but rather than see thee defile thyself by touching such a reptile as this, I will give thee three pounds to let it go." "I will not, by Heaven," said he, "take any price for it. As it ought, so shall it be hanged." And the priest went his way. Then he noosed the string around the mouse's neck, and as he was about to draw it up, behold, he saw a bishop's retinue, with his sumpter-horses and his attendants. And the bishop himself came towards him. And he stayed his work. "Lord Bishop," said he, "thy blessing." "Heaven's blessing be unto thee!" said he. "What work art thou upon?" "Hanging a thief that I caught robbing me," said he. "Is not that a mouse that I see in thy hand?" "Yes," answered he, "and she has robbed me." "Ay," said he, "since I have come at the doom of this reptile I will ransom it of thee. I will give thee seven pounds for it, and that rather than see a man of rank equal to thine destroying so vile a reptile as this. Let it loose, and thou shalt have the money." "I declare to Heaven that I will not let it loose." "If thou wilt not loose it for this, I will give thee four and twenty pounds of ready money to set it free." "I will not set it free, by Heaven, for as much again," said he. "If thou wilt not set it free for this, I will give thee all the horses that thou seest in this plain, and the seven loads of baggage, and the seven horses that they are upon." "By Heaven, I will not," he replied. "Since for this thou wilt not set it free, do so at what price soever thou wilt." "I will that Rhiannon and Pryderi be free," said he. "That thou shalt have," he answered. "Not yet will I loose the mouse, by Heaven." "What then wouldst thou?" "That the charm and the illusion be removed from the seven cantrevs of Dyved." "This shalt thou have also; set therefore the mouse free." "I will not set it free, by Heaven," said he, "till I know who the mouse may be." "She is my wife." "Wherefore came she to me?" "To despoil thee," he answered. "I am Lloyd, the son of Kilwed, and I cast the charm over the seven cantrevs of Dyved. And it was to avenge Gawl, the son of Clud, from the friendship I had towards him, that I cast the charm. And upon Pryderi did I avenge Gawl, the son of Clud, for the game of Badger in the Bag, that Pwyll, the son of Auwyn, played upon him. And when it was known that thou wast come to dwell in the land, my household came and besought me to transform them into mice, that they might destroy thy corn. And they went the first and the second night, and destroyed thy two crops. And the third night came unto me my wife and the ladies of the court, and besought me to transform them. And I transformed them. Now she is not in her usual health. And had she been in her usual health, thou wouldst not have been able to overtake her; but since this has taken place, and she has been caught, I will restore to thee Pryderi and Rhiannon, and I will take the charm and illusion from off Dyved. Set her therefore free." "I will not set her free yet." "What wilt thou more?" he asked. "I will that there be no more charm upon the seven cantrevs of Dyved, and that none shall be put upon it henceforth; moreover, that vengeance be never taken for this, either upon Pryderi or Rhiannon, or upon me." "All this shalt thou have. And truly thou hast done wisely in asking this. Upon thy head would have lit all this trouble." "Yea," said he, "for fear thereof was it that I required this." "Set now my wife at liberty." "I will not," said he, "until I see Pryderi and Rhiannon with me free." "Behold, here they come," he answered. And thereupon behold Pryderi and Rhiannon. And he rose up to meet them, and greeted them, and sat down beside them. "Ah, chieftain, set now my wife at liberty," said the bishop. "Hast thou not received all thou didst ask?" "I will release her, gladly," said he. And thereupon he set her free. Then he struck her with a magic wand, and she was changed back into a young woman, the fairest ever seen. "Look round upon thy land," said he, "and thou wilt see it all tilled and peopled as it was in its best estate." And he rose up and looked forth. And when he looked he saw all the lands tilled, and full of herds and dwellings. And thus ends this portion of the Mabinogi. The following allusions to the preceding story are found in a letter of the poet Southey to John Rickman, Esq., dated June 6th, 1802: "You will read the Mabinogeon, concerning which I ought to have talked to you. In the last, that most odd and Arabian-like story of the mouse, mention is made of a begging scholar, that helps to the date; but where did the Cymri get the imagination that could produce such a tale? That enchantment of the basin hanging by the chain from heaven is in the wildest spirit of the Arabian Nights. I am perfectly astonished that such fictions should exist in Welsh. They throw no light on the origin of romance, everything being utterly dissimilar to what we mean by that term, but they do open a new world of fiction; and if the date of their language be fixed about the twelfth or thirteenth century, I cannot but think the mythological substance is of far earlier date; very probably brought from the East by some of the first settlers or conquerors." CHAPTER XI KILWICH AND OLWEN Kilydd, a son of Prince Kelyddon, desired a wife as a helpmate, and the wife that he chose was Goleudid, the daughter of Prince Anlawd. And after their union the people put up prayers that they might have an heir. And they had a son through the prayers of the people; and called his name Kilwich. After this the boy's mother, Goleudid, the daughter of Prince Anlawd, fell sick. Then she called her husband to her, and said to him, "Of this sickness I shall die, and thou wilt take another wife. Now wives are the gift of the Lord, but it would be wrong for thee to harm thy son. Therefore I charge thee that thou take not a wife until thou see a briar with two blossoms upon my grave." And this he promised her. Then she besought him to dress her grave every year, that no weeds might grow thereon. So the queen died. Now the king sent an attendant every morning to see if anything were growing upon the grave. And at the end of the seventh year they neglected that which they had promised to the queen. One day the king went to hunt; and he rode to the place of burial, to see the grave, and to know if it were time that he should take a wife: and the King saw the briar. And when he saw it, the king took counsel where he should find a wife. Said one of his counsellors, "I know a wife that will suit thee well; and she is the wife of King Doged." And they resolved to go to seek her; and they slew the king, and brought away his wife. And they conquered the kings' lands. And he married the widow of King Doged, the sister of Yspadaden Penkawr. And one day his stepmother said to Kilwich, "It were well for thee to have a wife." "I am not yet of an age to wed," answered the youth. Then said she unto him, "I declare to thee that it is thy destiny not to be suited with a wife until thou obtain Olwen, the daughter of Yspadaden Penkawr." And the youth blushed, and the love of the maiden diffused itself through all his frame, although he had never seen her. And his father inquired of him, "What has come over thee, my son, and what aileth thee?" "My stepmother has declared to me that I shall never have a wife until I obtain Olwen, the daughter of Yspadaden Penkawr." "That will be easy for thee," answered his father. "Arthur is thy cousin. Go, therefore, unto Arthur, to cut thy hair, and ask this of him as a boon." And the youth pricked forth upon a steed with head dappled gray, four winters old, firm of limb, with shell-formed hoofs, having a bridle of linked gold on his head, and upon him a saddle of costly gold. And in the youth's hand were two spears of silver, sharp, well-tempered, headed with steel, three ells in length, of an edge to wound the wind, and cause blood to flow, and swifter than the fall of the dew-drop from the blade of reed-grass, when the dew of June is at the heaviest. A gold-hilted sword was upon his thigh, the blade of which was gilded, bearing a cross of inlaid gold of the hue of the lightning of heaven. His war-horn was of ivory. Before him were two brindled, white-breasted greyhounds, having strong collars of rubies about their necks, reaching from the shoulder to the ear. And the one that was upon the left side bounded across to the right side, and the one on the right to the left, and, like two sea-swallows, sported around him. And his courser cast up four sods, with his four hoofs, like four swallows in the air, about his head, now above, now below. About him was a four-cornered cloth of purple, and an apple of gold was at each corner, and every one of the apples was of the value of an hundred kine. And there was precious gold of the value of three hundred kine upon his shoes, and upon his stirrups, from his knee to the tip of his toe. And the blade of grass bent not beneath him, so light was his courser's tread, as he journeyed toward the gate of Arthur's palace. Spoke the youth: "Is there a porter?" "There is; and if thou holdest not thy peace, small will be thy welcome. I am Arthur's porter every first day of January." "Open the portal." "I will not open it." "Wherefore not?" "The knife is in the meat, and the drink is in the horn, and there is revelry in Arthur's hall; and none may enter therein but the son of a king of a privileged country, or a craftsman bringing his craft. But there will be refreshment for thy dogs and for thy horse; and for thee there will be collops cooked and peppered, and luscious wine, and mirthful songs; and food for fifty men shall be brought unto thee in the guest-chamber, where the stranger and the sons of other countries eat, who come not into the precincts of the palace of Arthur. Thou wilt fare no worse there than thou wouldst with Arthur in the court. A lady shall smooth thy couch, and shall lull thee with songs; and early to-morrow morning, when the gate is open for the multitude that came hither to-day, for thee shall it be opened first, and thou mayest sit in the place that thou shalt choose in Arthur's hall, from the upper end to the lower." Said the youth: "That will I not do. If thou openest the gate, it is well. If thou dost not open it, I will bring disgrace upon thy lord, and evil report upon thee. And I will set up three shouts at this very gate, than which none were ever heard more deadly." "What clamor soever thou mayest make," said Glewlwyd, the porter, "against the laws of Arthur's palace, shalt thou not enter therein, until I first go and speak with Arthur." Then Glewlwyd went into the hall. And Arthur said to him, "Hast thou news from the gate?" "Half of my life is passed," said Glewlwyd, "and half of thine. I was heretofore in Kaer Se and Asse, in Sach and Salach, in Lotor and Fotor, and I have been in India the Great and India the Lesser, and I have also been in Europe and Africa, and in the islands of Corsica, and I was present when thou didst conquer Greece in the East. Nine supreme sovereigns, handsome men, saw we there, but never did I behold a man of equal dignity with him who is now at the door of the portal." Then said Arthur: "If walking thou didst enter here, return thou running. It is unbecoming to keep such a man as thou sayest he is in the wind and the rain." Said Kay: "By the hand of my friend, if thou wouldst follow my counsel, thou wouldst not break through the laws of the court because of him." "Not so, blessed Kay," said Arthur; "it is an honor to us to be resorted to, and the greater our courtesy, the greater will be our renown and our fame and our glory." And Glewlwyd came to the gate, and opened the gate before Kilwich: and although all dismounted upon the horse-block at the gate, yet did he not dismount, but he rode in upon his charger. Then said he, "Greeting be unto thee, sovereign ruler of this island, and be this greeting no less unto the lowest than unto the highest, and be it equally unto thy guests, and thy warriors, and thy chieftains; let all partake of it as completely as thyself. And complete be thy favor, and thy fame, and thy glory, throughout all this island." "Greeting unto thee also," said Arthur; "sit thou between two of my warriors, and thou shalt have minstrels before thee, and thou shalt enjoy the privileges of a king born to a throne, as long as thou remainest here. And when I disperse my presents to the visitors and strangers in this court, they shall be in thy hand at my commencing." Said the youth, "I came not here to consume meat and drink; but if I obtain the boon that I seek, I will requite it thee, and extol thee; but if I have it not, I will bear forth thy dispraise to the four quarters of the world, as far as thy renown has extended." Then said Arthur, "Since thou wilt not remain here, chieftain, thou shalt receive the boon, whatsoever thy tongue may name, as far as the wind dries, and the rain moistens, and the sun revolves, and the sea encircles, and the earth extends; save only my ship Prydwen, and my mantle, and Caliburn, my sword, and Rhongomyant, my lance, and Guenever, my wife. By the truth of Heaven, thou shalt have it cheerfuly, name what thou wilt." "I would that thou bless my hair," said he. "That shall be granted thee." And Arthur took a golden comb, and scissors whereof the loops were of silver, and he combed his hair. And Arthur inquired of him who he was; "for my heart warms unto thee, and I know that thou art come of my blood. Tell me, therefore, who thou art." "I will tell thee," said the youth. "I am Kilwich, the son of Kilydd, the son of Prince Kelyddon, by Goleudyd, my mother, the daughter of Prince Anlawd." "That is true," said Arthur; "thou art my cousin. Whatsoever boon thou mayest ask, thou shalt receive, be it what it may that thy tongue shall name." "Pledge the truth of Heaven and the faith of thy kingdom thereof." "I pledge it thee gladly." "I crave of thee, then, that thou obtain for me Olwen, the daughter of Yspadaden Penkawr, to wife; and this boon I likewise seek at the hands of thy warriors. I seek it from Kay and from Bedwyr; and from Gwynn, the son of Nudd, and Gadwy, the son of Geraint, and Prince Flewddur Flam and Iona, king of France, and Sel, the son of Selgi, and Taliesin, the chief of the bards, and Geraint, the son of Erbin, Garanwyn, the son of Kay, and Amren, the son of Bedwyr, Ol, the son of Olwyd, Bedwin, the bishop, Guenever, the chief lady, and Guenhywach, her sister, Morved, the daughter of Urien, and Gwenlian Deg, the majestic maiden, Creiddylad, [Footnote: Creiddylad is no other than Shakspeare's Cordelia, whose father, King Lear, is by the Welsh authorities called indiscriminately Llyr or Lludd. All the old chronicles give the story of her devotion to her aged parent, but none of them seem to have been aware that she is destined to remain with him till the day of doom, whilst Gwyn ap Nudd, the king of the fairies, and Gwythyr op Greidiol, fight for her every first of May, and whichever of them may be fortunate enough to be the conqueror at that time will obtain her as a bride.] the daughter of Lludd, the constant maiden, and Ewaedah, the daughter of Kynvelyn, [Footnote: The Welsh have a fable on the subject of the half man, taken to be illustrative of the force of habit. In this allegory Arthur is supposed to be met by a sprite, who appears at first in a small and indistinct form, but who, on approaching nearer, increases in size, and, assuming the semblance of half a man, endeavors to provoke the king to wrestle. Despising his weakness, and considering that he should gain no credit by the encounter, Arthur refuses to do so, and delays the contest until at length the half man (Habit) becomes so strong that it requires his utmost efforts to overcome him.] the half-man." All these did Kilwich, the son of Kilydd, adjure to obtain his boon. Then said Arthur, "O chieftain, I have never heard of the maiden of whom thou speakest, nor of her kindred, but I will gladly send messengers in search of her. Give me time to seek her." And the youth said, "I will willingly grant from this night to that at the end of the year to do so." Then Arthur sent messengers to every land within his dominions to seek for the maiden, and at the end of the year Arthur's messengers returned without having gained any knowledge or intelligence concerning Olwen, more than on the first day. Then said Kilwich, "Every one has received his boon, and I yet lack mine. I will depart, and bear away thy honor with me." Then said Kay, "Rash chieftain! dost thou reproach Arthur? Go with us, and we will not part until thou dost either confess that the maiden exists not in the world, or until we obtain her." Thereupon Kay rose up. And Arthur called Bedwyr, who never shrank from any enterprise upon which Kay was bound. None were equal to him in swiftness throughout this island except Arthur alone; and although he was one handed; three warriors could not shed blood faster than he on the field of battle. And Arthur called to Kyndelig, the guide, "Go thou upon this expedition with the chieftain." For as good a guide was he in a land which he had never seen as he was in his own. He called Gurhyr Gwalstat, because he knew all tongues. He called Gawain, the son of Gwyar, because he never returned home without achieving the adventure of which he went in quest. And Arthur called Meneu, the son of Teirgwed, in order that, if they went into a savage country, he might cast a charm and an illusion over them, so that none might see them, whilst they could see every one. They journeyed until they came to a vast open plain, wherein they saw a great castle, which was the fairest of the castles of the world. And when they came before the castle, they beheld a vast flock of sheep. And upon the top of a mound there was a herdsman keeping the sheep. And a rug made of skins was upon him, and by his side was a shaggy mastiff, larger than a steed nine winters old. Then said Kay, "Gurhyr Gwalstat, go thou and salute yonder man." "Kay," said he, "I engaged not to go further than thou thyself." "Let us go then together." answered Kay. Said Meneu, "Fear not to go thither, for I will cast a spell upon the dog, so that he shall injure no one." And they went up to the mound whereon the herdsman was, and they said to him, "How dost thou fare, herdsman?" "Not less fair be it to you than to me." "Whose are the sheep that thou dost keep, and to whom does yonder castle belong?" "Stupid are ye, truly! not to know that this is the castle of Yspadaden Penkawr. And ye also, who are ye?" "We are an embassy from Arthur, come to seek Olwen, the daughter of Yspadaden Penkawr." "O men! the mercy of Heaven be upon you; do not that for all the world. None who ever came hither on this quest has returned alive." And the herdsman rose up. And as he rose Kilwich gave unto him a ring of gold. And he went home and gave the ring to his spouse to keep. And she took the ring when it was given her, and she said, "Whence came this ring, for thou art not wont to have good fortune." "O wife, him to whom this ring belonged thou shalt see here this evening." "And who is he?" asked the woman. "Kilwich, the son of Kilydd, by Goleudid, the daughter of Prince Anlawd, who is come to seek Olwen as his wife." And when she heard that, she had joy that her nephew, the son of her sister, was coming to her, and sorrow, because she had never known any one depart alive who had come on that quest. And the men went forward to the gate of the herdsman's dwelling. And when she heard their footsteps approaching, she ran out with joy to meet them. And Kay snatched a billet out of the pile. And when she met them, she sought to throw her arms about their necks. And Kay placed the log between her two hands, and she squeezed it so that it became a twisted coil. "O woman," said Kay, "if thou hadst squeezed me thus, none could ever again have set their affections on me. Evil love were this." They entered into the house and were served; and soon after, they all went forth to amuse themselves. Then the woman opened a stone chest that was before the chimney-corner, and out of it arose a youth with yellow, curling hair. Said Gurhyr, "It is a pity to hide this youth. I know that it is not his own crime that is thus visited upon him." "This is but a remnant," said the woman. "Three and twenty of my sons has Yspadaden Penkawr slain, and I have no more hope of this one than of the others." Then said Kay, "Let him come and be a companion with me, and he shall not be slain unless I also am slain with him." And they ate. And the woman asked them, "Upon what errand come you here?" "We come to seek Olwen for this youth." Then said the woman, "In the name of Heaven, since no one from the castle hath yet seen you, return again whence you came." "Heaven is our witness, that we will not return until we have seen the maiden. Does she ever come hither, so that she may be seen?" "She comes here every Saturday to wash her head, and in the vessel where she washes she leaves all her rings, and she never either comes herself or sends any messengers to fetch them." "Will she come here if she is sent to?" "Heaven knows that I will not destroy my soul, nor will I betray those that trust me; unless you will pledge me your faith that you will not harm her, I will not send to her." "We pledge it," said they. So a message was sent, and she came. The maiden was clothed in a robe of flame-colored silk, and about her neck was a collar of ruddy gold, on which were precious emeralds and rubies. More yellow was her head than the flower of the broom, [Footnote: The romancers dwell with great complacency on the fair hair and delicate complexion of their heroines. This taste continued for a long time, and to render the hair light was an object of education. Even when wigs came into fashion they were all flaxen. Such was the color of the hair of the Gauls and of their German conquerors. It required some centuries to reconcile their eyes to the swarthy beauties of their Spanish and Italian neighbors.] and her skin was whiter than the foam of the wave, and fairer were her hands and her fingers than the blossoms of the wood-anemone amidst the spray of the meadow fountain. The eye of the trained hawk was not brighter than hers. Her bosom was more snowy than the breast of the white swan, her cheek was redder than the reddest roses. Whoso beheld her was filled with her love. Four white trefoils sprung up wherever she trod. And therefore was she called Olwen. She entered the house and sat beside Kilwich upon the foremost bench; and as soon as he saw her, he knew her. And Kilwich said unto her, "Ah! maiden, thou art she whom I have loved; come away with me, lest they speak evil of thee and of me. Many a day have I loved thee." "I cannot do this, for I have pledged my faith to my father not to go without his counsel, for his life will last only until the time of my espousals. Whatever is to be, must be. But I will give thee advice, if thou wilt take it. Go, ask me of my father, and that which he shall require of thee, grant it, and thou wilt obtain me; but if thou deny him anything, thou wilt not obtain me, and it will be well for thee if thou escape with thy life." "I promise all this, if occasion offer," said he. She returned to her chamber, and they all rose up, and followed her to the castle. And they slew the nine porters, that were at the nine gates, in silence. And they slew the nine watch-dogs without one of them barking. And they went forward to the hall. "The greeting of Heaven and of man be unto thee, Yspadaden Penkawr," said they. "And you, wherefore come you?" "We come to ask thy daughter Olwen for Kilwich, the son of Kilydd, the son of Prince Kelyddon." "Where are my pages and my servants? Raise up the forks beneath my two eyebrows, which have fallen over my eyes, that I may see the fashion of my son-in-law." And they did so. "Come hither to-morrow, and you shall have an answer." They rose to go forth, and Yspadaden Penkawr seized one of the three poisoned darts that lay beside him, and threw it after them. And Bedwyr caught it, and flung it, and pierced Yspadaden Penkawr grievously with it through the knee. Then he said, "A cursed ungentle son-in-law, truly! I shall ever walk the worse for his rudeness, and shall ever be without a cure. This poisoned iron pains me like the bite of a gad-fly. Cursed be the smith who forged it, and the anvil on which it was wrought! So sharp is it!" That night also they took up their abode in the house of the herdsman. The next day, with the dawn, they arrayed themselves and proceeded to the castle, and entered the hall; and they said, "Yspadaden Penkawr, give us thy daughter in consideration of her dower and her maiden fee, which we will pay to thee, and to her two kinswomen likewise." Then he said, "Her four great- grandmothers and her four great-grandsires are yet alive; it is needful that I take counsel of them." "Be it so," they answered, "we will go to meat." As they rose up he took the second dart that was beside him, and cast it after them. And Meneu, the son of Gawedd, caught it, and flung it back at him, and wounded him in the centre of the breast. "A cursed ungentle son-in-law, truly!" said he; "the hard iron pains me like the bite of a horse-leech. Cursed be the hearth whereon it was heated, and the smith who formed it! So sharp is it! Henceforth, whenever I go up hill, I shall have a scant in my breath, and a pain in my chest, and I shall often loathe my food." And they went to meat. And the third day they returned to the palace. And Yspadaden Penkawr said to them, "Shoot not at me again unless you desire death. Where are my attendants? Lift up the forks of my eyebrows, which have fallen over my eyeballs, that I may see the fashion of my son-in-law." Then they arose, and, as they did so, Yspadaden Penkawr took the third poisoned dart and cast it at them. And Kilwich caught it, and threw it vigorously, and wounded him through the eyeball. "A cursed ungentle son-in-law, truly! As long as I remain alive, my eyesight will be the worse. Whenever I go against the wind, my eyes will water; and peradventure my head will burn, and I shall have a giddiness every new moon. Like the bite of a mad dog is the stroke of this poisoned iron. Cursed be the fire in which it was forged!" And they went to meat. And the next day they came again to the palace, and they said, "Shoot not at us any more, unless thou desirest such hurt and harm and torture as thou now hast, and even more." Said Kilwich, "Give me thy daughter; and if thou wilt not give her, thou shalt receive thy death because of her." "Where is he that seeks my daughter? Come hither where I may see thee." And they placed him a chair face to face with him. Said Yspadaden Penkawr, "Is it thou that seekest my daughter?" "It is I," answered Kilwich. "I must have thy pledge that thou wilt not do toward me otherwise than is just; and when I have gotten that which I shall name, my daughter thou shalt have." "I promise thee that willingly," said Kilwich; "name what thou wilt." "I will do so," said he. "Seest thou yonder red tilled ground?" "I see it." "When first I met the mother of this maiden, nine bushels of flax were sown therein, and none has yet sprung up, white nor black. I require to have the flax to sow in the new land yonder, that when it grows up it may make a white wimple for my daughter's head on the day of thy wedding." "It will be easy for me to compass this, although thou mayest think it will not be easy." "Though thou get this, there is yet that which thou wilt not get-- the harp of Teirtu, to play to us that night. When a man desires that it should play, it does so of itself; and when he desires that it should cease, it ceases. And this he will not give of his own free will, and thou wilt not be able to compel him." "It will be easy for me to compass this, although thou mayest think it will not be easy." "Though thou get this, there is yet that which thou wilt not get. I require thee to get me for my huntsman Mabon, the son of Modron. He was taken from his mother when three nights old, and it is not known where he now is, nor whether he is living or dead." "It will be easy for me to compass this, although thou mayest think it will not be easy." "Though thou get this, there is yet that which thou wilt not get-- the two cubs of the wolf Gast Rhymhi; no leash in the world will hold them, but a leash made from the beard of Dillus Varwawc, the robber. And the leash will be of no avail unless it be plucked from his beard while he is alive. While he lives he will not suffer this to be done to him, and the leash will be of no use should he be dead, because it will be brittle." "It will be easy for me to compass this, although thou mayest think it will not be easy." "Though thou get this, there is yet that which thou wilt not get-- the sword of Gwernach the Giant; of his own free will he will not give it, and thou wilt never be able to compel him." "It will be easy for me to compass this, although thou mayest think it will not be easy." "Though thou get this, there is yet that which thou wilt not get. Difficulties shalt thou meet with, and nights without sleep, in seeking this, and if thou obtain it not, neither shalt thou obtain my daughter." "Horses shall I have, and chivalry; and my lord and kinsman, Arthur, will obtain for me all these things. And I shall gain thy daughter, and thou shalt lose thy life." "Go forward. And thou shalt not be chargeable for food or raiment for my daughter while thou art seeking these things; and when thou hast compassed all these marvels, thou shalt have my daughter for thy wife." CHAPTER XII KILWICH AND OLWEN (Continued) All that day they journeyed until the evening, and then they beheld a vast castle, which was the largest in the world. And lo! a black man, larger than three of the men of this world, came out from the castle. And they spoke unto him, and said, "O man, whose castle is that?" "Stupid are ye, truly, O men! There is no one in the world that does not know that this is the castle of Gwernach the Giant." "What treatment is there for guests and strangers that alight in that castle?" "O chieftain, Heaven protect thee! No guests ever returned thence alive, and no one may enter therein unless he brings with him his craft." Then they proceeded towards the gate. Said Gurhyr Gwalstat, "Is there a porter?" "There is; wherefore dost thou call?" "Open the gate." "I will not open it." "Wherefore wilt thou not?" "The knife is in the meat, and the drink is in the horn, and there is revelry in the hall of Gwernach the Giant; and except for a craftsman who brings his craft, the gate will not be opened to-night." "Verily, porter," then said Kay, "my craft bring I with me." "What is thy craft?" "The best burnisher of swords am I in the world." "I will go and tell this unto Gwernach the Giant, and I will bring thee an answer." So the porter went in, and Gwernach said to him, "Hast thou news from the gate?" "I have. There is a party at the door of the gate who desire to come in." "Didst thou inquire of them if they possessed any art?" "I did inquire," said he, "and one told me that he was well skilled in the burnishing of swords." "We have need of him then. For some time have I sought for some one to polish my sword, and could find no one. Let this man enter, since he brings with him his craft." The porter thereupon returned and opened the gate. And Kay went in by himself, and he saluted Gwernach the Giant. And a chair was placed for him opposite to Gwernach. And Gwernach said to him, "O man, is it true that is reported of thee, that thou knowest how to burnish swords?" "I know full well how to do so," answered Kay. Then was the sword of Gwernach brought to him. And Kay took a blue whetstone from under his arm, and asked whether he would have it burnished white or blue. "Do with it as it seems good to thee, or as thou wouldst if it were thine own." Then Kay polished one half of the blade, and put it in his hand. "Will this please thee?" asked he. "I would rather than all that is in my dominions that the whole of it were like this. It is a marvel to me that such a man as thou should be without a companion." "O noble sir, I have a companion, albeit he is not skilled in this art." "Who may he be?" "Let the porter go forth, and I will tell him whereby he may know him. The head of his lance will leave its shaft, and draw blood from the wind, and will descend upon its shaft again." Then the gate was opened, and Bedwyr entered. And Kay said, "Bedwyr is very skilful, though he knows not this art." And there was much discourse among those who were without, because that Kay and Bedwyr had gone in. And a young man who was with them, the only son of the herdsman, got in also; and he contrived to admit all the rest, but they kept themselves concealed. The sword was now polished, and Kay gave it unto the hand of Gwernach the Giant, to see if he were pleased with his work. And the giant said, "The work is good; I am content therewith." Said Kay, "It is thy scabbard that hath rusted thy sword; give it to me, that I may take out the wooden sides of it, and put in new ones." And he took the scabbard from him, and the sword in the other hand. And he came and stood over against the giant, as if he would have put the sword into the scabbard; and with it he struck at the head of the giant, and cut off his head at one blow. Then they despoiled the castle, and took from it what goods and jewels they would. And they returned to Arthur's court, bearing with them the sword of Gwernach the Giant. And when they told Arthur how they had sped, Arthur said, "It is a good beginning." Then they took counsel, and said, "Which of these marvels will it be best for us to seek next?" "It will be best," said one, "to seek Mabon, the son of Modron; and he will not be found unless we first find Eidoel, the son of Aer, his kinsman." Then Arthur rose up, and the warriors of the island of Britain with him, to seek for Eidoel; and they proceeded until they came to the castle of Glivi, where Eidoel was imprisoned. Glivi stood on the summit of his castle, and he said, "Arthur, what requirest thou of me, since nothing remains to me in this fortress, and I have neither joy nor pleasure in it, neither wheat nor oats? Seek not, therefore, to do me harm." Said Arthur, "Not to injure thee came I hither, but to seek for the prisoner that is with thee." "I will give thee my prisoner, though I had not thought to give him up to any one, and therewith shalt thou have my support and my aid." His followers said unto Arthur, "Lord, go thou home, thou canst not proceed with thy host in quest of such small adventures as these." Then said Arthur, "It were well for thee, Gurhyr Gwalstat, to go upon this quest, for thou knowest all languages, and art familiar with those of the birds and the beasts. Thou, Eidoel, oughtest likewise to go with thy men in search of thy cousin. And as for you, Kay and Bedwyr, I have hope of whatever adventure ye are in quest of, that ye will achieve it. Achieve ye this adventure for me." They went forward until they came to the Ousel of Cilgwri. And Gurhyr adjured her, saying, "Tell me if thou knowest aught of Mabon, the son of Modron, who was taken when three nights old from between his mother and the wall?" And the Ousel answered, "When I first came here, there was a smith's anvil in this place, and I was then a young bird; and from that time no work has been done upon it, save the pecking of my beak every evening; and now there is not so much as the size of a nut remaining thereof; yet during all that time I have never heard of the man for whom you inquire. Nevertheless, I will do that which it is fitting that I should for an embassy from Arthur. There is a race of animals who were formed before me, and I will be your guide to them." So they proceeded to the place where was the Stag of Redynvre. "Stag of Redynvre, behold, we are come to thee, an embassy from Arthur, for we have not heard of any animal older than thou. Say, knowest thou aught of Mabon, the son of Modron, who was taken from his mother when three nights old?" The Stag said, "When first I came hither there was a plain all around me, without any trees save one oak sapling, which grew up to be an oak with an hundred branches; and that oak has since perished, so that now nothing remains of it but the withered stump; and from that day to this I have been here, yet have I never heard of the man for whom you inquire. Nevertheless, being an embassy from Arthur, I will be your guide to the place where there is an animal which was formed before I was, and the oldest animal in the world, and the one that has travelled most, the Eagle of Gwern Abwy." Gurhyr said, "Eagle of Gwern Abwy, we have come to thee, an embassy from Arthur, to ask thee if thou knowest aught of Mabon, the son of Modron, who was taken from his mother when he was three nights old?" The Eagle said, "I have been here for a great space of time, and when I first came hither, there was a rock here from the top of which I pecked at the stars every evening; and it has crumbled away, and now it is not so much as a span high. All that time I have been here, and I have never heard of the man for whom you inquire, except once when I went in search of food as far as Llyn Llyw. And when I came there, I struck my talons into a salmon, thinking he would serve me as food for a long time. But he drew me into the water, and I was scarcely able to escape from him. After that I made peace with him. And I drew fifty fish- spears out of his back, and relieved him. Unless he know something of him whom you seek, I cannot tell who may. However, I will guide you to the place where he is." So they went thither; and the Eagle said, "Salmon of Llyn Llyw, I have come to thee with an embassy from Arthur, to ask thee if thou knowest aught of Mabon, the son of Modron, who was taken away at three nights old from his mother." "As much as I know I will tell thee. With every tide I go along the river upward, until I come near to the walls of Gloucester, and there have I found such wrong as I never found elsewhere; and to the end that ye may give credence thereto, let one of you go thither upon each of my two shoulders." So Kay and Gurhyr Gwalstat went upon the two shoulders of the Salmon, and they proceeded until they came unto the wall of the prison; and they heard a great wailing and lamenting from the dungeon. Said Gurhyr, "Who is it that laments in this house of stone?" "Alas! it is Mabon, the son of Modron, who is here imprisoned; and no imprisonment was ever so grievous as mine." "Hast thou hope of being released for gold or for silver, or for any gifts of wealth, or through battle and fighting?" "By fighting will what ever I may gain be obtained." Then they went thence, and returned to Arthur, and they told him where Mabon, the son of Modron, was imprisoned. And Arthur summoned the warriors of the island, and they journeyed as far as Gloucester, to the place where Mabon was in prison. Kay and Bedwyr went upon the shoulders of the fish, whilst the warriors of Arthur attacked the castle. And Kay broke through the wall into the dungeon, and brought away the prisoner upon his back, whilst the fight was going on between the warriors. And Arthur returned home, and Mabon with him at liberty. On a certain day as Gurhyr Gwalstat was walking over a mountain, he heard a wailing and a grievous cry. And when he heard it, he sprang forward and went towards it. And when he came there, he saw a fire burning among the turf, and an ant-hill nearly surrounded with the fire. And he drew his sword, and smote off the ant-hill close to the earth, so that it escaped being burned in the fire. And the ants said to him, "Receive from us the blessing of Heaven, and that which no man can give, we give thee." Then they fetched the nine bushels of flax-seed which Yspadaden Penkawr had required of Kilwich, and they brought the full measure, without lacking any, except one flax-seed, and that the lame pismire brought in before night. Then said Arthur, "Which of the marvels will it be best for us to seek next?" "It will be best to seek for the two cubs of the wolf Gast Rhymhi." "Is it known," said Arthur, "where she is?" "She is in Aber Cleddyf," said one. Then Arthur went to the house of Tringad, in Aber Cleddyf, and he inquired of him whether he had heard of her there. "She has often slain my herds, and she is there below in a cave in Aber Cleddyf." Ther Arthur went in his ship Prydwen by sea, and the others went by land to hunt her. And they surrounded her and her two cubs, and took them and carried them away. As Kay and Bedwyr sat on a beacon-cairn on the summit of Plinlimmon, in the highest wind that ever was, they looked around them and saw a great smoke, afar off. Then said Kay, "By the hand of my friend, yonder is the fire of a robber." Then they hastened towards the smoke, and they came so near to it that they could see Dillus Varwawc scorching a wild boar. "Behold, yonder is the greatest robber that ever fled from Arthur," said Bedwyr to Kay. "Dost thou know him?" "I do know him," answered Kay; "he is Dillus Varwarc, and no leash in the world will be able to hold the cubs of Gast Rhymi, save a leash made from the beard of him thou seest yonder. And even that will be useless unless his beard be plucked out alive, with wooden tweezers; for if dead it will be brittle." "What thinkest thou that we should do concerning this?" said Bedwyr. "Let us suffer him." said Kay, "to eat as much as he will of the meat, and after that he will fall asleep." And during that time they employed themselves in making the wooden tweezers. And when Kay knew certainly that he was asleep, he made a pit under his feet, and he struck him a violent blow, and squeezed him into the pit. And there they twitched out his beard completely with the wooden tweezers, and after that they slew him altogether. And from thence they went, and took the leash made of Dillus Varwawc's beard, and they gave it into Arthur's hand. Thus they got all the marvels that Yspadaden Penkawr had required of Kilwich; and they set forward, and took the marvels to his court. And Kilwich said to Yspadaden Penkawr, "Is thy daughter mine now?" "She is thine," said he, "but therefore needest thou not thank me, but Arthur, who hath accomplished this for thee." Then Goreu, the son of Custennin, the herdsman, whose brothers Yspadaden Penkawr had slain, seized him by the hair of his head, and dragged him after him to the keep, and cut off his head, and placed it on a stake on the citadel. Then they took possession of his castle, and of his treasures. And that night Olwen became Kilwich's bride, and she continued to be his wife as long as she lived. CHAPTER XIII TALIESIN Gwyddno Garanhir was sovereign of Gwaelod, a territory bordering on the sea. And he possessed a weir upon the strand between Dyvi and Aberystwyth, near to his own castle, and the value of an hundred pounds was taken in that weir every May eve. And Gwyddno had an only son named Elphin, the most hapless of youths, and the most needy. And it grieved his father sore, for he thought that he was born in an evil hour. By the advice of his council, his father had granted him the drawing of the weir that year, to see if good luck would ever befall him, and to give him something wherewith to begin the world. And this was on the twenty-ninth of April. The next day, when Elphin went to look, there was nothing in the weir but a leathern bag upon a pole of the weir. Then said the weir-ward unto Elphin, "All thy ill-luck aforetime was nothing to this; and now thou hast destroyed the virtues of the weir, which always yielded the value of an hundred pounds every May eve; and to-night there is nothing but this leathern skin within it." "How now," said Elphin, "there may be therein the value of a hundred pounds." Well! they took up the leathern bag, and he who opened it saw the forehead of an infant, the fairest that ever was seen; and he said, "Behold a radiant brow?" (In the Welsh language, taliesin.) "Taliesin be he called," said Elphin. And he lifted the bag in his arms, and, lamenting his bad luck, placed the boy sorrowfully behind him. And he made his horse amble gently, that before had been trotting, and he carried him as softly as if he had been sitting in the easiest chair in the world. And presently the boy made a Consolation, and praise to Elphin; and the Consolation was as you may here see: "Fair Elphin, cease to lament! Never in Gwyddno's weir Was there such good luck as this night. Being sad will not avail; Better to trust in God than to forbode ill; Weak and small as I am, On the foaming beach of the ocean, In the day of trouble I shall be Of more service to thee than three hundred salmon." This was the first poem that Taliesin ever sung, being to console Elphin in his grief for that the produce of the weir was lost, and what was worse, that all the world would consider that it was through his fault and ill-luck. Then Elphin asked him what he was, whether man or spirit. And he sung thus: "I have been formed a comely person; Although I am but little, I am highly gifted; Into a dark leathern bag I was thrown, And on a boundless sea I was sent adrift. From seas and from mountains God brings wealth to the fortunate man." Then came Elphin to the house of Gwyddno, his father, and Taliesin with him. Gwyddno asked him if he had had a good haul at the weir, and he told him that he had got that which was better than fish. "What was that?" said Gwyddno. "A bard," said Elphin. Then said Gwyddno, "Alas! what will he profit thee?" And Taliesin himself replied and said, "He will profit him more than the weir ever profited thee." Asked Gwyddno, "Art thou able to speak, and thou so little?" And Taliesin answered him, "I am better able to speak than thou to question me." "Let me hear what thou canst say," quoth Gwyddno. Then Taliesin sang: "Three times have I been born, I know by meditation; All the sciences of the world are collected in my breast, For I know what has been, and what hereafter will occur." Elphin gave his haul to his wife, and she nursed him tenderly and lovingly. Thenceforward Elphin increased in riches more and more, day after day, and in love and favor with the king; and there abode Taliesin until he was thirteen years old, when Elphin, son of Gwyddno, went by a Christmas invitation to his uncle, Maelgan Gwynedd, who held open court at Christmas-tide in the castle of Dyganwy, for all the number of his lords of both degrees, both spiritual and temporal, with a vast and thronged host of knights and squires. And one arose and said, "Is there in the whole world a king so great as Maelgan, or one on whom Heaven has bestowed so many gifts as upon him;--form, and beauty, and meekness, and strength, besides all the powers of the soul?" And together with these they said that Heaven had given one gift that exceeded all the others, which was the beauty, and grace, and wisdom, and modesty of his queen, whose virtues surpassed those of all the ladies and noble maidens throughout the whole kingdom. And with this they put questions one to another, Who had braver men? Who had fairer or swifter horses or greyhounds? Who had more skilful or wiser bards than Maelgan? When they had all made an end of their praising the king and his gifts, it befell that Elphin spoke on this wise. "Of a truth, none but a king may vie with a king; but were he not a king, I would say that my wife was as virtuous as any lady in the kingdom, and also that I have a bard who is more skilful than all the king's bards." In a short space some of his fellows told the king all the boastings of Elphin; and the king ordered him to be thrown into a strong prison, until he might show the truth as to the virtues of his wife, and the wisdom of his bard. Now when Elphin had been put in a tower of the castle, with a thick chain about his feet (it is said that it was a silver chain, because he was of royal blood), the king, as the story relates, sent his son Rhun to inquire into the demeanor of Elphin's wife. Now Rhun was the most graceless man in the world, and there was neither wife nor maiden with whom he held converse but was evil spoken of. While Rhun went in haste towards Elphin's dwelling, being fully minded to bring disgrace upon his wife, Taliesin told his mistress how that the king had placed his master in durance in prison, and how that Rhun was coming in haste to strive to bring disgrace upon her. Wherefore he caused his mistress to array one of the maids of her kitchen in her apparel; which the noble lady gladly did, and she loaded her hands with the best rings that she and her husband possessed. In this guise Taliesin caused his mistress to put the maiden to sit at the board in her room at supper; and he made her to seem as her mistress, and the mistress to seem as the maid. And when they were in due time seated at their supper, in the manner that has been said, Rhun suddenly arrived at Elphin's dwelling, and was received with joy, for the servants knew him; and they brought him to the room of their mistress, in the semblance of whom the maid rose up from supper and welcomed him gladly. And afterwards she sat down to supper again, and Rhun with her. Then Rhun began jesting with the maid, who still kept the semblance of her mistress. And verily this story shows that the maiden became so intoxicated that she fell asleep; and the story relates that it was a powder that Rhun put into the drink, that made her sleep so soundly that she never felt it when he cut off from her hand her little finger, whereon was the signet ring of Elphin, which he had sent to his wife as a token a short time before. And Rhun returned to the king with the finger and the ring as a proof, to show that he had cut it off from her hand without her awaking from her sleep of intemperance. The king rejoiced greatly at these tidings, and he sent for his councillors, to whom he told the whole story from the beginning. And he caused Elphin to be brought out of prison, and he chided him because of his boast. And he spake on this wise: "Elphin, be it known to thee beyond a doubt, that it is but folly for a man to trust in the virtues of his wife further than he can see her; and that thou mayest be certain of thy wife's vileness, behold her finger, with thy signet ring upon it, which was cut from her hand last night, while she slept the sleep of intoxication." Then thus spake Elphin: "With thy leave, mighty king, I cannot deny my ring, for it is known of many; but verily I assert that the finger around which it is was never attached to the hand of my wife; for in truth and certainty there are three notable things pertaining to it, none of which ever belonged to any of my wife's fingers. The first of the three is, that it is certainly known to me that this ring would never remain upon her thumb, whereas you can plainly see that it is hard to draw it over the joint of the little finger of the hand whence this was cut. The second thing is, that my wife has never let pass one Saturday since I have known her, without paring her nails before going to bed, and you can see fully that the nail of this little finger has not been pared for a month. The third is, truly, that the hand whence this finger came was kneading rye dough within three days before the finger was cut therefrom, and I can assure your highness that my wife has never kneaded rye dough since my wife she has been." The king was mightily wroth with Elphin for so stoutly withstanding him, respecting the goodness of his wife; wherefore he ordered him to his prison a second time, saying that he should not be loosed thence until he had proved the truth of his boast, as well concerning the wisdom of his bard as the virtues of his wife. In the meantime his wife and Taliesin remained joyful at Elphin's dwelling. And Taliesin showed his mistress how that Elphin was in prison because of them; but he bade her be glad, for that he would go to Maelgan's court to free his master. So he took leave of his mistress, and came to the court of Maelgan, who was going to sit in his hall, and dine in his royal state, as it was the custom in those days for kings and princes to do at every chief feast. As soon as Taliesin entered the hall he placed himself in a quiet corner, near the place where the bards and the minstrels were wont to come, in doing their service and duty to the king, as is the custom at the high festivals, when the bounty is proclaimed. So, when the bards and the heralds came to cry largess, and to proclaim the power of the king, and his strength, at the moment when they passed by the corner wherein he was crouching, Taliesin pouted out his lips after them, and played "Blerwm, blerwm!" with his finger upon his lips. Neither took they much notice of him as they went by but proceeded forward till they came before the king, unto whom they made their obeisance with their bodies, as they were wont, without speaking a single word, but pouting out their lips, and making mouths at the king, playing, "Blerwm, blerwm!" upon their lips with their fingers, as they had seen the boy do. This sight caused the king to wonder, and to deem within himself that they were drunk with many liquors. Wherefore he commanded one of his lords, who served at the board, to go to them and desire them to collect their wits, and to consider where they stood, and what it was fitting for them to do. And this lord did so gladly. But they ceased not from their folly any more than before. Whereupon he sent to them a second time, and a third, desiring them to go forth from the hall. At the last the king ordered one of his squires to give a blow to the chief of them, named Heinin Vardd; and the squire took a broom and struck him on the head, so that he fell back in his seat. Then he arose, and went on his knees, and besought leave of the king's grace to show that this their fault was not through want of knowledge, neither through drunkenness, but by the influence of some spirit that was in the hall. And he spoke on this wise: "O honorable king, be it known to your grace that not from the strength of drink, or of too much liquor, are we dumb, but through the influence of a spirit that sits in the corner yonder, in the form of a child." Forthwith the king commanded the squire to fetch him; and he went to the nook where Taliesin sat, and brought him before the king, who asked him what he was, and whence he came. And he answered the king in verse: "Primary chief bard am I to Elphin, And my native country is the region of the summer stars; I have been in Asia with Noah in the ark, I have seen the destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah, I was in India when Rome was built, I have now come here to the remnant of Troia." When the king and his nobles had heard the song, they wondered much, for they had never heard the like from a boy so young as he. And when the king knew that he was the bard of Elphin he bade Heinin, his first and wisest bard, to answer Taliesin, and to strive with him. But when he came he could do no other than play "Blerwm!" on his lips; and when he sent for the others of the four and twenty bards, they all did likewise, and could do no other. And Maelgan asked the boy Taliesin what was his errand, and he answered him in song: "Elphin, the son of Gwyddno, Is in the land of Artro, Secured by thirteen locks, For praising his instructor. Therefore I, Taliesin, Chief of the bards of the west, Will loosen Elphin Out of a golden fetter." Then he sang to them a riddle: "Discover thou what is The strong creature from before the flood, Without flesh, without bone, Without vein, without blood, Without head, without feet; It will neither be older nor younger Than at the beginning. Behold how the sea whitens When first it comes, When it comes from the south, When it strikes on coasts It is in the field, it is in the wood, But the eye cannot perceive it. One Being has prepared it, By a tremendous blast, To wreak vengeance On Maelgan Gwynedd." While he was thus singing his verse, there arose a mighty storm of wind, so that the king and all his nobles thought that the castle would fall upon their heads. And the king caused them to fetch Elphin in haste from his dungeon, and placed him before Taliesin. And it is said that immediately he sung a verse, so that the chains opened from about his feet. After that Taliesin brought Elphin's wife before them, and showed that she had not one finger wanting. And in this manner did he set his master free from prison, and protect the innocence of his mistress, and silence the bards so that not one of them dared to say a word. Right glad was Elphin, right glad was Taliesin. HERO MYTHS OF THE BRITISH RACE BEOWULF Notable among the names of heroes of the British race is that of Beowulf, which appeals to all English-speaking people in a very special way, since he is the one hero in whose story we may see the ideals of our English forefathers before they left their Continental home to cross to the islands of Britain. Although this hero had distinguished himself by numerous feats of strength during his boyhood and early youth, it was as the deliverer of Hrothgar, king of Denmark, from the monster Grendel that he first gained wide renown. Grendel was half monster and half man, and had his abode in the fen-fastnesses in the vicinity of Hrothgar's residence. Night after night he would steal into the king's great palace called Heorot and slay sometimes as many as thirty at one time of the knights sleeping there. Beowulf put himself at the head of a selected band of warriors, went against the monster, and after a terrible fight slew it. The following night Grendel's mother, a fiend scarcely less terrible than her son, carried off one of Hrothgar's boldest thanes. Once more Beowulf went to the help of the Danish king, followed the she-monster to her lair at the bottom of a muddy lake in the midst of the swamp, and with his good sword Hrunting and his own muscular arms broke the sea-woman's neck. Upon his return to his own country of the Geats, loaded with honors bestowed upon him by Hrothgar, Beowulf served the king of Geatland as the latter's most trusted counsellor and champion. When, after many years, the king fell before an enemy, the Geats unanimously chose Beowulf for their new king. His fame as a warrior kept his country free from invasion, and his wisdom as a statesman increased its prosperity and happiness. In the fiftieth year of Beowulf's reign, however, a great terror fell upon the land in the way of a monstrous fire-dragon, which flew forth by night from its den in the rocks, lighting up the blackness with its blazing breath, and burning houses and homesteads, men and cattle, with the flames from its mouth. When the news came to Beowulf that his people were suffering and dying, and that no warrior dared to risk his life in an effort to deliver the country from this deadly devastation, the aged king took up his shield and sword and went forth to his last fight. At the entrance of the dragon's cave Beowulf raised his voice and shouted a furious defiance to the awesome guardian of the den. Roaring hideously and napping his glowing wings together, the dragon rushed forth and half flew, half sprang, on Beowulf. Then began a fearful combat, which ended in Beowulf's piercing the dragon's scaly armor and inflicting a mortal wound, but alas! in himself being given a gash in the neck by his opponent's poisoned fangs which resulted in his death. As he lay stretched on the ground, his head supported by Wiglaf, an honored warrior who had helped in the fight with the dragon, Beowulf roused himself to say, as he grasped Wiglaf's hand: "Thou must now look to the needs of the nation; Here dwell I no longer, for Destiny calleth me! Bid thou my warriors after my funeral pyre Build me a burial-cairn high on the sea-cliff's head; So that the seafarers Beowulf's Barrow Henceforth shall name it, they who drive far and wide Over the mighty flood their foamy keels. Thou art the last of all the kindred of Wagmund! Wyrd has swept all my kin, all the brave chiefs away! Now must I follow them!" These last words spoken, the king of the Geats, brave to seek danger and brave to look on death and Fate undaunted, fell back dead. According to his last desires, his followers gathered wood and piled it on the cliff-head. Upon this funeral pyre was laid Beowulf's body and consumed to ashes. Then, upon the same cliff of Hronesness, was erected a huge burial cairn, wide-spread and lofty, to be known thereafter as Beowulf's Barrow. CUCHULAIN, CHAMPION OF IRELAND Among all the early literatures of Europe, there are two which, at exactly opposite corners of the continent, display most strikingly similar characteristics. These are the Greek and the Irish, and the legend of the Irish champion Cuchulain, which well illustrates the similarity of the literatures, bears so close a resemblance to the story of Achilles as to win for this hero the title of "the Irish Achilles." Certainly in reckless courage, power of inspiring dread, sense of personal merit, and frankness of speech the Irish hero is fully equal to the mighty Greek. Cuchulain was the nephew of King Conor of Ulster, son of his sister Dechtire, and it is said that his father was no mortal man, but the great god Lugh of the Long Hand. Cuchulain was brought up by King Conor himself, and even while he was still a boy his fame spread all over Ireland. His warlike deeds were those of a proved warrior, not of a child of nursery age; and by the time Cuchulain was seventeen he was without peer among the champions of Ulster. Upon Cuchulain's marriage to Emer, daughter of Forgall the Wily, a Druid of great power, the couple took up their residence at Armagh, the capital of Ulster, under the protection of King Conor. Here there was one chief, Bricriu of the Bitter Tongue, who, like Thersites among the Grecian leaders, delighted in making mischief. Soon he had on foot plans for stirring up strife among the heroes of Ulster, leaders among whom were the mighty Laegaire, Conall Cearnach, cousin of Cuchulain, and Cuchulain himself. Inviting the members of King Conor's court to dinner, Bricriu arranged that a contest should arise over who should have the "champion's portion," and so successful was he that, to avoid a bloody fight, the three heroes mentioned decided to submit their claims to the championship of Ireland to King Ailill of Connaught. Ailill put the heroes to an unexpected test. Their dinner was served them in a separate room, into which three magic beasts, in the shape of monstrous cats, were sent by the king. When they saw them Laegire and Conall rose from their meal, climbed among the rafters, and stayed there all night. Cuchulain waited until one cat attacked him, and then, drawing his sword, struck the monster. It showed no further sign of fight, and at daybreak the magic beasts disappeared. As Laegire and Conall claimed that this test was an unfair one, Ailill sent the three rivals to Curoi of Kerry, a just and wise man, who set out to discover by wizardry and enchantments the best among the heroes. In turn they stood watch outside Curoi's castle, where Laegire and Conall were overcome by a huge giant, who hurled spears of mighty oak trees, and ended by throwing them over the wall into the courtyard. Cuchulain alone withstood the giant, whereupon he was attacked by other magic foes. Among these was a dragon, which flew on horrible wings from a neighboring lake, and seemed ready to devour everything in its way. Cuchulain sprang up, giving his wonderful hero-leap, thrust his arm into the dragon's mouth and down its throat, and tore out its heart. After the monster fell dead, he cut off its scaly head. As even yet Cuchulain's opponents would not admit his championship, they were all three directed to return to Armagh, to await Curoi's judgment. Here it happened that all the Ulster heroes were in the great hall one night, except Cuchulain and his cousin Conall. As they sat in order of rank, a terrible stranger, gigantic in stature, hideous of aspect, with ravening yellow eyes, entered. In his hand he bore an enormous axe, with keen and shining edge. Upon King Conor's inquiring his business there, the stranger replied: "Behold my axe! The man who will grasp it to-day may cut my head off with it, provided that I may, in like manner, cut off his head to-morrow. If you have no champion who dare face me, I will say that Ulster has lost her courage and is dishonored." At once Laegire accepted the challenge. The giant laid his head on a block, and at a blow the hero severed it from the body. Thereupon the giant arose, took the head and the axe, and thus, headless, strode from the hall. But the following night, when he returned, sound as ever, to claim the fulfilment of Laegire's promise, the latter's heart failed him and he did not come forward. The stranger then jeered at the men of Ulster because their great champion durst not keep his agreement, nor face the blow he should receive in return for the one he gave. The men of Ulster were utterly ashamed, but Conall Cearnach, who was present that night, made a new agreement with the stranger. He gave a blow which beheaded the giant, but again, when the latter returned whole and sound on the following evening, the champion was not to be found. Now it was the turn of Cuchulain, who, as the others had done, cut off the giant's head at one stroke. The next day the members of Conor's court watched Cuchulain to see what he would do. They would not have been surprised if he had failed like the others, who now were present. The champion, however, showed no signs of failing or retreat. He sat sorrowfully in his place, and with a sigh said to King Conor as they waited: "Do not leave this place till all is over. Death is coming to me very surely, but I must fulfil my agreement, for I would rather die than break my word." Towards the close of day the stranger strode into the hall exultant. "Where is Cuchulain?" he cried. "Here I am," was the reply. "Ah, poor boy! your speech is sad to-night, and the fear of death lies heavy on you; but at least you have redeemed your word and have not failed me." The youth rose from his seat and went towards him, as he stood with the great axe ready, and knelt to receive the blow. The hero of Ulster laid his head on the block; but the giant was not satisfied. "Stretch out your neck better," said he. "You are playing with me, to torment me," said Cuchulain. "Slay me now speedily, for I did not keep you waiting last night." However, he stretched out his neck as ordered, and the stranger raised his axe till it crashed upwards through the rafters of the hall, like the crash of trees falling in a storm. When the axe came down with a terrific sound all men looked fearfully at Cuchulain. The descending axe had not even touched him; it had come down with the blunt side on the ground, and the youth knelt there unharmed. Smiling at him, and leaning on his axe, stood no terrible and hideous stranger, but Curoi of Kerry, come to give his decision at last. "Rise up, Cuchulain," said Curoi. "There is none among all the heroes of Ulster to equal you in courage and loyalty and truth. The Championship of the Heroes of Ireland is yours from this day forth, and the Champion's Portion at all feasts; and to your wife I adjudge the first place among all the women of Ulster. Woe to him who dares to dispute this decision!" Thereupon Curoi vanished, and the warriors gathered around Cuchulain, and all with one voice acclaimed him the Champion of the Heroes of all Ireland--a title which has clung to him until this day. This is one of many stories told of the Irish champion, whose deeds of bravery would fill many pages. Cuchulain finally came to his end on the field of battle, after a fight in which he displayed all his usual gallantry but in which unfair means were used to overcome him. For Wales and for England during centuries Arthur has been the representative "very gentle perfect knight." In a similar way, in England's sister isle, Cuchulain stands ever for the highest ideals of the Irish Gaels. HEREWARD THE WAKE In Hereward the Wake (or "Watchful") is found one of those heroes whose date can be ascertained with a fair amount of exactness and yet in whose story occur mythological elements which seem to belong to all ages. The folklore of primitive races is a great storehouse whence a people can choose tales and heroic deeds to glorify its own national hero, careless that the same tales and deeds have done duty for other peoples and other heroes. Hence it happens that Hereward the Saxon, a patriot hero as real and actual as Nelson or George Washington, whose deeds were recorded in prose and verse within forty years of his death, was even then surrounded by a cloud of romance and mystery, which hid in vagueness his family, his marriage, and even his death. Briefly it may be stated that Hereward was a native of Lincolnshire, and was in his prime about 1070. In that year he joined a party of Danes who appeared in England, attacked Peterborough and sacked the abbey there, and afterward took refuge in the Isle of Ely. Here he was besieged by William the Conqueror, and was finally forced to yield to the Norman. He thus came to stand for the defeated Saxon race, and his name has been passed down as that of the darling hero of the Saxons. For his splendid defence of Ely they forgave his final surrender to Duke William; they attributed to him all the virtues supposed to be inherent in the free-born, and all the glorious valor on which the English prided themselves; and, lastly, they surrounded his death with a halo of desperate fighting, and made his last conflict as wonderful as that of Roland at Roncesvalles. If Roland is the ideal of Norman feudal chivalry, Hereward is equally the ideal of Anglo-Saxon sturdy manliness and knighthood. An account of one of Hereward's adventures as a youth will serve as illustration of the stories told of his prowess. On an enforced visit to Cornwall, he found that King Alef, a petty British chief, had betrothed his fair daughter to a terrible Pictish giant, breaking off, in order to do it, her troth-plight with Prince Sigtryg of Waterford, son of a Danish king in Ireland. Hereward, ever chivalrous, picked a quarrel with the giant and killed him in fair fight, whereupon the king threw him into prison. In the following night, however, the released princess arranged that the gallant Saxon should be freed and sent hot-foot for her lover, Prince Sigtryg. After many adventures Hereward reached the prince, who hastened to return to Cornwall with the young hero. But to the grief of both, they learned upon their arrival that the princess had just been betrothed to a wild Cornish hero, Haco, and the wedding feast was to be held that very day. Sigtryg at once sent a troop of forty Danes to King Alef demanding the fulfilment of the troth-plight between himself and his daughter, and threatening vengeance if it were broken. To this threat the king returned no answer, and no Dane came back to tell of their reception. Sigtryg would have waited till morning, trusting in the honor of the king, but Hereward disguised himself as a minstrel and obtained admission to the bridal feast, where he soon won applause by his beautiful singing. The bridegroom, Haco, in a rapture offered him any boon he liked to ask, but he demanded only a cup of wine from the hands of the bride. When she brought it to him he flung into the empty cup the betrothal ring, the token she had sent to Sigtryg, and said: "I thank thee, lady, and would reward thee for thy gentleness to a wandering minstrel; I give back the cup, richer than before by the kind thoughts of which it bears the token." The princess looked at him, gazed into the goblet, and saw her ring; then, looking again, she recognized her deliverer and knew that rescue was at hand. While men feasted Hereward listened and talked, and found out that the forty Danes were prisoners, to be released on the morrow when Haco was sure of his bride, but released useless and miserable, since they would be turned adrift blinded. Haco was taking his lovely bride back to his own land, and Hereward saw that any rescue, to be successful, must be attempted on the march. Returning to Sigtryg, the young Saxon told all that he had learned, and the Danes planned an ambush in the ravine where Haco had decided to blind and set free his captives. The whole was carried out exactly as Hereward arranged it. The Cornishmen, with the Danish captives, passed first without attack; next came Haco, riding grim and ferocious beside his silent bride, he exulting in his success, she looking eagerly for any signs of rescue. As they passed Hereward sprang from his shelter, crying, "Upon them, Danes, and set your brethren free!" and himself struck down Haco and smote off his head. There was a short struggle, but soon the rescued Danes were able to aid their deliverers, and the Cornish guards were all slain; the men of King Alef, never very zealous for the cause of Haco, fled, and the Danes were left masters of the field. Sigtryg had in the meantime seen to the safety of the princess, and now, placing her between himself and Hereward, he escorted her to the ship, which soon brought them to Waterford and a happy bridal. The Prince and Princess of Waterford always recognized in Hereward their deliverer and best friend, and in their gratitude wished him to dwell with them always; but the hero's roving and daring temper forbade his settling down, but rather urged him on to deeds of arms in other lands, where he quickly won a renown second to none. ROBIN HOOD Among the earliest heirlooms of the Anglo-Saxon tongue are the songs and legends of Robin Hood and his merry outlaws, which have charmed readers young and old for more than six hundred years. These entertaining stories date back to the time when Chaucer wrote his "Canterbury Tales," when the minstrel and scribe stood in the place of the more prim and precise modern printed book. The question of whether or not Robin Hood was a real person has been asked for many years, just as a similar question has been asked about William Tell and others whom everyone would much rather accept on faith. It cannot be answered by a brief "yes" or "no," even though learned men have pored over ancient records and have written books on the subject. According to the general belief Robin was an outlaw in the reign of Richard I, when in the depths of Sherwood Forest he entertained one hundred tall men, all good archers, with the spoil he took; but "he suffered no woman to be oppressed or otherwise molested; poore men's goods he spared, abundantlie relieving them with that which by theft he got from abbeys and houses of rich carles." Consequently Robin was an immense favorite with the common people. This popularity extended from the leader to all the members of his hardy band. "God save Robin Hood and all his good yeomanry" is the ending of many old ballads. The clever archer who could outshoot his fellows, the brave yeoman inured to blows, and the man who could be true to his friends through thick and thin were favorites for all time; and they have been idealized in the persons of Robin Hood and his merry outlaws. One of the best-known stories of this picturesque figure of early English times is that given by Sir Walter Scott in "Ivanhoe," concerning the archery contest during the rule or misrule of Prince John, in the absence of Richard from the kingdom. Robin Hood, under the assumed name of Locksley, boldly presents himself at a royal tournament at Ashby, as competitor for the prize in shooting with the long-bow. From the eight or ten archers who enter the contest, the number finally narrows down to two,-- Hubert, a forester in the service of one of the king's nobles, and Locksley or Robin Hood. Hubert takes the first shot in the final trial of skill, and lands his arrow within the inner ring of the target, but not exactly in the centre. "'You have not allowed for the wind, Hubert,' said Locksley, 'or that had been a better shot.' "So saying, and without showing the least anxiety to pause upon his aim, Locksley stepped to the appointed station, and shot his arrow as carelessly in appearance as if he had not even looked at the mark. He was speaking almost at the instant that the shaft left the bow-string, yet it alighted in the target two inches nearer to the white spot which marked the centre than that of Hubert. "'By the light of Heaven!' said Prince John to Hubert, 'an thou suffer that runagate knave to overcome thee, thou art worthy of the gallows!' "Hubert had but one set speech for all occasions. 'An your highness were to hang me,' he said, 'a man can but do his best. Nevertheless, my grandsire drew a good bow--' "'The foul fiend on thy grandsire and all his generation!' interrupted John; 'shoot, knave, and shoot thy best, or it shall be worse for thee!' "Thus exhorted, Hubert resumed his place, and not neglecting the caution which he had received from his adversary, he made the necessary allowance for a very light air of wind, which had just risen, and shot so successfully that his arrow alighted in the very centre of the target. "'A Hubert! a Hubert!' shouted the populace, more interested in a known person than in a stranger. 'In the clout!--in the clout!--a Hubert forever!' "'Thou canst not mend that shot, Locksley,' said the Prince, with an insulting smile. "'I will notch his shaft for him, however,' replied Locksley. "And letting fly his arrow with a little more precaution than before, it lighted right upon that of his competitor, which it split to shivers. The people who stood around were so astonished at his wonderful dexterity, that they could not even give vent to their surprise in their usual clamor. 'This must be the devil, and no man of flesh and blood,' whispered the yeomen to each other; 'such archery was never seen since a bow was first bent in Britain.' "'And now,' said Locksley, 'I will crave your Grace's permission to plant such a mark as is used in the North Country; and welcome every brave yeoman who shall try a shot at it to win a smile from the bonny lass he loves best.'" Locksley thereupon sets up a willow wand, six feet long and as thick as a man's thumb. Hubert is forced to decline the honor of taking part in such a trial of archery skill, but his rival easily splits the wand at a distance of three hundred feet and carries off the prize. "Even Prince John, in admiration of Locksley's skill, lost for an instant his dislike to his person. 'These twenty nobles,' he said, 'which, with the bugle, thou hast fairly won, are thine own; we will make them fifty, if thou wilt take livery and service with us as a yeoman of our bodyguard, and be near to our person. For never did so strong a hand bend a bow, or so true an eye direct a shaft.'" [Footnote: Ivanhoe, Vol. 1, chap. XIII.] Locksley, however, declares that it is impossible for him to enter the Prince's service, generously shares his prize with the worthy Hubert, and retires once more to his beloved haunts among the lights and shadows of the good greenwood. GLOSSARY Abdalrahman, founder of the independent Ommiad (Saracenic) power in Spain, conquered at Tours by Charles Martel Aberfraw, scene of nuptials of Branwen and Matholch Absyrtus, younger brother of Medea Abydos, a town on the Hellespont, nearly opposite to Sestos Abyla, Mount, or Columna, a mountain in Morocco, near Ceuta, now called Jebel Musa or Ape's Hill, forming the Northwestern extremity of the African coast opposite Gibraltar (See Pillars of Hercules) Acestes, son of a Trojan woman who was sent by her father to Sicily, that she might not be devoured by the monsters which infested the territory of Troy Acetes, Bacchanal captured by Pentheus Achates, faithful friend and companion of Aeneas Achelous, river-god of the largest river in Greece--his Horn of Plenty Achilles, the hero of the Iliad, son of Peleus and of the Nereid Thetis, slain by Paris Acis, youth loved by Galatea and slain by Polyphemus Acontius, a beautiful youth, who fell in love with Cydippe, the daughter of a noble Athenian. Acrisius, son of Abas, king of Argos, grandson of Lynceus, the great-grandson of Danaus. Actaeon, a celebrated huntsman, son of Aristaeus and Autonoe, who, having seen Diana bathing, was changed by her to a stag and killed by his own dogs. Admeta, daughter of Eurystheus, covets Hippolyta's girdle. Admetus, king of Thessaly, saved from death by Alcestis Adonis, a youth beloved by Aphrodite (Venus), and Proserpine; killed by a boar. Adrastus, a king of Argos. Aeacus, son of Zeus (Jupiter) and Aegina, renowned in all Greece for his justice and piety. Aeaea, Circe's island, visited by Ulysses. Aeetes, or Aeeta, son of Helios (the Sun) and Perseis, and father of Medea and Absyrtus. Aegeus, king of Athens. Aegina, a rocky island in the middle of the Saronic gulf. Aegis, shield or breastplate of Jupiter and Minerva. Aegisthus, murderer of Agamemnon, slain by Orestes. Aeneas, Trojan hero, son of Anchises and Aphrodite (Venus), and born on Mount Ida, reputed first settler of Rome, Aeneid, poem by Virgil, relating the wanderings of Aeneas from Troy to Italy, Ae'olus, son of Hellen and the nymph Orseis, represented in Homer as the happy ruler of the Aeolian Islands, to whom Zeus had given dominion over the winds, Aesculapius, god of the medical art, Aeson, father of Jason, made young again by Medea, Aethiopians, inhabitants of the country south of Egypt, Aethra, mother of Theseus by Aegeus, Aetna, volcano in Sicily, Agamedes, brother of Trophonius, distinguished as an architect, Agamemnon, son of Plisthenis and grandson of Atreus, king of Mycenae, although the chief commander of the Greeks, is not the hero of the Iliad, and in chivalrous spirit altogether inferior to Achilles, Agave, daughter of Cadmus, wife of Echion, and mother of Pentheus, Agenor, father of Europa, Cadmus, Cilix, and Phoenix, Aglaia, one of the Graces, Agni, Hindu god of fire, Agramant, a king in Africa, Agrican, fabled king of Tartary, pursuing Angelica, finally killed by Orlando, Agrivain, one of Arthur's knights, Ahriman, the Evil Spirit in the dual system of Zoroaster, See Ormuzd Ajax, son of Telamon, king of Salamis, and grandson of Aeacus, represented in the Iliad as second only to Achilles in bravery, Alba, the river where King Arthur fought the Romans, Alba Longa, city in Italy founded by son of Aeneas, Alberich, dwarf guardian of Rhine gold treasure of the Nibelungs Albracca, siege of, Alcestis, wife of Admetus, offered hersell as sacrifice to spare her husband, but rescued by Hercules, Alcides (Hercules), Alcina, enchantress, Alcinous, Phaeacian king, Alcippe, daughter of Mars, carried off by Halirrhothrus, Alcmena, wife of Jupiter, and mother of Hercules, Alcuin, English prelate and scholar, Aldrovandus, dwarf guardian of treasure, Alecto, one of the Furies, Alexander the Great, king of Macedonia, conqueror of Greece, Egypt, Persia, Babylonia, and India, Alfadur, a name for Odin, Alfheim, abode of the elves of light, Alice, mother of Huon and Girard, sons of Duke Sevinus, Alphenor, son of Niobe, Alpheus, river god pursuing Arethusa, who escaped by being changed to a fountain, Althaea, mother of Meleager, whom she slew because he had in a quarrel killed her brothers, thus disgracing "the house of Thestius," her father, Amalthea, nurse of the infant Jupiter in Crete, Amata, wife of Latinus, driven mad by Alecto, Amaury of Hauteville, false hearted Knight of Charlemagne, Amazons, mythical race of warlike women, Ambrosia, celestial food used by the gods, Ammon, Egyptian god of life identified by Romans with phases of Jupiter, the father of gods, Amphiaraus, a great prophet and hero at Argos, Amphion, a musician, son of Jupiter and Antiope (See Dirce), Amphitrite, wife of Neptune, Amphyrsos, a small river in Thessaly, Ampyx, assailant of Perseus, turned to stone by seeing Gorgon's head, Amrita, nectar giving immortality, Amun, See Ammon Amymone, one of the fifty daughters of Danaus, and mother by Poseidon (Neptune) of Nauplius, the father of Palamedes, Anaxarete, a maiden of Cyprus, who treated her lover Iphis with such haughtiness that he hanged himself at her door, Anbessa, Saracenic governor of Spain (725 AD), Anceus, one of the Argonauts, Anchises, beloved by Aphrodite (Venus), by whom he became the father of Aeneas, Andraemon, husband of Dryope, saw her changed into a tree, Andret, a cowardly knight, spy upon Tristram, Andromache, wife of Hector Andromeda, daughter of King Cephas, delivered from monster by Perseus Aneurin, Welsh bard Angelica, Princess of Cathay Anemone, short lived wind flower, created by Venus from the blood of the slain Adonis Angerbode, giant prophetess, mother of Fenris, Hela and the Midgard Serpent Anglesey, a Northern British island, refuge of Druids fleeing from Romans Antaeus, giant wrestler of Libya, killed by Hercules, who, finding him stronger when thrown to the earth, lifted him into the air and strangled him Antea, wife of jealous Proetus Antenor, descendants of, in Italy Anteros, deity avenging unrequited love, brother of Eros (Cupid) Anthor, a Greek Antigone, daughter of Aedipus, Greek ideal of filial and sisterly fidelity Antilochus, son of Nestor Antiope, Amazonian queen. See Dirce Anubis, Egyptian god, conductor of the dead to judgment Apennines Aphrodite See Venus, Dione, etc. Apis, Egyptian bull god of Memphis Apollo, god of music and song Apollo Belvedere, famous antique statue in Vatican at Rome Apples of the Hesperides, wedding gifts to Juno, guarded by daughters of Atlas and Hesperis, stolen by Atlas for Hercules, Aquilo, or Boreas, the North Wind, Aquitaine, ancient province of Southwestern France, Arachne, a maiden skilled in weaving, changed to a spider by Minerva for daring to compete with her, Arcadia, a country in the middle of Peloponnesus, surrounded on all sides by mountains, Arcady, star of, the Pole star, Arcas, son of Jupiter and Callisto, Archer, constellation of the, Areopagus, court of the, at Athens, Ares, called Mars by the Romans, the Greek god of war, and one of the great Olympian gods, Arethusa, nymph of Diana, changed to a fountain, Argius king of Ireland, father of Isoude the Fair, Argo, builder of the vessel of Jason for the Argonautic expedition, Argolis, city of the Nemean games, Argonauts, Jason's crew seeking the Golden Fleece, Argos, a kingdom in Greece, Argus, of the hundred eyes, guardian of Io, Ariadne, daughter of King Minos, who helped Theseus slay the Minotaur, Arimanes SEE Ahriman. Arimaspians, one-eyed people of Syria, Arion, famous musician, whom sailors cast into the sea to rob him, but whose lyric song charmed the dolphins, one of which bore him safely to land, Aristaeus, the bee keeper, in love with Eurydice, Armorica, another name for Britain, Arridano, a magical ruffian, slain by Orlando, Artemis SEE Diana Arthgallo, brother of Elidure, British king, Arthur, king in Britain about the 6th century, Aruns, an Etruscan who killed Camilla, Asgard, home of the Northern gods, Ashtaroth, a cruel spirit, called by enchantment to bring Rinaldo to death, Aske, the first man, made from an ash tree, Astolpho of England, one of Charlemagne's knights, Astraea, goddess of justice, daughter of Astraeus and Eos, Astyages, an assailant of Perseus, Astyanax, son of Hector of Troy, established kingdom of Messina in Italy, Asuias, opponents of the Braminical gods, Atalanta, beautiful daughter of King of Icaria, loved and won in a foot race by Hippomenes, Ate, the goddess of infatuation, mischief and guilt, Athamas, son of Aeolus and Enarete, and king of Orchomenus, in Boeotia, SEE Ino Athene, tutelary goddess of Athens, the same as Minerva, Athens, the capital of Attica, about four miles from the sea, between the small rivers Cephissus and Ilissus, Athor, Egyptian deity, progenitor of Isis and Osiris, Athos, the mountainous peninsula, also called Acte, which projects from Chalcidice in Macedonia, Atlantes, foster father of Rogero, a powerful magician, Atlantis, according to an ancient tradition, a great island west of the Pillars of Hercules, in the ocean, opposite Mount Atlas, Atlas, a Titan, who bore the heavens on his shoulders, as punishment for opposing the gods, one of the sons of Iapetus, Atlas, Mount, general name for range in northern Africa, Atropos, one of the Fates Attica, a state in ancient Greece, Audhumbla, the cow from which the giant Ymir was nursed. Her milk was frost melted into raindrops, Augean stables, cleansed by Hercules, Augeas, king of Elis, Augustan age, reign of Roman Emperor Augustus Caesar, famed for many great authors, Augustus, the first imperial Caesar, who ruled the Roman Empire 31 BC--14 AD, Aulis, port in Boeotia, meeting place of Greek expedition against Troy, Aurora, identical with Eos, goddess of the dawn, Aurora Borealis, splendid nocturnal luminosity in northern sky, called Northern Lights, probably electrical, Autumn, attendant of Phoebus, the Sun, Avalon, land of the Blessed, an earthly paradise in the Western Seas, burial place of King Arthur, Avatar, name for any of the earthly incarnations of Vishnu, the Preserver (Hindu god), Aventine, Mount, one of the Seven Hills of Rome, Avernus, a miasmatic lake close to the promontory between Cumae and Puteoli, filling the crater of an extinct volcano, by the ancients thought to be the entrance to the infernal regions, Avicenna, celebrated Arabian physician and philosopher, Aya, mother of Rinaldo, Aymon, Duke, father of Rinaldo and Bradamante, B Baal, king of Tyre, Babylonian River, dried up when Phaeton drove the sun chariot, Bacchanali a, a feast to Bacchus that was permitted to occur but once in three years, attended by most shameless orgies, Bacchanals, devotees and festal dancers of Bacchus, Bacchus (Dionysus), god of wine and revelry, Badon, battle of, Arthur's final victory over the Saxons, Bagdemagus, King, a knight of Arthur's time, Baldur, son of Odin, and representing in Norse mythology the sun god, Balisardo, Orlando's sword, Ban, King of Brittany, ally of Arthur, father of Launcelot, Bards, minstrels of Welsh Druids, Basilisk SEE Cockatrice Baucis, wife of Philemon, visited by Jupiter and Mercury, Bayard, wild horse subdued by Rinaldo, Beal, Druids' god of life, Bedivere, Arthur's knight, Bedver, King Arthur's butler, made governor of Normandy, Bedwyr, knightly comrade of Geraint, Belisarda, Rogero's sword, Bellerophon, demigod, conqueror of the Chimaera, Bellona, the Roman goddess of war, represented as the sister or wife of Mars, Beltane, Druidical fire festival, Belus, son of Poseidon (Neptune) and Libya or Eurynome, twin brother of Agenor, Bendigeid Vran, King of Britain, Beowulf, hero and king of the Swedish Geats, Beroe, nurse of Semele, Bertha, mother of Orlando, Bifrost, rainbow bridge between the earth and Asgard Bladud, inventor, builder of the city of Bath, Blamor, a knight of Arthur, Bleoberis, a knight of Arthur, Boeotia, state in ancient Greece, capital city Thebes, Bohort, King, a knight of Arthur, Bona Dea, a Roman divinity of fertility, Bootes, also called Areas, son of Jupiter and Calisto, changed to constellation of Ursa Major, Boreas, North wind, son of Aeolus and Aurora, Bosporus (Bosphorus), the Cow-ford, named for Io, when as a heifer she crossed that strait, Bradamante, sister to Rinaldo, a female warrior, Brademagus, King, father of Sir Maleagans, Bragi, Norse god of poetry, Brahma, the Creator, chief god of Hindu religion, Branwen, daughter of Llyr, King of Britain, wife of Mathclch, Breciliande, forest of, where Vivian enticed Merlin, Brengwain, maid of Isoude the Fair Brennus, son of Molmutius, went to Gaul, became King of the Allobroges, Breuse, the Pitiless, a caitiff knight, Briareus, hundred armed giant, Brice, Bishop, sustainer of Arthur when elected king, Brigliadoro, Orlando's horse, Briseis, captive maid belonging to Achilles, Britto, reputed ancestor of British people, Bruhier, Sultan of Arabia, Brunello, dwarf, thief, and king Brunhild, leader of the Valkyrie, Brutus, great grandson of Aeneas, and founder of city of New Troy (London), SEE Pandrasus Bryan, Sir, a knight of Arthur, Buddha, called The Enlightened, reformer of Brahmanism, deified teacher of self abnegation, virtue, reincarnation, Karma (inevitable sequence of every act), and Nirvana (beatific absorption into the Divine), lived about Byblos, in Egypt, Byrsa, original site of Carthage, C Cacus, gigantic son of Vulcan, slain by Hercules, whose captured cattle he stole, Cadmus, son of Agenor, king of Phoenicia, and of Telephassa, and brother of Europa, who, seeking his sister, carried off by Jupiter, had strange adventures--sowing in the ground teeth of a dragon he had killed, which sprang up armed men who slew each other, all but five, who helped Cadmus to found the city of Thebes, Caduceus, Mercury's staff, Cadwallo, King of Venedotia (North Wales), Caerleon, traditional seat of Arthur's court, Caesar, Julius, Roman lawyer, general, statesman and author, conquered and consolidated Roman territory, making possible the Empire, Caicus, a Greek river, Cairns, Druidical store piles, Calais, French town facing England, Calchas, wisest soothsayer among the Greeks at Troy, Caliburn, a sword of Arthur, Calliope, one of the nine Muses Callisto, an Arcadian nymph, mother of Arcas (SEE Bootes), changed by Jupiter to constellation Ursa Minor, Calpe, a mountain in the south of Spain, on the strait between the Atlantic and Mediterranean, now Rock of Gibraltar, Calydon, home of Meleager, Calypso, queen of Island of Ogyia, where Ulysses was wrecked and held seven years, Camber, son of Brutus, governor of West Albion (Wales), Camelot, legendary place in England where Arthur's court and palace were located, Camenae, prophetic nymphs, belonging to the religion of ancient Italy, Camilla, Volscian maiden, huntress and Amazonian warrior, favorite of Diana, Camlan, battle of, where Arthur was mortally wounded, Canterbury, English city, Capaneus, husband of Evadne, slain by Jupiter for disobedience, Capet, Hugh, King of France (987-996 AD), Caradoc Briefbras, Sir, great nephew of King Arthur, Carahue, King of Mauretania, Carthage, African city, home of Dido Cassandra, daughter of Priam and Hecuba, and twin sister of Helenus, a prophetess, who foretold the coming of the Greeks but was not believed, Cassibellaunus, British chieftain, fought but not conquered by Caesar, Cassiopeia, mother of Andromeda, Castalia, fountain of Parnassus, giving inspiration to Oracular priestess named Pythia, Castalian Cave, oracle of Apollo, Castes (India), Castor and Pollux--the Dioscuri, sons of Jupiter and Leda,-- Castor a horseman, Pollux a boxer (SEE Gemini), Caucasus, Mount Cavall, Arthur's favorite dog, Cayster, ancient river, Cebriones, Hector's charioteer, Cecrops, first king of Athens, Celestials, gods of classic mythology, Celeus, shepherd who sheltered Ceres, seeking Proserpine, and whose infant son Triptolemus was in gratitude made great by Ceres, Cellini, Benvenuto, famous Italian sculptor and artificer in metals, Celtic nations, ancient Gauls and Britons, modern Bretons, Welsh, Irish and Gaelic Scotch, Centaurs, originally an ancient race, inhabiting Mount Pelion in Thessaly, in later accounts represented as half horses and half men, and said to have been the offspring of Ixion and a cloud, Cephalus, husband of beautiful but jealous Procris, Cephe us, King of Ethiopians, father of Andromeda, Cephisus, a Grecian stream, Cerberus, three-headed dog that guarded the entrance to Hades, called a son of Typhaon and Echidna CERES (See Demeter) CESTUS, the girdle of Venus CEYX, King of Thessaly (See Halcyone) CHAOS, original Confusion, personified by Greeks as most ancient of the gods CHARLEMAGNE, king of the Franks and emperor of the Romans CHARLES MARTEL', king of the Franks, grandfather of Charlemagne, called Martel (the Hammer) from his defeat of the Saracens at Tours CHARLOT, son of Charlemagne CHARON, son of Erebos, conveyed in his boat the shades of the dead across the rivers of the lower world CHARYB'DIS, whirlpool near the coast of Sicily, See Scylla CHIMAERA, a fire breathing monster, the fore part of whose body was that of a lion, the hind part that of a dragon, and the middle that of a goat, slain by Bellerophon CHINA, Lamas (priests) of CHOS, island in the Grecian archipelago CHIRON, wisest of all the Centaurs, son of Cronos (Saturn) and Philyra, lived on Mount Pelion, instructor of Grecian heroes CHRYSEIS, Trojan maid, taken by Agamemnon CHRYSES, priest of Apollo, father of Chryseis CICONIANS, inhabitants of Ismarus, visited by Ulysses CIMBRI, an ancient people of Central Europe Cimmeria, a land of darkness Cimon, Athenian general Circe, sorceress, sister of Aeetes Cithaeron, Mount, scene of Bacchic worship Clarimunda, wife of Huon Clio, one of the Muses Cloridan, a Moor Clotho, one of the Fates Clymene, an ocean nymph Clytemnestra, wife of Agamemnon, killed by Orestes Clytie, a water nymph, in love with Apollo Cnidos, ancient city of Asia Minor, seat of worship of Aphrodite (Venus) Cockatrice (or Basilisk), called King of Serpents, supposed to kill with its look Cocytus, a river of Hades Colchis, a kingdom east of the Black Sea Colophon, one of the seven cities claiming the birth of Homer Columba, St, an Irish Christian missionary to Druidical parts of Scotland Conan, Welsh king Constantine, Greek emperor Cordeilla, daughter of the mythical King Leir Corineus, a Trojan warrior in Albion Cornwall, southwest part of Britain Cortana, Ogier's sword Corybantes, priests of Cybele, or Rhea, in Phrygia, who celebrated her worship with dances, to the sound of the drum and the cymbal, 143 Crab, constellation Cranes and their enemies, the Pygmies, of Ibycus Creon, king of Thebes Crete, one of the largest islands of the Mediterranean Sea, lying south of the Cyclades Creusa, daughter of Priam, wife of Aeneas Crocale, a nymph of Diana Cromlech, Druidical altar Cronos, See Saturn Crotona, city of Italy Cuchulain, Irish hero, called the "Hound of Ireland," Culdees', followers of St. Columba, Cumaean Sibyl, seeress of Cumae, consulted by Aeneas, sold Sibylline books to Tarquin Cupid, child of Venus and god of love Curoi of Kerry, wise man Cyane, river, opposed Pluto's passage to Hades Cybele (Rhea) Cyclopes, creatures with circular eyes, of whom Homer speaks as a gigantic and lawless race of shepherds in Sicily, who devoured human beings, they helped Vulcan to forge the thunderbolts of Zeus under Aetna Cymbeline, king of ancient Britain Cynosure (Dog's tail), the Pole star, at tail of Constellation Ursa Minor Cynthian mountain top, birthplace of Artemis (Diana) and Apollo Cyprus, island off the coast of Syria, sacred to Aphrodite Cyrene, a nymph, mother of Aristaeus Daedalus, architect of the Cretan Labyrinth, inventor of sails Daguenet, King Arthur's fool Dalai Lama, chief pontiff of Thibet Danae, mother of Perseus by Jupiter Danaides, the fifty daughters of Danaus, king of Argos, who were betrothed to the fifty sons of Aegyptus, but were commanded by their father to slay each her own husband on the marriage night Danaus (See Danaides) Daphne, maiden loved by Apollo, and changed into a laurel tree Dardanelles, ancient Hellespont Dardanus, progenitor of the Trojan kings Dardinel, prince of Zumara Dawn, See Aurora Day, an attendant on Phoebus, the Sun Day star (Hesperus) Death, See Hela Deiphobus, son of Priam and Hecuba, the bravest brother of Paris Dejanira, wife of Hercules Delos, floating island, birthplace of Apollo and Diana Delphi, shrine of Apollo, famed for its oracles Demeter, Greek goddess of marriage and human fertility, identified by Romans with Ceres Demeha, South Wales Demodocus, bard of Alomous, king of the Phaeaeians Deucalion, king of Thessaly, who with his wife Pyrrha were the only pair surviving a deluge sent by Zeus Dia, island of Diana (Artemis), goddess of the moon and of the chase, daughter of Jupiter and Latona Diana of the Hind, antique sculpture in the Louvre, Paris Diana, temple of Dictys, a sailor Didier, king of the Lombards Dido, queen of Tyre and Carthage, entertained the shipwrecked Aeneas Diomede, Greek hero during Trojan War Dione, female Titan, mother of Zeus, of Aphrodite (Venus) Dionysus See Bacchus Dioscuri, the Twins (See Castor and Pollux) Dirce, wife of Lycus, king of Thebes, who ordered Amphion and Zethus to tie Antiope to a wild bull, but they, learning Antiope to be their mother, so treated Dirce herself Dis See Pluto Discord, apple of, See Eris. Discordia, See Eris. Dodona, site of an oracle of Zeus (Jupiter) Dorceus, a dog of Diana Doris, wife of Nereus Dragon's teeth sown by Cadmus Druids, ancient Celtic priests Dryades (or Dryads), See Wood nymphs Dryope, changed to a lotus plant, for plucking a lotus--enchanted form of the nymph Lotis Dubricius, bishop of Caerleon, Dudon, a knight, comrade of Astolpho, Dunwallo Molmu'tius, British king and lawgiver Durindana, sword of Orlando or Rinaldo Dwarfs in Wagner's Nibelungen Ring E Earth (Gaea); goddess of the Ebudians, the Echo, nymph of Diana, shunned by Narcissus, faded to nothing but a voice Ecklenlied, the Eddas, Norse mythological records, Ederyn, son of Nudd Egena, nymph of the Fountain Eisteddfod, session of Welsh bards and minstrels Electra, the lost one of the Pleiades, also, sister of Orestes Eleusian Mysteries, instituted by Ceres, and calculated to awaken feelings of piety and a cheerful hope of better life in the future Eleusis, Grecian city Elgin Marbles, Greek sculptures from the Parthenon of Athens, now in British Museum, London, placed there by Lord Elgin Eliaures, enchanter Elidure, a king of Britain Elis, ancient Greek city Elli, old age; the one successful wrestler against Thor Elphin, son of Gwyddiro Elves, spiritual beings, of many powers and dispositions--some evil, some good Elvidnir, the ball of Hela Elysian Fields, the land of the blest Elysian Plain, whither the favored of the gods were taken without death Elysium, a happy land, where there is neither snow, nor cold, nor ram. Hither favored heroes, like Menelaus, pass without dying, and live happy under the rule of Rhadamanthus. In the Latin poets Elysium is part of the lower world, and the residence of the shades of the blessed Embla, the first woman Enseladus, giant defeated by Jupiter Endymion, a beautiful youth beloved by Diana Enid, wife of Geraint Enna, vale of home of Proserpine Enoch, the patriarch Epidaurus, a town in Argolis, on the Saronic gulf, chief seat of the worship of Aeculapius, whose temple was situated near the town Epimetheus, son of Iapetus, husband of Pandora, with his brother Prometheus took part in creation of man Epirus, country to the west of Thessaly, lying along the Adriatic Sea Epopeus, a sailor Erato, one of the Muses Erbin of Cornwall, father of Geraint Erebus, son of Chaos, region of darkness, entrance to Hades Eridanus, river Erinys, one of the Furies Eriphyle, sister of Polynices, bribed to decide on war, in which her husband was slain Eris (Discordia), goddess of discord. At the wedding of Peleus and Thetis, Eris being uninvited threw into the gathering an apple "For the Fairest," which was claimed by Hera (Juno), Aphrodite (Venus) and Athena (Minerva) Paris, being called upon for judgment, awarded it to Aphrodite Erisichthon, an unbeliever, punished by famine Eros See Cupid Erytheia, island Eryx, a mount, haunt of Venus Esepus, river in Paphlagonia Estrildis, wife of Locrine, supplanting divorced Guendolen Eteocles, son of Oeipus and Jocasta Etruscans, ancient people of Italy, Etzel, king of the Huns Euboic Sea, where Hercules threw Lichas, who brought him the poisoned shirt of Nessus Eude, king of Aquitaine, ally of Charles Martel Eumaeus, swineherd of Aeeas Eumenides, also called Erinnyes, and by the Romans Furiae or Diraae, the Avenging Deities, See Furies Euphorbus, a Trojan, killed by Menelaus Euphros'yne, one of the Graces Europa, daughter of the Phoenician king Agenor, by Zeus the mother of Minos, Rhadamanthus, and Sarpedon Eurus, the East wind Euyalus, a gallant Trojan soldier, who with Nisus entered the Grecian camp, both being slain, Eurydice, wife of Orpheus, who, fleeing from an admirer, was killed by a snake and borne to Tartarus, where Orpheus sought her and was permitted to bring her to earth if he would not look back at her following him, but he did, and she returned to the Shades, Eurylochus, a companion of Ulysses, Eurynome, female Titan, wife of Ophlon Eurystheus, taskmaster of Hercules, Eurytion, a Centaur (See Hippodamia), Euterpe, Muse who presided over music, Evadne, wife of Capaneus, who flung herself upon his funeral pile and perished with him Evander, Arcadian chief, befriending Aeneas in Italy, Evnissyen, quarrelsome brother of Branwen, Excalibar, sword of King Arthur, F Fafner, a giant turned dragon, treasure stealer, by the Solar Theory simply the Darkness who steals the day, Falerina, an enchantress, Fasolt, a giant, brother of Fafner, and killed by him, "Fasti," Ovid's, a mythological poetic calendar, FATA MORGANA, a mirage FATES, the three, described as daughters of Night--to indicate the darkness and obscurity of human destiny--or of Zeus and Themis, that is, "daughters of the just heavens" they were Clo'tho, who spun the thread of life, Lach'esis, who held the thread and fixed its length and At'ropos, who cut it off FAUNS, cheerful sylvan deities, represented in human form, with small horns, pointed ears, and sometimes goat's tail FAUNUS, son of Picus, grandson of Saturnus, and father of Latinus, worshipped as the protecting deity of agriculture and of shepherds, and also as a giver of oracles FAVONIUS, the West wind FEAR FENRIS, a wolf, the son of Loki the Evil Principle of Scandinavia, supposed to have personated the element of fire, destructive except when chained FENSALIR, Freya's palace, called the Hall of the Sea, where were brought together lovers, husbands, and wives who had been separated by death FERRAGUS, a giant, opponent of Orlando FERRAU, one of Charlemagne's knights FERREX. brother of Porrex, the two sons of Leir FIRE WORSHIPPERS, of ancient Persia, See Parsees FLOLLO, Roman tribune in Gaul FLORA, Roman goddess of flowers and spring FLORDELIS, fair maiden beloved by Florismart FLORISMART, Sir, a brave knight, FLOSSHILDA, one of the Rhine daughters FORTUNATE FIELDS FORTUNATE ISLANDS (See Elysian Plain) FORUM, market place and open square for public meetings in Rome, surrounded by court houses, palaces, temples, etc FRANCUS, son of Histion, grandson of Japhet, great grandson of Noah, legendary ancestor of the Franks, or French FREKI, one of Odin's two wolves FREY, or Freyr, god of the sun FREYA, Norse goddess of music, spring, and flowers FRICKA, goddess of marriage FRIGGA, goddess who presided over smiling nature, sending sunshine, rain, and harvest FROH, one of the Norse gods FRONTI'NO, Rogero's horse FURIES (Erinnyes), the three retributive spirits who punished crime, represented as snaky haired old woman, named Alecto, Megaeira, and Tisiphone FUSBERTA, Rinaldo's sword G GAEA, or Ge, called Tellus by the Romans, the personification of the earth, described as the first being that sprang fiom Chaos, and gave birth to Uranus (Heaven) and Pontus (Sea) GAHARIET, knight of Arthur's court GAHERIS, knight GALAFRON, King of Cathay, father of Angelica GALAHAD, Sir, the pure knight of Arthur's Round Table, who safely took the Siege Perilous (which See) GALATEA, a Nereid or sea nymph GALATEA, statue carved and beloved by Pygmalion GALEN, Greek physician and philosophical writer GALLEHANT, King of the Marches GAMES, national athletic contests in Greece--Olympian, at Olympia, Pythian, near Delphi, seat of Apollo's oracle, Isthmian, on the Corinthian Isthmus, Nemean, at Nemea in Argolis GAN, treacherous Duke of Maganza GANELON of Mayence, one of Charlemagne's knights GANGES, river in India GANO, a peer of Charlemagne GANYMEDE, the most beautiful of all mortals, carried off to Olympus that he might fill the cup of Zeus and live among the immortal gods GARETH, Arthur's knight GAUDISSO, Sultan GAUL, ancient France GAUTAMA, Prince, the Buddha GAWAIN, Arthur's knight GAWL, son of Clud, suitor for Rhiannon GEMINI (See Castor), constellation created by Jupiter from the twin brothers after death, 158 GENGHIS Khan, Tartar conqueror GENIUS, in Roman belief, the protective Spirit of each individual man, See Juno GEOFFREY OF MON'MOUTH, translator into Latin of the Welsh History of the Kings of Britain (1150) GERAINT, a knight of King Arthur GERDA, wife of Frey GERI, one of Odin's two wolves GERYON, a three bodied monster GESNES, navigator sent for Isoude the Fair GIALLAR HORN, the trumpet that Heimdal will blow at the judgment day GIANTS, beings of monstrous size and of fearful countenances, represented as in constant opposition to the gods, in Wagner's Nibelungen Ring GIBICHUNG RACE, ancestors of Alberich GIBRALTAR, great rock and town at southwest corner of Spain (See Pillars of Hercules) GILDAS, a scholar of Arthur's court GIRARD, son of Duke Sevinus GLASTONBURY, where Arthur died GLAUCUS, a fisherman, loving Scylla GLEIPNIR, magical chain on the wolf Fenris GLEWLWYD, Arthur's porter GOLDEN FLEECE, of ram used for escape of children of Athamas, named Helle and Phryxus (which See), after sacrifice of ram to Jupiter, fleece was guarded by sleepless dragon and gained by Jason and Argonauts (which See, also Helle) GONERIL, daughter of Leir GORDIAN KNOT, tying up in temple the wagon of Gordius, he who could untie it being destined to be lord of Asia, it was cut by Alexander the Great, 48 Gordius, a countryman who, arriving in Phrygia in a wagon, was made king by the people, thus interpreting an oracle, 48 Gorgons, three monstrous females, with huge teeth, brazen claws and snakes for hair, sight of whom turned beholders to stone, Medusa, the most famous, slain by Perseus Gorlois, Duke of Tintadel Gouvernail, squire of Isabella, queen of Lionesse, protector of her son Tristram while young, and his squire in knighthood Graal, the Holy, cup from which the Saviour drank at Last Supper, taken by Joseph of Arimathea to Europe, and lost, its recovery becoming a sacred quest for Arthur's knights Graces, three goddesses who enhanced the enjoyments of life by refinement and gentleness; they were Aglaia (brilliance), Euphrosyne (joy), and Thalia (bloom) Gradas'so, king of Sericane Graeae, three gray haired female watchers for the Gorgons, with one movable eye and one tooth between the three Grand Lama, Buddhist pontiff in Thibet Grendel, monster slain by Beowulf Gryphon (griffin), a fabulous animal, with the body of a lion and the head and wings of an eagle, dwelling in the Rhipaean mountains, between the Hyperboreans and the one eyed Arimaspians, and guarding the gold of the North, Guebers, Persian fire worshippers, Guendolen, wife of Locrine, Guenevere, wife of King Arthur, beloved by Launcelot, Guerin, lord of Vienne, father of Oliver, Guiderius, son of Cymbeline, Guillamurius, king in Ireland, Guimier, betrothed of Caradoc, Gullinbursti, the boar drawing Frey's car, Gulltopp, Heimdell's horse, Gunfasius, King of the Orkneys, Ganther, Burgundian king, brother of Kriemhild, Gutrune, half sister to Hagen, Gwern son of Matholch and Branwen, Gwernach the Giant, Gwiffert Petit, ally of Geraint, Gwyddno, Garanhir, King of Gwaelod, Gwyr, judge in the court of Arthur, Gyoll, river, H Hades, originally the god of the nether world--the name later used to designate the gloomy subterranean land of the dead, Haemon, son of Creon of Thebes, and lover of Antigone, Haemonian city, Haemus, Mount, northern boundary of Thrace, Hagan, a principal character in the Nibelungen Lied, slayer of Siegfried, HALCYONE, daughter of Aeneas, and the beloved wife of Ceyx, who, when he was drowned, flew to his floating body, and the pitying gods changed them both to birds (kingfishers), who nest at sea during a certain calm week in winter ("halcyon weather") HAMADRYADS, tree-nymphs or wood-nymphs, See Nymphs HARMONIA, daughter of Mars and Venus, wife of Cadmus HAROUN AL RASCHID, Caliph of Arabia, contemporary of Charlemagne HARPIES, monsters, with head and bust of woman, but wings, legs and tail of birds, seizing souls of the wicked, or punishing evildoers by greedily snatching or defiling their food HARPOCRATES, Egyptian god, Horus HEBE, daughter of Juno, cupbearer to the gods HEBRUS, ancient name of river Maritzka HECATE, a mighty and formidable divinity, supposed to send at night all kinds of demons and terrible phantoms from the lower world HECTOR, son of Priam and champion of Troy HECTOR, one of Arthur's knights HECTOR DE MARYS', a knight HECUBA, wife of Priam, king of Troy, to whom she bore Hector, Paris, and many other children HEGIRA, flight of Mahomet from Mecca to Medina (622 AD), era from which Mahometans reckon time, as we do from the birth of Christ HEIDRUN, she goat, furnishing mead for slain heroes in Valhalla HEIMDALL, watchman of the gods HEL, the lower world of Scandinavia, to which were consigned those who had not died in battle HELA (Death), the daughter of Loki and the mistress of the Scandinavian Hel HELEN, daughter of Jupiter and Leda, wife of Menelaus, carried off by Paris and cause of the Trojan War HELENUS, son of Priam and Hecuba, celebrated for his prophetic powers HELIADES, sisters of Phaeton HELICON, Mount, in Greece, residence of Apollo and the Muses, with fountains of poetic inspiration, Aganippe and Hippocrene HELIOOPOLIS, city of the Sun, in Egypt HELLAS, Gieece HELLE, daughter of Thessalian King Athamas, who, escaping from cruel father with her brother Phryxus, on ram with golden fleece, fell into the sea strait since named for her (See Golden Fleece) HELLESPONt, narrow strait between Europe and Asia Minor, named for Helle HENGIST, Saxon invader of Britain, 449 AD HEPHAESTOS, See VULCAN HERA, called Juno by the Romans, a daughter of Cronos (Saturn) and Rhea, and sister and wife of Jupiter, See JUNO HERCULES, athletic hero, son of Jupiter and Alcmena, achieved twelve vast labors and many famous deeds HEREWARD THE WAKE, hero of the Saxons HERMES (Mercury), messenger of the gods, deity of commerce, science, eloquence, trickery, theft, and skill generally HERMIONE, daughter of Menelaus and Helen HERMOD, the nimble, son of Odin HERO, a priestess of Venus, beloved of Leander HERODOTUS, Greek historian HESIOD, Greek poet HESPERIA, ancient name for Italy HESPERIDES (See Apples of the Hesperides) HESPERUS, the evening star (also called Day Star) HESTIA, cilled Vesta by the Romans, the goddess of the hearth HILDEBRAND, German magician and champion HINDU TRIAD, Brahma, Vishnu, and Siva HIPPOCRENE (See Helicon) HIPPODAMIA, wife of Pirithous, at whose wedding the Centaurs offered violence to the bride, causing a great battle HIPPOGRIFF, winged horse, with eagle's head and claws HIPPOLYTA, Queen of the Amazons Hippolytus, son of Thesus HIPPOMENES, who won Atalanta in foot race, beguiling her with golden apples thrown for her to HISTION, son of Japhet HODUR, blind man, who, fooled by Loki, threw a mistletoe twig at Baldur, killing him HOEL, king of Brittany HOMER, the blind poet of Greece, about 850 B C HOPE (See PANDORA) HORAE See HOURS HORSA, with Hengist, invader of Britain HORUS, Egyptian god of the sun HOUDAIN, Tristram's dog HRINGHAM, Baldur's ship HROTHGAR, king of Denmark HUGI, who beat Thialfi in foot races HUGIN, one of Odin's two ravens HUNDING, husband of Sieglinda HUON, son of Duke Sevinus HYACINTHUS, a youth beloved by Apollo, and accidentally killed by him, changed in death to the flower, hyacinth HYADES, Nysaean nymphs, nurses of infant Bacchus, rewarded by being placed as cluster of stars in the heavens HYALE, a nymph of Diana HYDRA, nine headed monster slain by Hercules HYGEIA, goddess of health, daughter of Aesculapius HYLAS, a youth detained by nymphs of spring where he sought water HYMEN, the god of marriage, imagined as a handsome youth and invoked in bridal songs HYMETTUS, mountain in Attica, near Athens, celebrated for its marble and its honey HYPERBOREANS, people of the far North HYPERION, a Titan, son of Uranus and Ge, and father of Helios, Selene, and Eos, cattle of, Hyrcania, Prince of, betrothed to Clarimunda Hyrieus, king in Greece, I Iapetus, a Titan, son of Uranus and Ge, and father of Atlas, Prometheus, Epimetheus, and Menoetius, Iasius, father of Atalanta Ibycus, a poet, story of, and the cranes Icaria, island of the Aegean Sea, one of the Sporades Icarius, Spartan prince, father of Penelope Icarus, son of Daedalus, he flew too near the sun with artificial wings, and, the wax melting, he fell into the sea Icelos, attendant of Morpheus Icolumkill SEE Iona Ida, Mount, a Trojan hill Idaeus, a Trojan herald Idas, son of Aphareus and Arene, and brother of Lynceus Idu'na, wife of Bragi Igerne, wife of Gorlois, and mother, by Uther, of Arthur Iliad, epic poem of the Trojan War, by Homer Ilioheus, a son of Niobe Ilium SEE Troy Illyria, Adriatic countries north of Greece Imogen, daughter of Pandrasus, wife of Trojan Brutus Inachus, son of Oceanus and Tethys, and father of Phoroneus and Io, also first king of Argos, and said to have given his name to the river Inachus INCUBUS, an evil spirit, supposed to lie upon persons in their sleep INDRA, Hindu god of heaven, thunder, lightning, storm and rain INO, wife of Athamas, fleeing from whom with infant son she sprang into the sea and was changed to Leucothea IO, changed to a heifer by Jupiter IOBATES, King of Lycia IOLAUS, servant of Hercules IOLE, sister of Dryope IONA, or Icolmkill, a small northern island near Scotland, where St Columba founded a missionary monastery (563 AD) IONIA, coast of Asia Minor IPHIGENIA, daughter of Agamemnon, offered as a sacrifice but carried away by Diana IPHIS, died for love of Anaxarete, 78 IPHITAS, friend of Hercules, killed by him IRIS, goddess of the rainbow, messenger of Juno and Zeus IRONSIDE, Arthur's knight ISABELLA, daughter of king of Galicia ISIS, wife of Osiris, described as the giver of death ISLES OF THE BLESSED ISMARUS, first stop of Ulysses, returning from Trojan War ISME'NOS, a son of Niobe, slain by Apollo ISOLIER, friend of Rinaldo ISOUDE THE FAIR, beloved of Tristram ISOUDE OF THE WHITE HANDS, married to Tristram ISTHMIAN GAMES, See GAMES ITHACA, home of Ulysses and Penelope IULUS, son of Aeneas IVO, Saracen king, befriending Rinaldo IXION, once a sovereign of Thessaly, sentenced in Tartarus to be lashed with serpents to a wheel which a strong wind drove continually around J JANICULUM, Roman fortress on the Janiculus, a hill on the other side of the Tiber JANUS, a deity from the earliest times held in high estimation by the Romans, temple of JAPHET (Iapetus) JASON, leader of the Argonauts, seeking the Golden Fleece JOSEPH OF ARIMATHEA, who bore the Holy Graal to Europe JOTUNHEIM, home of the giants in Northern mythology JOVE (Zeus), chief god of Roman and Grecian mythology, See JUPITER JOYOUS GARDE, residence of Sir Launcelot of the Lake JUGGERNAUT, Hindu deity JUNO, the particular guardian spirit of each woman (See Genius) JUNO, wife of Jupiter, queen of the gods JUPITER, JOVIS PATER, FATHER JOVE, JUPITER and JOVE used interchangeably, at Dodona, statue of the Olympian JUPITER AMMON (See Ammon) JUPITER CAPITOLINUS, temple of, preserving the Sibylline books JUSTICE, See THEMIS K KADYRIATH, advises King Arthur KAI, son of Kyner KALKI, tenth avatar of Vishnu KAY, Arthur's steward and a knight KEDALION, guide of Orion KERMAN, desert of KICVA, daughter of Gwynn Gloy KILWICH, son of Kilydd KILYDD, son of Prince Kelyddon, of Wales KNEPH, spirit or breath KNIGHTS, training and life of KRIEMHILD, wife of Siegfried KRISHNA, eighth avatar of Vishnu, Hindu deity of fertility in nature and mankind KYNER, father of Kav KYNON, son of Clydno L LABYRINTH, the enclosed maze of passageways where roamed the Minotaur of Crete, killed by Theseus with aid of Ariadne LACHESIS, one of the Fates (which See) LADY OF THE FOUNTAIN, tale told by Kynon LAERTES, father of Ulysses LAESTRYGONIANS, savages attacking Ulysses LAIUS, King of Thebes LAMA, holy man of Thibet LAMPETIA, daughter of Hyperion LAOC'OON, a priest of Neptune, in Troy, who warned the Trojans against the Wooden Horse (which See), but when two serpents came out of the sea and strangled him and his two sons, the people listened to the Greek spy Sinon, and brought the fatal Horse into the town LAODAMIA, daughter of Acastus and wife of Protesilaus LAODEGAN, King of Carmalide, helped by Arthur and Merlin LAOMEDON, King of Troy LAPITHAE, Thessalonians, whose king had invited the Centaurs to his daughter's wedding but who attacked them for offering violence to the bride LARES, household deities LARKSPUR, flower from the blood of Ajax LATINUS, ruler of Latium, where Aeneas landed in Italy LATMOS, Mount, where Diana fell in love with Endymion LATONA, mother of Apollo LAUNCELOT, the most famous knight of the Round Table LAUSUS, son of Mezentius, killed by Aeneas LAVINIA, daughter of Latinus and wife of Aeneas LAVINIUM, Italian city named for Lavinia LAW, See THEMIS LEANDER, a youth of Abydos, who, swimming the Hellespont to see Hero, his love, was drowned LEBADEA, site of the oracle of Trophomus LEBYNTHOS, Aegean island LEDA, Queen of Sparta, wooed by Jupiter in the form of a swan LEIR, mythical King of Britain, original of Shakespeare's Lear LELAPS, dog of Cephalus LEMNOS, large island in the Aegean Sea, sacred to Vulcan LEMURES, the spectres or spirits of the dead LEO, Roman emperor, Greek prince LETHE, river of Hades, drinking whose water caused forgetfulness LEUCADIA, a promontory, whence Sappho, disappointed in love, was said to have thrown herself into the sea LEUCOTHEA, a sea goddess, invoked by sailors for protection (See Ino) LEWIS, son of Charlemagne LIBER, ancient god of fruitfulness LIBETHRA, burial place of Orpheus LIBYA, Greek name for continent of Africa in general LIBYAN DESERT, in Africa LIBYAN OASIS LICHAS, who brought the shirt of Nessus to Hercules LIMOURS, Earl of LINUS, musical instructor of Hercules LIONEL, knight of the Round Table LLYR, King of Britain LOCRINE, son of Brutus in Albion, king of Central England LOEGRIA, kingdom of (England) LOGESTILLA, a wise lady, who entertained Rogero and his friends LOGI, who vanquished Loki in an eating contest LOKI, the Satan of Norse mythology, son of the giant Farbanti LOT, King, a rebel chief, subdued by King Arthur, then a loyal knight LOTIS, a nymph, changed to a lotus-plant and in that form plucked by Dryope LOTUS EATERS, soothed to indolence, companions of Ulysses landing among them lost all memory of home and had to be dragged away before they would continue their voyage LOVE (Eros) issued from egg of Night, and with arrows and torch produced life and joy LUCAN, one of Arthur's knights Lucius Tiberius, Roman procurator in Britain demanding tribute from Arthur LUD, British king, whose capital was called Lud's Town (London) LUDGATE, city gate where Lud was buried, 387 LUNED, maiden who guided Owain to the Lady of the Fountain LYCAHAS, a turbulent sailor LYCAON, son of Priam LYCIA, a district in Southern Asia Minor LYCOMODES, king of the Dolopians, who treacherously slew Theseus LYCUS, usurping King of Thebes LYNCEUS, one of the sons of Aegyptus M MABINOGEON, plural of Mabinogi, fairy tales and romances of the Welsh MABON, son of Modron MACHAON, son of Aesculapius MADAN, son of Guendolen MADOC, a forester of King Arthur MADOR, Scottish knight MAELGAN, king who imprisoned Elphin MAEONIA, ancient Lydia MAGI, Persian priests MAHADEVA, same as Siva MAHOMET, great prophet of Arabia, born in Mecca, 571 AD, proclaimed worship of God instead of idols, spread his religion through disciples and then by force till it prevailed, with Arabian dominion, over vast regions in Asia, Africa, and Spain in Europe MAIA, daughter of Atlas and Pleione, eldest and most beautiful of the Pleiades MALAGIGI the Enchanter, one of Charlemagne's knights MALEAGANS, false knight MALVASIUS, King of Iceland MAMBRINO, with invisible helmet MANAWYD DAN, brother of King Vran, of London MANDRICARDO, son of Agrican MANTUA, in Italy, birthplace of Virgil MANU, ancestor of mankind MARATHON, where Theseus and Pirithous met MARK, King of Cornwall, husband of Isoude the Fair MARO See VIRGIL MARPHISA, sister of Rogero MARSILIUS, Spanish king, treacherous foe of Charlemagne MARSYAS, inventor of the flute, who challenged Apollo to musical competition, and, defeated, was flayed alive MATSYA, the Fish, first avatar of Vishnu MEANDER, Grecian river MEDE, A, princess and sorceress who aided Jason MEDORO, a young Moor, who wins Angelica MEDUSA, one of the Gorgons MEGAERA, one of the Furies MELAMPUS, a Spartan dog, the first mortal endowed with prophetic powers MELANTHUS, steersman for Bacchus MELEAGER, one of the Argonauts (See Althaea) MELIADUS, King of Lionesse, near Cornwall MELICERTES, infant son of Ino. changed to Palaemon (See Ino, Leucothea, and Palasmon) MELISSA, priestess at Merlin's tomb MELISSEUS, a Cretan king MELPOMENE, one of the Muses MEMNON, the beautiful son of Tithonus and Eos (Aurora), and king of the Ethiopians, slain in Trojan War MEMPHIS, Egyptian city MENELAUS, son of King of Sparta, husband of Helen MENOECEUS, son of Creon, voluntary victim in war to gain success for his father MENTOR, son of Alcimus and a faithful friend of Ulysses MERCURY (See HERMES) MERLIN, enchanter MEROPE, daughter of King of Chios, beloved by Orion MESMERISM, likened to curative oracle of Aesculapius at Epidaurus METABUS, father of Camilla METAMORPHOSES, Ovid's poetical legends of mythical transformations, a large source of our knowledge of classic mythology METANIRA, a mother, kind to Ceres seeking Proserpine METEMPSYCHOSIS, transmigration of souls--rebirth of dying men and women in forms of animals or human beings METIS, Prudence, a spouse of Jupiter MEZENTIUS, a brave but cruel soldier, opposing Aeneas in Italy MIDAS MIDGARD, the middle world of the Norsemen MIDGARD SERPENT, a sea monster, child of Loki MILKY WAY, starred path across the sky, believed to be road to palace of the gods MILO, a great athlete MLON, father of Orlando MILTON, John, great English poet, whose History of England is here largely used MIME, one of the chief dwarfs of ancient German mythology MINERVA (Athene), daughter of Jupiter, patroness of health, learning, and wisdom MINOS, King of Crete MINO TAUR, monster killed by Theseus MISTLETOE, fatal to Baldur MNEMOSYNE, one of the Muses MODESTY, statue to MODRED, nephew of King Arthur MOLY, plant, powerful against sorcery MOMUS, a deity whose delight was to jeer bitterly at gods and men MONAD, the "unit" of Pythagoras MONSTERS, unnatural beings, evilly disposed to men MONTALBAN, Rinaldo's castle MONTH, the, attendant upon the Sun MOON, goddess of, see DIANA MORAUNT, knight, an Irish champion MORGANA, enchantress, the Lady of the Lake in "Orlando Furioso," same as Morgane Le Fay in tales of Arthur MORGANE LE FAY, Queen of Norway, King Arthur's sister, an enchantress MORGAN TUD, Arthur's chief physician MORPHEUS, son of Sleep and god of dreams MORTE D'ARTHUr, romance, by Sir Thomas Mallory MULCIBER, Latin name of Vulcan MULL, Island of MUNIN, one of Odin's two ravens MUSAEUS, sacred poet, son of Orpheus MUSES, The, nine goddesses presiding over poetry, etc--Calliope, epic poetry, Clio, history, Erato, love poetry, Euterpe, lyric poetry; Melpomene, tragedy, Polyhymnia, oratory and sacred song Terpsichore, choral song and dance, Thalia, comedy and idyls, Urania, astronomy MUSPELHEIM, the fire world of the Norsemen MYCENAS, ancient Grecian city, of which Agamemnon was king MYRDDIN (Merlin) MYRMIDONS, bold soldiers of Achilles MYSIA, Greek district on northwest coast of Asia Minor MYTHOLOGY, origin of, collected myths, describing gods of early peoples N NAIADS, water nymphs NAMO, Duke of Bavaria, one of Charlemagne's knights NANNA, wife of Baldur NANTERS, British king NANTES, site of Caradoc's castle NAPE, a dog of Diana NARCISSUS, who died of unsatisfied love for his own image in the water NAUSICAA, daughter of King Alcinous, who befriended Ulysses NAUSITHOUS, king of Phaeacians NAXOS, Island of NEGUS, King of Abyssinia NEMEA, forest devastated by a lion killed by Hercules NEMEAN GAMES, held in honor of Jupiter and Hercules NEMEAN LION, killed by Hercules NEMESIS, goddess of vengeance NENNIUS, British combatant of Caesar NEOPTOLEMUS, son of Achilles NEPENTHE, ancient drug to cause forgetfulness of pain or distress NEPHELE, mother of Phryxus and Helle NEPHTHYS, Egyptian goddess NEPTUNE, identical with Poseidon, god of the sea NEREIDS, sea nymphs, daughters of Nereus and Doris NEREUS, a sea god NESSUS, a centaur killed by Hercules, whose jealous wife sent him a robe or shirt steeped in the blood of Nessus, which poisoned him NESTOR, king of Pylos, renowned for his wisdom, justice, and knowledge of war NIBELUNGEN HOARD, treasure seized by Siegfried from the Nibelungs, buried in the Rhine by Hagan after killing Siegfried, and lost when Hagan was killed by Kriemhild, theme of Wagner's four music dramas, "The Ring of the Nibelungen," NIBELUNGEN LIED, German epic, giving the same nature myth as the Norse Volsunga Saga, concerning the Hoard NIBELUNGEN RING, Wagner's music dramas NIBELUNGS, the, a race of Northern dwarfs NIDHOGGE, a serpent in the lower world that lives on the dead NIFFLEHEIM, mist world of the Norsemen, the Hades of absent spirits NILE, Egyptian river NIOBE, daughter of Tantalus, proud Queen of Thebes, whose seven sons and seven daughters were killed by Apollo and Diana, at which Amphion, her husband, killed himself, and Niobe wept until she was turned to stone NISUS, King of Megara NOAH, as legendary ancestor of French, Roman, German, and British peoples NOMAN, name assumed by Ulysses NORNS, the three Scandinavian Fates, Urdur (the past), Verdandi (the present), and Skuld (the future) NOTHUNG, magic sword NOTUS, southwest wind NOX, daughter of Chaos and sister of Erebus, personification of night Numa, second king of Rome NYMPHS, beautiful maidens, lesser divinities of nature Dryads and Hamadryads, tree nymphs, Naiads, spring, brook, and river nymphs, Nereids, sea nymphs Oreads, mountain nymphs or hill nymphs O OCEANUS, a Titan, ruling watery elements OCYROE, a prophetess, daughter of Chiron ODERIC ODIN, chief of the Norse gods ODYAR, famous Biscayan hero ODYSSEUS See ULYSSES ODYSSEY, Homer's poem, relating the wanderings of Odysseus (Ulysses) on returning from Trojan War OEDIPUS, Theban hero, who guessed the riddle of the Sphinx (which See), becoming King of Thebes OENEUS, King of Calydon OENONE, nymph, married by Paris in his youth, and abandoned for Helen OENOPION, King of Chios OETA, Mount, scene of Hercules' death OGIER, the Dane, one of the paladins of Charlemagne OLIVER, companion of Orlando OLWEN, wife of Kilwich OLYMPIA, a small plain in Elis, where the Olympic games were celebrated OLYMPIADS, periods between Olympic games (four years) OLYMPIAN GAMES, See GAMES OLYMPUS, dwelling place of the dynasty of gods of which Zeus was the head OMPHALE, queen of Lydia, daughter of Iardanus and wife of Tmolus OPHION, king of the Titans, who ruled Olympus till dethroned by the gods Saturn and Rhea OPS See RHEA ORACLES, answers from the gods to questions from seekers for knowledge or advice for the future, usually in equivocal form, so as to fit any event, also places where such answers were given forth usually by a priest or priestess ORC, a sea monster, foiled by Rogero when about to devour Angelica OREADS, nymphs of mountains and hills ORESTES, son of Agamemnon and Clytemnestra, because of his crime in killing his mother, he was pursued by the Furies until purified by Minerva ORION, youthful giant, loved by Diana, Constellation ORITHYIA, a nymph, seized by Boreas ORLANDO, a famous knight and nephew of Charlemagne ORMUZD (Greek, Oromasdes), son of Supreme Being, source of good as his brother Ahriman (Arimanes) was of evil, in Persian or Zoroastrian religion ORPHEUS, musician, son of Apollo and Calliope, See EURYDICE OSIRIS, the most beneficent of the Egyptian gods OSSA, mountain of Thessaly OSSIAN, Celtic poet of the second or third century OVID, Latin poet (See Metamorphoses) OWAIN, knight at King Arthur's court OZANNA, a knight of Arthur P PACTOLUS, river whose sands were changed to gold by Midas PAEON, a name for both Apollo and Aesculapius, gods of medicine, PAGANS, heathen PALADINS or peers, knights errant PALAEMON, son of Athamas and Ino PALAMEDES, messenger sent to call Ulysses to the Trojan War PALAMEDES, Saracen prince at Arthur's court PALATINE, one of Rome's Seven Hills PALES, goddess presiding over cattle and pastures PALINURUS, faithful steersman of Aeeas PALLADIUM, properly any image of Pallas Athene, but specially applied to an image at Troy, which was stolen by Ulysses and Diomedes PALLAS, son of Evander PALLAS A THE'NE (Minerva) PAMPHA GUS, a dog of Diana PAN, god of nature and the universe PANATHENAEA, festival in honor of Pallas Athene (Minerva) PANDEAN PIPES, musical instrument of reeds, made by Pan in memory of Syrinx PANDORA (all gifted), first woman, dowered with gifts by every god, yet entrusted with a box she was cautioned not to open, but, curious, she opened it, and out flew all the ills of humanity, leaving behind only Hope, which remained PANDRASUS, a king in Greece, who persecuted Trojan exiles under Brutus, great grandson of Aeneas, until they fought, captured him, and, with his daughter Imogen as Brutus' wife, emigrated to Albion (later called Britain) PANOPE, plain of PANTHUS, alleged earlier incarnation of Pythagoras PAPHLAGNIA, ancient country in Asia Minor, south of Black Sea PAPHOS, daughter of Pygmalion and Galatea (both of which, See) PARCAE See FATES PARIAHS, lowest caste of Hindus PARIS, son of Priam and Hecuba, who eloped with Helen (which. See) PARNASSIAN LAUREl, wreath from Parnassus, crown awarded to successful poets PARNASSUS, mountain near Delphi, sacred to Apollo and the Muses PARSEES, Persian fire worshippers (Zoroastrians), of whom there are still thousands in Persia and India PARTHENON, the temple of Athene Parthenos ("the Virgin") on the Acropolis of Athens PASSEBREUL, Tristram's horse PATROCLUS, friend of Achilles, killed by Hector PECHEUR, King, uncle of Perceval PEERS, the PEG A SUS, winged horse, born from the sea foam and the blood of Medusa PELEUS, king of the Myrmidons, father of Achilles by Thetis PELIAS, usurping uncle of Jason PELION, mountain PELLEAS, knight of Arthur PENATES, protective household deities of the Romans PENDRAGON, King of Britain, elder brother of Uther Pendragon, who succeeded him PENELOPE, wife of Ulysses, who, waiting twenty years for his return from the Trojan War, put off the suitors for her hand by promising to choose one when her weaving was done, but unravelled at night what she had woven by day PENEUS, river god, river PENTHESILEA, queen of Amazons PENTHEUS, king of Thebes, having resisted the introduction of the worship of Bacchus into his kingdom, was driven mad by the god PENUS, Roman house pantry, giving name to the Penates PEPIN, father of Charlemagne PEPLUS, sacred robe of Minerva PERCEVAL, a great knight of Arthur PERDIX, inventor of saw and compasses PERIANDER, King of Corinuh, friend of Arion PERIPHETES, son of Vulcan, killed by Theseus PERSEPHONE, goddess of vegetation, 8 See Pioserpine PERSEUS, son of Jupiter and Danae, slayer of the Gorgon Medusa, deliverer of Andromeda from a sea monster, 116 122, 124, 202 PHAEACIANS, people who entertained Ulysses PHAEDRA, faithless and cruel wife of Theseus PHAETHUSA, sister of Phaeton, 244 PHAETON, son of Phoebus, who dared attempt to drive his father's sun chariot PHANTASOS, a son of Somnus, bringing strange images to sleeping men PHAON, beloved by Sappho PHELOT, knight of Wales PHEREDIN, friend of Tristram, unhappy lover of Isoude PHIDIAS, famous Greek sculptor PHILEMON, husband of Baucis PHILOCTETES, warrior who lighted the fatal pyre of Hercules PHILOE, burial place of Osiris PHINEUS, betrothed to Andromeda PHLEGETHON, fiery river of Hades PHOCIS PHOEBE, one of the sisters of Phaeton PHOEBUS (Apollo), god of music, prophecy, and archery, the sun god PHOENIX, a messenger to Achilles, also, a miraculous bird dying in fire by its own act and springing up alive from its own ashes PHORBAS, a companion of Aeneas, whose form was assumed by Neptune in luring Palinuras the helmsman from his roost PHRYXUS, brother of Helle PINABEL, knight PILLARS OF HERCULES, two mountains--Calpe, now the Rock of Gibraltar, southwest corner of Spain in Europe, and Abyla, facing it in Africa across the strait PINDAR, famous Greek poet PINDUS, Grecian mountain PIRENE, celebrated fountain at Corinth PIRITHOUS, king of the Lapithae in Thessaly, and friend of Theseus, husband of Hippodamia PLEASURE, daughter of Cupid and Psyche PLEIADES, seven of Diana's nymphs, changed into stars, one being lost PLENTY, the Horn of PLEXIPPUS, brother of Althea PLINY, Roman naturalist PLUTO, the same as Hades, Dis, etc. god of the Infernal Regions PLUTUS, god of wealth PO, Italian river POLE STAR POLITES, youngest son of Priam of Troy POLLUX, Castor and (Dioscuri, the Twins) (See Castor) POLYDECTES, king of Seriphus POLYDORE, slain kinsman of Aeneas, whose blood nourished a bush that bled when broken POLYHYMNIA, Muse of oratory and sacred song POLYIDUS, soothsayer POLYNICES, King of Thebes POLYPHEMUS, giant son of Neptune POLYXENA, daughter of King Priam of Troy POMONA, goddess of fruit trees (See VERTUMNUS) PORREX and FER'REX, sons of Leir, King of Britain PORTUNUS, Roman name for Palaemon POSEIDON (Neptune), ruler of the ocean PRECIPICE, threshold of Helas hall PRESTER JOHN, a rumored priest or presbyter, a Christian pontiff in Upper Asia, believed in but never found PRIAM, king of Troy PRIWEN, Arthur's shield PROCRIS, beloved but jealous wife of Cephalus PROCRUSTES, who seized travellers and bound them on his iron bed, stretching the short ones and cutting short the tall, thus also himself served by Theseus PROETUS, jealous of Bellerophon PROMETHEUS, creator of man, who stole fire from heaven for man's use PROSERPINE, the same as Persephone, goddess of all growing things, daughter of Ceres, carried off by Pluto PROTESILAUS, slain by Hector the Trojan, allowed by the gods to return for three hours' talk with his widow Laodomia PROTEUS, the old man of the sea PRUDENCE (Metis), spouse of Jupiter PRYDERI, son of Pwyll PSYCHE, a beautiful maiden, personification of the human soul, sought by Cupid (Love), to whom she responded, lost him by curiosity to see him (as he came to her only by night), but finally through his prayers was made immortal and restored to him, a symbol of immortality PURANAS, Hindu Scriptures PWYLL, Prince of Dyved PYGMALION, sculptor in love with a statue he had made, brought to life by Venus, brother of Queen Dido PYGMIES, nation of dwarfs, at war with the Cranes PYLADES, son of Straphius, friend of Orestes PYRAMUS, who loved Thisbe, next door neighbor, and, their parents opposing, they talked through cracks in the house wall, agreeing to meet in the near by woods, where Pyramus, finding a bloody veil and thinking Thisbe slain, killed himself, and she, seeing his body, killed herself (Burlesqued in Shakespeare's "Midsummer Night's Dream") PYRRHA, wife of Deucalion PYRRHUS (Neoptolemus), son of Achilles PYTHAGORAS, Greek philosopher (540 BC), who thought numbers to be the essence and principle of all things, and taught transmigration of souls of the dead into new life as human or animal beings PYTHIA, priestess of Apollo at Delphi PYTHIAN GAMES PYTHIAN ORACLE PYTHON, serpent springing from Deluge slum, destroyed by Apollo Q QUIRINUS (from quiris, a lance or spear), a war god, said to be Romulus, founder of Rome R RABICAN, noted horse RAGNAROK, the twilight (or ending) of the gods RAJPUTS, minor Hindu caste REGAN, daughter of Leir REGILLUS, lake in Latium, noted for battle fought near by between the Romans and the Latins REGGIO, family from which Rogero sprang REMUS, brother of Romulus, founder of Rome RHADAMANTHUS, son of Jupiter and Europa after his death one of the judges in the lower world RHAPSODIST, professional reciter of poems among the Greeks RHEA, female Titan, wife of Saturn (Cronos), mother of the chief gods, worshipped in Greece and Rome RHINE, river RHINE MAIDENS, OR DAUGHTERS, three water nymphs, Flosshilda, Woglinda, and Wellgunda, set to guard the Nibelungen Hoard, buried in the Rhine RHODES, one of the seven cities claiming to be Homer's birthplace RHODOPE, mountain in Thrace RHONGOMYANT, Arthur's lance RHOECUS, a youth, beloved by a Dryad, but who brushed away a bee sent by her to call him to her, and she punished him with blindness RHIANNON, wife of Pwyll RINALDO, one of the bravest knights of Charlemagne RIVER OCEAN, flowing around the earth ROBERT DE BEAUVAIS', Norman poet (1257) ROBIN HOOD, famous outlaw in English legend, about time of Richard Coeur de Lion ROCKINGHAM, forest of RODOMONT, king of Algiers ROGERO, noted Saracen knight ROLAND (Orlando), See Orlando ROMANCES ROMANUS, legendary great grandson of Noah ROME ROMULUS, founder of Rome RON, Arthur's lance RONCES VALLES', battle of ROUND TABLE King Arthur's instituted by Merlin the Sage for Pendragon, Arthur's father, as a knightly order, continued and made famous by Arthur and his knights RUNIC CHARACTERS, or runes, alphabetic signs used by early Teutonic peoples, written or graved on metal or stone RUTULIANS, an ancient people in Italy, subdued at an early period by the Romans RYENCE, king in Ireland S SABRA, maiden for whom Severn River was named, daughter of Locrine and Estrildis thrown into river Severn by Locrine's wife, transformed to a river nymph, poetically named Sabrina SACRIPANT, king of Circassia SAFFIRE, Sir, knight of Arthur SAGAS, Norse tales of heroism, composed by the Skalds SAGRAMOUR, knight of Arthur St. MICHAEL'S MOUNT, precipitous pointed rock hill on the coast of Brittany, opposite Cornwall SAKYASINHA, the Lion, epithet applied to Buddha SALAMANDER, a lizard like animal, fabled to be able to live in fire SALAMIS, Grecian city SALMONEUS, son of Aeolus and Enarete and brother of Sisyphus SALOMON, king of Brittany, at Charlemagne's court SAMHIN, or "fire of peace," a Druidical festival SAMIAN SAGE (Pythagoras) SAMOS, island in the Aegean Sea SAMOTHRACIAN GODS, a group of agricultural divinities, worshipped in Samothrace SAMSON, Hebrew hero, thought by some to be original of Hercules SAN GREAL (See Graal, the Holy) SAPPHO, Greek poetess, who leaped into the sea from promontory of Leucadia in disappointed love for Phaon SARACENS, followers of Mahomet SARPEDON, son of Jupiter and Europa, killed by Patroclus SATURN (Cronos) SATURNALIA, a annual festival held by Romans in honor of Saturn SATURNIA, an ancient name of Italy SATYRS, male divinities of the forest, half man, half goat SCALIGER, famous German scholar of 16th century SCANDINAVIA, mythology of, giving account of Northern gods, heroes, etc SCHERIA, mythical island, abode of the Phaeacians SCHRIMNIR, the boar, cooked nightly for the heroes of Valhalla becoming whole every morning SCIO, one of the island cities claiming to be Homer's birthplace SCOPAS, King of Thessaly SCORPION, constellation SCYLLA, sea nymph beloved by Glaucus, but changed by jealous Circe to a monster and finally to a dangerous rock on the Sicilian coast, facing the whirlpool Charybdis, many mariners being wrecked between the two, also, daughter of King Nisus of Megara, who loved Minos, besieging her father's city, but he disliked her disloyalty and drowned her, also, a fair virgin of Sicily, friend of sea nymph Galatea SCYROS, where Theseus was slain SCYTHIA, country lying north of Euxine Sea SEMELE, daughter of Cadmus and, by Jupiter, mother of Bacchus SEMIRAMIS, with Ninus the mythical founder of the Assyrian empire of Nineveh SENAPUS, King of Abyssinia, who entertained Astolpho SERAPIS, or Hermes, Egyptian divinity of Tartarus and of medicine SERFS, slaves of the land SERIPHUS, island in the Aegean Sea, one of the Cyclades SERPENT (Northern constellation) SESTOS, dwelling of Hero (which See also Leander) "SEVEN AGAINST THEBES," famous Greek expedition SEVERN RIVER, in England SEVINUS, Duke of Guienne SHALOTT, THE LADY OF SHATRIYA, Hindu warrior caste SHERASMIN, French chevalier SIBYL, prophetess of Cumae SICHAEUS, husband of Dido SEIGE PERILOUS, the chair of purity at Arthur's Round Table, fatal to any but him who was destined to achieve the quest of the Sangreal (See Galahad) SIEGFRIED, young King of the Netherlands, husband of Kriemhild, she boasted to Brunhild that Siegfried had aided Gunther to beat her in athletic contests, thus winning her as wife, and Brunhild, in anger, employed Hagan to murder Siegfried. As hero of Wagner's "Valkyrie," he wins the Nibelungen treasure ring, loves and deserts Brunhild, and is slain by Hagan SIEGLINDA, wife of Hunding, mother of Siegfried by Siegmund SIEGMUND, father of Siegfried SIGTRYG, Prince, betrothed of King Alef's daughter, aided by Hereward SIGUNA, wife of Loki SILENUS, a Satyr, school master of Bacchus SILURES (South Wales) SILVIA, daughter of Latin shepherd SILVIUS, grandson of Aeneas, accidentally killed in the chase by his son Brutus SIMONIDES, an early poet of Greece SINON, a Greek spy, who persuaded the Trojans to take the Wooden Horse into their city SIRENS, sea nymphs, whose singing charmed mariners to leap into the sea, passing their island, Ulysses stopped the ears of his sailors with wax, and had himself bound to the mast so that he could hear but not yield to their music SIRIUS, the dog of Orion, changed to the Dog star SISYPHUS, condemned in Tartarus to perpetually roll up hill a big rock which, when the top was reached, rolled down again SIVA, the Destroyer, third person of the Hindu triad of gods SKALDS, Norse bards and poets SKIDBLADNIR, Freyr's ship SKIRNIR, Frey's messenger, who won the god's magic sword by getting him Gerda for his wife SKRYMIR, a giant, Utgard Loki in disguise, who fooled Thor in athletic feats SKULD, the Norn of the Future SLEEP, twin brother of Death SLEIPNIR, Odin's horse SOBRINO, councillor to Agramant SOMNUS, child of Nox, twin brother of Mors, god of sleep SOPHOCLES, Greek tragic dramatist SOUTH WIND See Notus SPAR'TA, capital of Lacedaemon SPHINX, a monster, waylaying the road to Thebes and propounding riddles to all passers, on pain of death, for wrong guessing, who killed herself in rage when Aedipus guessed aright SPRING STONEHENGE, circle of huge upright stones, fabled to be sepulchre of Pendragon STROPHIUS, father of Pylades STYGIAN REALM, Hades STYGIAN SLEEP, escaped from the beauty box sent from Hades to Venus by hand of Psyche, who curiously opened the box and was plunged into unconsciousness STYX, river, bordering Hades, to be crossed by all the dead SUDRAS, Hindu laboring caste SURTUR, leader of giants against the gods in the day of their destruction (Norse mythology) SURYA, Hindu god of the sun, corresponding to the Greek Helios SUTRI, Orlando's birthplace SVADILFARI, giant's horse SWAN, LEDA AND SYBARIS, Greek city in Southern Italy, famed for luxury SYLVANUS, Latin divinity identified with Pan SYMPLEGADES, floating rocks passed by the Argonauts SYRINX, nymph, pursued by Pan, but escaping by being changed to a bunch of reeds (See Pandean pipes) T TACITUS, Roman historian TAENARUS, Greek entrance to lower regions TAGUS, river in Spain and Portugal TALIESIN, Welsh bard TANAIS, ancient name of river Don TANTALUS, wicked king, punished in Hades by standing in water that retired when he would drink, under fruit trees that withdrew when he would eat TARCHON, Etruscan chief TARENTUM, Italian city TARPEIAN ROCK, in Rome, from which condemned criminals were hurled TARQUINS, a ruling family in early Roman legend TAURIS, Grecian city, site of temple of Diana (See Iphigenia) TAURUS, a mountain TARTARUS, place of confinement of Titans, etc, originally a black abyss below Hades later, represented as place where the wicked were punished, and sometimes the name used as synonymous with Hades TEIRTU, the harp of TELAMON, Greek hero and adventurer, father of Ajax TELEMACHUS, son of Ulysses and Penelope TELLUS, another name for Rhea TENEDOS, an island in Aegean Sea TERMINUS, Roman divinity presiding over boundaries and frontiers TERPSICHORE, Muse of dancing TERRA, goddess of the earth TETHYS, goddess of the sea TEUCER, ancient king of the Trojans THALIA, one of the three Graces THAMYRIS, Thracian bard, who challenged the Muses to competition in singing, and, defeated, was blinded THAUKT, Loki disguised as a hag THEBES, city founded by Cadmus and capital of Boeotia THEMIS, female Titan, law counsellor of Jove THEODORA, sister of Prince Leo THERON, one of Diana's dogs THERSITES, a brawler, killed by Achilles THESCELUS, foe of Perseus, turned to stone by sight of Gorgon's head THESEUM, Athenian temple in honor of Theseus THESEUS, son of Aegeus and Aethra, King of Athens, a great hero of many adventures THESSALY THESTIUS, father of Althea THETIS, mother of Achilles THIALFI, Thor's servant THIS'BE, Babylonian maiden beloved by Pyramus THOR, the thunderer, of Norse mythology, most popular of the gods THRACE THRINA'KIA, island pasturing Hyperion's cattle, where Ulysses landed, but, his men killing some cattle for food, their ship was wrecked by lightning THRYM, giant, who buried Thor's hammer THUCYDIDES, Greek historian TIBER, river flowing through Rome TIBER, FATHER, god of the river TIGRIS, river TINTADEL, castle of, residence of King Mark of Cornwall TIRESIAS, a Greek soothsayer TISIPHONE, one of the Furies TITANS, the sons and daughters of Uranus (Heaven) and Gaea (Earth), enemies of the gods and overcome by them TITHONUS, Trojan prince TITYUS, giant in Tartarus TMOLUS, a mountain god TORTOISE, second avatar of Vishnu TOURS, battle of (See Abdalrahman and Charles Martel) TOXEUS, brother of Melauger's mother, who snatched from Atalanta her hunting trophy, and was slain by Melauger, who had awarded it to her TRIAD, the Hindu TRIADS, Welsh poems TRIMURTI, Hindu Triad TRIPTOL'EMUS, son of Celeus , and who, made great by Ceres, founded her worship in Eleusis TRISTRAM, one of Arthur's knights, husband of Isoude of the White Hands, lover of Isoude the Fair, TRITON, a demi god of the sea, son of Poseidon (Neptune) and Amphitrite TROEZEN, Greek city of Argolis TROJAN WAR TROJANOVA, New Troy, City founded in Britain (See Brutus, and Lud) TROPHONIUS, oracle of, in Boeotia TROUBADOURS, poets and minstrels of Provence, in Southern France TROUVERS', poets and minstrels of Northern France TROY, city in Asia Minor, ruled by King Priam, whose son, Paris, stole away Helen, wife of Menelaus the Greek, resulting in the Trojan War and the destruction of Troy TROY, fall of TURNUS, chief of the Rutulianes in Italy, unsuccessful rival of Aeneas for Lavinia TURPIN, Archbishop of Rheims TURQUINE, Sir, a great knight, foe of Arthur, slain by Sir Launcelot TYPHON, one of the giants who attacked the gods, were defeated, and imprisoned under Mt. Aetna TYR, Norse god of battles TYRE, Phoenician city governed by Dido TYRIANS TYRRHEUS, herdsman of King Turnus in Italy, the slaying of whose daughter's stag aroused war upon Aeneas and his companions U UBERTO, son of Galafron ULYSSES (Greek, Odysseus), hero of the Odyssey UNICORN, fabled animal with a single horn URANIA, one of the Muses, a daughter of Zeus by Mnemosyne URDUR, one of the Norns or Fates of Scandinavia, representing the Past USK, British river UTGARD, abode of the giant Utgard Loki UTGARD LO'KI, King of the Giants (See Skrymir) UTHER (Uther Pendragon), king of Britain and father of Arthur, UWAINE, knight of Arthur's court V VAISSYAS, Hindu caste of agriculturists and traders VALHALLA, hall of Odin, heavenly residence of slain heroes VALKYRIE, armed and mounted warlike virgins, daughters of the gods (Norse), Odin's messengers, who select slain heroes for Valhalla and serve them at their feasts VE, brother of Odin VEDAS, Hindu sacred Scriptures VENEDOTIA, ancient name for North Wales VENUS (Aphrodite), goddess of beauty VENUS DE MEDICI, famous antique statue in Uffizi Gallery, Florence, Italy VERDANDI, the Present, one of the Norns VERTUMNUS, god of the changing seasons, whose varied appearances won the love of Pomona VESTA, daughter of Cronos and Rhea, goddess of the homefire, or hearth VESTALS, virgin priestesses in temple of Vesta VESUVIUS, Mount, volcano near Naples VILLAINS, peasants in the feudal scheme VIGRID, final battle-field, with destruction of the gods ind their enemies, the sun, the earth, and time itself VILI, brother of Odin and Ve VIRGIL, celebrated Latin poet (See Aeneid) VIRGO, constellation of the Virgin, representing Astraea, goddess of innocence and purity VISHNU, the Preserver, second of the three chief Hindu gods VIVIANE, lady of magical powers, who allured the sage Merlin and imprisoned him in an enchanted wood VOLSCENS, Rutulian troop leader who killed Nisus and Euryalus VOLSUNG, A SAGA, an Icelandic poem, giving about the same legends as the Nibelungen Lied VORTIGERN, usurping King of Britain, defeated by Pendragon 390, 397 VULCAN (Greek, Haephestus), god of fire and metal working, with forges under Aetna, husband of Venus VYA'SA, Hindu sage W WAIN, the, constellation WELLGUNDA, one of the Rhine-daughters WELSH LANGUAGE WESTERN OCEAN WINDS, THE WINTER WODEN, chief god in the Norse mythology, Anglo Saxon for Odin WOGLINDA, one of the Rhine-daughters WOMAN, creation of WOODEN HORSE, the, filled with armed men, but left outside of Troy as a pretended offering to Minerva when the Greeks feigned to sail away, accepted by the Trojans (See Sinon, and Laocoon), brought into the city, and at night emptied of the hidden Greek soldiers, who destroyed the town WOOD NYMPHS WOTAN, Old High German form of Odin X XANTHUS, river of Asia Minor Y YAMA, Hindu god of the Infernal Regions YEAR, THE YGDRASIL, great ash-tree, supposed by Norse mythology to support the universe YMIR, giant, slain by Odin YNYWL, Earl, host of Geraint, father of Enid YORK, Britain YSERONE, niece of Arthur, mother of Caradoc YSPA DA DEN PEN'KAWR, father of Olwen Z ZENDAVESTA, Persian sacred Scriptures ZEPHYRUS, god of the South wind, ZERBINO, a knight, son of the king of Scotland ZETES, winged warrior, companion of Theseus ZETHUS, son of Jupiter and Antiope, brother of Amphion. See Dirce ZEUS, See JUPITER ZOROASTER, founder of the Persian religion, which was dominant in Western Asia from about 550 BC to about 650 AD, and is still held by many thousands in Persia and in India 
6582	----	IN THE COURT OF KING ARTHUR by Samuel E. Lowe TABLE OF CONTENTS Chapter I. Allan Finds A Champion II. Allan Goes Forth III. A Combat IV. Allan Meets The Knights V. Merlin's Message VI. Yosalinde VII. The Tournament VIII. Sir Tristram's Prowess IX. The Kitchen Boy X. Pentecost XI. Allan Meets A Stranger XII. The Stranger And Sir Launcelot XIII. The Party Divides XIV. King Mark's Foul Plan XV. The Weasel's Nest XVI. To The Rescue XVII. In King Mark's Castle XVIII. The Kitchen Boy Again XIX. On Adventure's Way XX. Gareth Battles Sir Brian XXI. Knight Of The Red Lawns XXII. Sir Galahad XXIII. The Beginning Of The Quest XXIV. In Normandy XXV. Sir Galahad Offers Help XXVI. Lady Jeanne's Story XXVII. Sir Launcelot Arrives XXVIII. A Rescue XXIX. Facing The East XXX. Homeward XXXI. The Beggar And The Grail WHO WAS KING ARTHUR? King Arthur, who held sway in Camelot with his Knights of the Round Table, was supposedly a king of Britain hundreds of years ago. Most of the stories about him are probably not historically true, but there was perhaps a real king named Arthur, or with a name very much like Arthur, who ruled somewhere in the island of Britain about the sixth century. Among the romantic spires and towers of Camelot, King Arthur held court with his queen, Guinevere. According to tradition, he received mortal wounds in battling with the invading Saxons, and was carried magically to fairyland to be brought back to health and life. Excalibur was the name of King Arthur's sword--in fact, it was the name of two of his swords. One of these tremendous weapons Arthur pulled from the stone in which it was imbedded, after all other knights had failed. This showed that Arthur was the proper king. The other Excalibur was given to Arthur by the Lady of the Lake--she reached her hand above the water, as told in the story, and gave the sword to the king. When Arthur was dying, he sent one of his Knights of the Round Table, Sir Bedivere, to throw the sword back into the lake from which he had received it. The Knights of the Round Table were so called because they customarily sat about a huge marble table, circular in shape. Some say that thirteen knights could sit around that table; others say that as many as a hundred and fifty could find places there. There sat Sir Galahad, who would one day see the Holy Grail. Sir Gawain was there, nephew of King Arthur. Sir Percivale, too, was to see the Holy Grail. Sir Lancelot--Lancelot of the Lake, who was raised by that same Lady of the Lake who gave Arthur his sword--was the most famous of the Knights of the Round Table. He loved Queen Guinevere. All the knights were sworn to uphold the laws of chivalry--to go to the aid of anyone in distress, to protect women and children, to fight honorably, to be pious and loyal to their king. CHAPTER ONE Allan Finds A Champion "I cannot carry your message, Sir Knight." Quiet-spoken was the lad, though his heart held a moment's fear as, scowling and menacing, the knight who sat so easily the large horse, flamed fury at his refusal. "And why can you not? It is no idle play, boy, to flaunt Sir Pellimore. Brave knights have found the truth of this at bitter cost." "Nevertheless, Sir Knight, you must needs find another message bearer. I am page to Sir Percival and he would deem it no service to him should I bear a strange knights message." "Then, by my faith, you shall learn your lesson. Since you are but a youth it would prove but poor sport to thrust my sword through your worthless body. Yet shall I find Sir Percival and make him pay for the boorishness of his page. In the meantime, take you this." With a sweep the speaker brought the flat side of his sword down. But, if perchance, he thought that the boy would await the blow he found surprise for that worthy skillfully evaded the weapon's downward thrust. Now then was Sir Pellimore doubly wroth. "Od's zounds, and you need a trouncing. And so shall I give it you, else my dignity would not hold its place." Suiting action to word the knight reared his horse, prepared to bring the boy to earth. It might hare gone ill with Allan but for the appearance at the turn of the road of another figure--also on horseback. The new knight perceiving trouble, rode forward. "What do we see here?" he questioned. "Sir Knight, whose name I do not know, it seems to me that you are in poor business to quarrel with so youthful a foe. What say you?" "As to with whom I quarrel is no concern of anyone but myself. I can, however, to suit the purpose, change my foe. Such trouncing as I wish to give this lad I can easily give to you, Sir Knight, and you wish it?" "You can do no more than try. It may not be so easy as your boasting would seeming indicate. Lad," and the newcomer turned to the boy, "why does this arrogant knight wish you harm?" "He would have me carry a message, a challenge to Sir Kay, and that I cannot do, for even now I bear a message from Sir Percival, whose page I am but yesterday become. And I must hold true to my own lord and liege." "True words and well spoken. And so for you, Sir Knight of the arrogant tongue, I hope your weapon speaks equally well. Prepare you, sir." Sir Pellimore laughed loudly and disdainfully. "I call this great fortune which brings me battle with you, sir, who are unknown but who I hope, none the less, are a true and brave knight." The next second the two horses crashed together. Sir Pellimore soon proved his skill. The Unknown, equally at ease, contented himself with meeting onslaught after onslaught, parrying clever thrusts and wicked blows. So they battled for many an hour. Allan, the boy, with eyes glistening, waited to see the outcome of the brave fight. The Unknown, his champion, perhaps would need his aid through some dire misfortune and he was prepared. Now the Unknown changed his method from one of defense to one of offense. But Sir Pellimore was none the less skillful. The third charge of his foe he met so skillfully that both horses crashed to the ground. On foot, the two men then fought--well and long. Until, through inadvertence, the Unknown's foot slipped and the next moment found his shield splintered and sword broken. "Now then, by my guardian saint, you are truly vanquished," Sir Pellimore exclaimed exultantly. "Say you so?" But the Unknown had already hurled himself, weaponless, upon the seeming victor and seizing him about the waist with mighty strength, hurled him to the ground. And even as the fallen knight, much shaken, prepared to arise, lo, Merlin the Wizard appeared and cast him into a deep sleep. "Sire," the Wizard declared, "do you indeed run many dangers that thy station should not warrant. And yet, I know not whether we, your loyal subjects, would have it otherwise." Now Allan, the boy, realized he was in the presence of the great King. He threw himself upon his knees. "Rise lad," said King Arthur kindly. "Sir Percival is indeed fortunate to have a page, who while so young, yet is so loyal. So shall we see you again. Kind Merlin," and the King turned to the Wizard, "awaken you this sleeping knight whose only sin seems an undue amount of surliness and arrogance, which his bravery and strength more than offset." Now Sir Pellimore rubbed his eyes. "Where am I?" he muttered drowsily. Then as realization came, he sprang to his feet. "Know you then, Sir Pellimore," said Merlin, "he with whom you fought is none other than Arthur, the King." The knight stood motionless, dumbfounded. But only for a moment. "If so, then am I prepared for such punishment as may come. But be it what it may, I can say this, that none with whom I fought has had more skill or has shown greater bravery and chivalry. And more than that none can say." And the knight bowed low his head, humbly and yet with a touch of pride. "Thou art a brave knight, Sir Pellimore. And to us it seems, that aside from a hasty temper, thou couldst well honor us by joining the Knights of the Round Table. What saith thou?" "That shall I gladly do. And here and now I pledge my loyalty to none other than Arthur, King of Britain, and to my fellow knights. And as for you, boy, I say it now--that my harsh tongue and temper ill became the true knight I claim to be." "Brave words, Sir Pellimore," said the King. "So let us back to the castle. We see that Merlin is already ill at ease." CHAPTER TWO Allan Goes Forth So then the four, the good King, Sir Pellimore, Merlin the Wizard, and Allan, page to Sir Percival, came to the great castle of Britain's king. Arthur led them into the great hall in which were placed many small tables and in the center of them all was one of exceeding size and round. Here was to be found a place for Sir Pellimore but though the King searched long, few seats did he find which were not bespoken. Yet finally he found one which did well for the new arrival. "Here then shall you find your place at the Round Table, good knight," said the King. "And we trust that you will bring renown and honor to your fellowship, succor to those who are in need and that always will you show true chivalry. And we doubt not but you will do all of these." Sir Pellimore bowed low his head nor did he make reply because within him surged a great feeling of gratitude. The King turned away and Merlin followed him to the upraised dais. So now the two seated themselves and joined in earnest talk. At the door, Allan had waited, for he would not depart until His Majesty had seated himself. A strange gladness was in the boy's heart, for had not his King fought for him? Here in this court, he too would find adventure. Sir Percival mayhap, some day, would dub him knight, should he prove faithful and worthy. What greater glory could there be than to fight for such a King and with such brave men? "But I must be off," he suddenly bethought himself, "else Sir Percival will not be pleased." And therewith, he made great haste to depart. "Aye, sire," Merlin was now speaking, "my dream is indeed weighted with importance. But by the same taken, it cannot be known until you call your court together so that it may be heard by all." "Then mean you, kind Merlin, that we must call not only those of the Round Table but all other knights and even pages and squires?" "Even so, sire. And yet, since Whitsunday is but a few days away, that should be no hard matter. For the knights of your court, except Sir Launcelot and Sir Gawaine are here, prepared for such tourneys and feasts fit to celebrate that day." "So then shall it be. Even now our heralds shall announce that we crave the attendance of all those who pledge loyalty to our court. For I know well that they must be of no mean import, these things we shall hear. We pray only that they shall be for our good fortune." The Wizard, making no reply, bent low and kissed his King's hand. Then he departed. Came now his herald whom the King had summoned. "See to it that our court assembles this time tomorrow. Make far and distant outcry so that all who are within ear may hear and so hurry to our call. And mark you this well. We would hare Sir Launcelot and our own nephew, Sir Gawaine, present even though they departed this early morn for Cornwall. See you to it." Swiftly the herald made for the door to carry out the commands of his King. But even as he reached it, Arthur called again to him. "We have a fancy, good herald, we fain would have you follow. Ask then Sir Percival to let us have the services of his page who seems a likely youth and bid this youth go hence after the two absent knights, Sir Gawaine and Sir Launcelot and give to them our message, beseeching their return. Tell not the boy it is we who have asked that he go." "It shall be done as you will, sire," replied the herald. No surprise did he show at the strangeness of the King's command for long had he been in his service and well he knew the King's strange fancies. Sir Percival gave ready consent, when found. So when the boy had returned from the errand forespoken, the herald announced that he must hasten after the two knights and bid them return. "And by my faith, lad, you have but little time and you must speed well. For tomorrow at this time is this conclave called, and the two knights are already many miles on their journey. Take you this horse and hasten." Then, as the eager youth, quick pulsed, made haste to obey, the herald added in kindly voice: "It would be well could you succeed, lad. For it is often true that through such missions, newcomers prove future worthiness for knighthood." "I thank you greatly for your kindness," replied the boy. "I can but try to the uttermost. No rest shall I have until I meet with the two knights." So now Allan sought out and bespoke his own lord. "I wish you well, Allan," said Sir Percival. "And say you to my friends Launcelot and Gawaine should they prove reluctant that they will favor their comrade, Sir Percival, if they would make haste and hurry their return. Stop not to pick quarrel nor to heed any call, urgent though it may seem. Prove my true page and worthy." "I shall do my very best, my lord. And, this my first commission, shall prove successful even though to make it so, I perish." Swiftly now rode forth the boyish figure. Well, too, had Arthur chosen. Came a day when, than Allan, no braver, truer knight there was. But of that anon. CHAPTER THREE A Combat "Good Launcelot, I trust that good fortune shall be with us and that our adventures be many and the knights we meet bold and brave." "Of that, Gawaine, we need have no fear. For adventure ever follows where one seeks and often enough overtakes the seeker. Let us rather hope that we shall find Sir Tristram and Sir Dinadian, both of Cornwall. For myself I would joust with Sir Tristram than whom braver and bolder knight does not live." "And as for me," spoke Gawaine, "my anxiety is to see Mark, the king of Cornwall, and tell him to his face that I deem him a scurvy hound since he promised protection to Beatrice of Banisar as she passed through his lands and yet broke his promise and so holds her for ransom." "And there shall I help you, dear Gawaine. For bitterly shall Mark rue his unknightly act. Shall I even wait for my event with Sir Tristram until your business is done." "Aye, and gladly will Sir Tristram wait, I wot, if he deems it honor to meet with Sir Launcelot du Lake. For no knight there is who doth not know of your prowess and repute, Sir Tristram least of all." "Kind words, Gawaine, for which I thank you. Yet, if I mistake not, yonder, adventure seems to wait. And we but a little more than two score miles from our gates." Ahead of them and barring their way were ten knights. Launcelot and Gawaine stopped not a moment their pace but rode boldly forward. "And wherefor do you, strange Knights, dispute our passage?" asked Sir Gawaine. "Safely may you both pass unless you be gentlemen of King Arthur's court," quote the leader who stepped forward to answer. "And what if we be, Sir Knight?" replied Sir Launcelot mildly. "And if you be then must you battle to the uttermost. For we owe loyalty to King Ryence who is enemy of King Arthur. Therefore, are we his enemies too, and enemies also of all of King Arthur's subjects. And thus, we flaunt our enmity. We here and now call King Arthur an upstart and if you be of his court you cannot do aught else but fight with us." "Keep you your words," said Sir Gawaine, "until we have ceased our quarrel. Then if you will you may call Arthur any names. Prepare you." Boldly Sir Launcelot and Sir Gawaine charged upon the foe. Nor did the knights who met them know who these two were, else milder were their tone. Such was the valor of the two and such their strength that four men were thrown from their horses in that first attack and of these two were grievously wounded. Together and well they fought. Easily did they withstand the men of King Ryence. Four men were slain by their might, through wondrous and fearful strokes, and four were sorely wounded. There lay the four against an oaken tree where they had been placed in a moment's lull. But two knights were left to oppose Launcelot and Gawaine but these two were gallant men and worthy, the very best of all the ten. So they fought again each with a single foe. Hard pressed were the two men of King Ryence, yet stubbornly they would not give way. And as each side gave blow for blow, so each called "for Arthur" or "for Ryence," whichever the case might be. Many hours they fought until at last Sir Launcelot by a powerful blow crashed both foe and foe's horse to the ground. And as the other would further combat, though exceedingly weak, Sir Launcelot, upraised lance in hand by a swift stroke smote sword from out of his weakened grasp. "Thou art a brave knight, friend. And having fought so well, I ask no further penance but this, that you do now declare King Arthur no upstart. I care not for your enmity but I will abide no slander." "So must I then declare, since you have proven better man than I," declared the conquered knight. "And for your leniency I owe you thanks. Wherefore then to whom am I grateful? I pray your name?" "That I shall not tell until I hear your own," replied Launcelot. "I am known as Ronald de Lile," the other replied in subdued tone. "Truly and well have I heard of you as a brave knight," was the reply, "and now I know it to be so. I am Sir Launcelot du Lake." "Then indeed is honor mine and glory, too. For honor it is to succumb to Sir Launcelot." But now both heard the voice of Gawaine. Weak had he grown, but weaker still his foe. Gawaine had brought the other to earth at last with swift and mighty blow and such was the force of his stroke the fallen man could not rise although he made great ado so to do. "So must I yield," this knight declared. "Now will I admit Arthur no upstart, but though I die for it I do declare no greater king than Ryence ever lived." "By my faith, your words are but such as any knight must hold of his own sovereign prince. I cannot take offense at brave words, Sir Knight. Now, give me your name, for you are strong and worthy." "I am Marvin, brother of him who fought with your comrade. And never have we met bolder and greater knights." "I am Gawaine and he who fought your brother is none other than Launcelot." "Then truly have we met no mean foes," replied the other. Conquered and conquerers now turned to make the wounded as comfortable as they well could be. After which, our two knights debated going on their journey or tarrying where they were until the morn. "Let us wend our way until we find fit place for food and rest. There can we tarry." So spoke Launcelot and the other agreed. Then they took leave of Sir Marvin and Sir Ronald and so on their way. Not many miles did they go however before they found suitable place. Late was the hour and weary and much in need of rest were the two knights. So they slept while, half his journey covered, Allan sped onward, making fast time because he was but light of weight and his horse exceeding swift. CHAPTER FOUR Allan Meets the Knights From the first day when Allan began to understand the tales of chivalry and knightly deeds, he fancied and longed for the day when he would grow into manhood and by the same token into knighthood. Then would he go unto King Arthur on some Pentecost and crave the boon of serving him. Mayhap, too, he would through brave and worthy deeds gain seat among those of the Round Table. So he would dream, this youth with eager eyes, and his father, Sir Gaunt, soon came to know of his son's fancies and was overly proud and pleased with them. For he himself had, in his days, been a great and worthy knight, of many adventures and victor of many an onslaught. It pleased him that son of his would follow in his footsteps. When Allan was fourteen, Sir Gaunt proceeded to Sir Percival who was great friend of his and bespoke for his son the place of page. And so to please Sir Gaunt and for friendship's sake, Sir Percival gave ready consent. Therewith, he found the youth pleasing to the eye and of a great willingness to serve. So must we return to Allan who is now on his way for many an hour. As he made his way, he marveled that he should have had notice brought upon himself, for he was young and diffident and should by every token have escaped attention in these his first days at court. How would his heart have grown tumultuous had he known that none other than Arthur himself had made him choice. But that he was not to know for many a year. Night came on and the boy traveled far. Yet gave he no thought to rest for he knew that he could ill afford to tarry and that only with the best of fortune could he overtake the two knights in time to make early return. About him the woods were dark and mysterious. Owls hooted now and then and other sounds of the night there were, yet was the boy so filled with urge of his mission that he found not time to think of ghosts nor black magic. Then, as he turned the road he saw the dim shadow of a horse. Ghostly it seemed, until through closer view it proved flesh and blood. Lying close by was a knight who seemed exceeding weak and sorely wounded. Quick from his horse came Allan and so made the strange knight be of greater comfort. Now the knight spoke weakly. "Grievously have I been dealt with by an outlaw band. This day was I to meet my two brothers Sir Ronald and Sir Marvin yet cannot proceed for very weakness. Which way do you go, lad?" "I keep on my way to Cornwall," replied Allan. "From yonder do my brothers journey and should you meet with them bid them hasten here so that together we can go forth to find this outlaw band and it chastise." "That shall I do. Sir Knight. It grieves me that I may not stay and give you such aid as I may but so must I hasten that I cannot. Yet shall I stop at first abode and commission them to hurry here to you." "For that I thank you, lad. And should time ever come when you my aid require, know then to call on Philip of Gile." So Allan pressed forward. At early dawn he came upon Sir Ronald and Sir Marvin who had found rest along the wayside. And when he found that these were the two knights he gave them their brother's message. "Then must we hasten thence, Ronald. And thank you, lad, for bringing us this message. Choose you and you can rest awhile and partake of such food that we have." "Of food I will have, Sir Knights, for hunger calls most urgently. But tarry I cannot for I must find Sir Launcelot and Sir Gawaine. Mayhap you have met with them?" "Of a truth can we say that we have met with them and suffered thereby. Yet do we hold proof as to their knightly valor and skill. They have gone but a little way, for it was their purpose to find rest nearby. We doubt not you will find them at the first fair abode. In the meantime must we hasten to our brother's aid and leave our wounded comrades to such care as they may get." The knights spoke truly, for Allan found upon inquiry that the two he sought were lodged close by. Boldly the boy called, now for Sir Launcelot, now for Sir Gawaine, but both were overtired and of a great weariness and it took many minutes before at last Sir Launcelot opened wide his eyes. "And who are you, boy?" for he knew him not. "My name is Allan and I am page to Sir Percival." "Come you with a message from Sir Percival? Does he need our help?" "Nay, sir. Rather do I come with a message from the court--the herald of which sent me urging you and Sir Gawaine to return before sundown for a great conclave is to gather which the King himself has called." "Awaken then, thou sleepy knight," Sir Launcelot called to his comrade who had not stirred. "It were pity that all this must be told to you again." Sir Gawaine now arose rubbing eyes still filled with sleep. To him Allan repeated his message. "What say you, Gawaine? Shall we return?" "As for me," replied Sir Gawaine, "I would say no. What matter if we are or are not present. Already we are late for our present journey's purpose. So say I, let us not return but rather ask this youth to bespeak for us the king's clemency." "And I, too, am of the same mind, Gawaine. So lad," Sir Launcelot turned to the boy and spoke kindly, "return you to court and give them our message. This errand on which we are at present bound holds urgent need, else would we return at our King's behest." Rueful and with a great gloom Allan saw his errand fail. "Kind sirs, Sir Percival bid me bespeak for him as well, and ask you, as true comrades, to make certain to return. Furthermore, my knights, this, my first mission would be unfortunate if it did not terminate successfully. So I pray you that you return." Loud and long Sir Launcelot laughed and yet not unkindly while Sir Gawaine placed hand upon the boy's shoulder approvingly. "By my faith, Launcelot, we can do no more than return. That Percival speaks counts for much, but this youth's honor is also at stake." The light of laughter played in the speaker's eyes. "Yes," said Sir Launcelot, "let us return. It would be pity to send this lad back after his long journey, without success. So then to our horses and let us make haste. The hours are few and the miles many." CHAPTER FIVE Merlin's Message Now as the sun, a flaming golden ball about which played the wondrous softer colors of filmy clouds, began sinking in the western horizon, the heralds announced everywhere that the time for assemblage had come. Of those few who were not present, chiefest were Sir Launcelot and Sir Gawaine. And for these two the herald of King Arthur was searching the road in vain. "Think you, Sir Percival, these two will come?" the herald, anxious of tone, inquired. "Our King would have them present and I fancy not the making of excuse for their not appearing." "It is hard telling, Sir Herald. Far had the page to go and he is young. Then too, it is a question whether should he meet with them, these two have a mind to appear. For I know that their journey to Cornwall is urgent." Now the knights entered and found place. Then followed the pages, squires and after them such yeoman and varlets as could find room. After each had found his place, came King Arthur leading his queen. And as they entered, up rose the knights, their vassals, all that were within the hall and raised a mighty shout. "St. George and Merrie England. Long live King Arthur. Long live Queen Guenever." Then turned the King toward his loyal subjects and though his lips were seen to move, none heard him for the clamor. So King Arthur turned to seat his queen and then he himself sat down upon his throne, high on the dais. Then soon after even as bell tolled the hour, Arthur arose. No sign had yet come of Launcelot and Gawaine. So now the herald slipped to the door to cast again a hurried glance for perchance that they might be within vision. And as he went noiselessly, so, too, a quiet fell that the King's words might be heard. But now disturbing this quiet came a great clattering. Arthur turned his eyes, frowning, at the sudden noise. Yet came a greater turmoil, approaching horse's hoofs were heard and then into the great hall thundered the steeds carrying the noble figures of Launcelot and Gawaine, followed but a pace behind by Allan the page. Straight to the dais they came, the two knights. Allan, however, turned, made hasty exit because he felt himself abashed to be observed by so many eyes. On foot he entered once again and found place far in the rear where few could observe him. The two knights now dismounted and knelt before their King. "We pray your pardon for the lateness of our coming. Yet did we hasten and could not have come the sooner." "That we feel is so, Sir Knights, for we know you well enough. Nor are we wroth, since come you did. But where, pray, is the message bearer? Truly his speed was great to have reached you in time for your return. And if I mistake not," added the King with great shrewdness, "neither you, Gawaine, nor you Launcelot, were any too ready to return. How then, did the lad urge you?" "You speak truly, sire," replied Gawaine. "For our errand had need of urgent haste and we were both to give it up. Yet did the boy urge us and chiefest urge of all to us was where he claimed his own honor demanded the success of his mission. Those were fine words, so did we therefore return." "Fine words, indeed. Where then is this page? Will you, Sir Herald, bring him forth?" So Allan came forward, red of face and hating such womanness that would let him blush before all these great men. Knelt he before his King. "Thou art a good lad and will bear watching. Go thy way and remember that the road ahead for those who wish to be knights of high nobility is steep and arduous but well worth the trials. Remember too, that this day, Britain's King, said that some day thou wilt prove a worthy and brave knight." And as Allan with flaming cheeks and glorious pride went to his place far in the rear of the hall the King turned to the assemblage. "Merlin is here but departs from us tomorrow for many a day. He has had a great dream which affects this court and us and which must be told to all of you. So he has asked us to call you and this we have done. Stand up now Merlin, wisest of men and truest of counselors. Speak." Up rose Merlin and for wonder as to what his dream might be all held their breath. "But the other night came Joseph of Armathea to me while I slept. And he chided me that in all Britain so few of all the true and brave knights had thought to seek the wondrous Holy Grail which once was pride of all England. "And me thought I heard him say, 'Truly do I misdoubt the valor of these knights who seek adventure and glory.' "'Yet.' said I, 'doubt not their valor for can I give surety for it. For Holy Grail, every varlet, let alone those of true blood, would give his life and count it more than worthy.' "'So shall it be!' replied Sir Joseph. 'For the Holy Grail will be found. Whether knight or varlet shall the finder be, I will not say. But this I tell you now. He who finds it shall be pure of heart and noble beyond all men. From whence he cometh, who he is, I will not say. Remember this, Merlin, brave and noble knights there are now in England, brave knights shall come, and some shall come as strangely as shall the Grail. Many deeds will be done that will bring truest of glory to England's name. And never again shall more noble or more worthy knights hold Britain's banner so high. For they who seek the Holy Grail must be worthy even of the search.' "'Let your King beware that he listens well to all who come to his court on every Pentecost. And though they who search may not be overstrong, yet while they seek it they will find in themselves many men's strength.' "And then he left me. But even after he was gone I dreamt on. And I say to you, oh men of England, go you forth and seek this Holy Grail, if within you, you know that you are pure of heart and noble. If you are not, go then and seek to be purified for that is possible. Only one of you will find the Holy Grail, yet is there great glory in the search. May he who finds it and all the rest who search for it bring greater fame and worthiness to this our land and to him who is our King." Now Merlin turned to seat himself. But yet before he found his place every man within the hall stood up prepared to make oath then and there to begin the search. Only two kept still, nor did they move. One was Sir Launcelot, the other the youth Allan. But quick as they who upstood, Merlin spoke again. And though his voice was low, yet was it heard throughout the hall. "Pledge not yourself today, nor yet tomorrow. Go you hence, first. In your innermost heart find answer to this question. Am I pure, am I worthy for the search? For that you must be before any pledge suffices." Silent and thoughtful the men found each his seat. And when all had been seated, Arthur, King, arose. "Wouldst that I felt myself worthy. Yet from this day shall I strive to the uttermost for the time when I shall feel that I am." And throughout the hall came answering vows: "So shall we all." Within his heart, Allan, the youth, felt a strange radiancy, as he too made this vow, "So shall I." CHAPTER SIX Yosalinde Now came Pentecost and brought with it to King Arthur's Tournament brave knights from everywhere. Distant Normandy, the far shores of Ireland, sent each the flower of its knighthood. Scotland's king was there, the brave Cadoris, to answer the challenge of the King of Northgalis who was also present. Ban, King of Northumberland, had come. Sir Palomides came too, and it was he who was declared, by many to be the bravest and the most skillful of all of Britain's knights. Yet there were equal number and more who held the same for both Sir Launcelot and for Sir Tristram. Sir Lauvecor, leading a hundred knights, came late, with the blessing of his father, who was none other than King of Ireland. A brave show they all made, these many knights seeking adventure, and each, as he so easily bestrode his steed, found it hard matter to find comrade and friend, for the many who were there. Gay were the colors each knight wore and on some fortune had smiled, for these carried token of some fair lady. Of fair ladies there were many to watch the deeds of skill and bravery and most beautiful of them all, was Arthur's queen, Guenever. Sir Launcelot and Sir Gawaine had found no need to journey to Cornwall. For word had come that Sir Tristram had had a bitter quarrel with King Mark and had left his court carrying that wicked King's curse. Tristram had made final demand on the traitorous King to release the maiden Beatrice whom he was holding for ransom and this the King had had no mind to do. Then had the bold knight himself made for the door of the great dungeon and with hilt of sword knocked long and loud to summon the keeper. And when the door was opened this same keeper could not withstay him, nor would he. Then had Tristram carried the maiden to point of safety and so earned her gratitude. Nor would any knight of King Mark take issue with him for none felt the King's deed to be knightly. And though the King made pretense of bearing no ill will, yet did Sir Tristram leave Cornwall that same day. And Sir Gawaine knew not whether to be pleased or otherwise at the news. "I would have fancied making rescue of the Lady Beatrice myself. And fancied even more to have told King Mark the scurvy knave I deem him; yet I doubt not Sir Tristram did the deed well and since it leaves me free to stay and have part in the jousting, I am not displeased." "And methinks," added Sir Launcelot, "Sir Tristram will make his way hither, for tournament such as this holds all alluring call." King Arthur, together with Ban of Northumberland, and Sir Percival were declared the judges for all but the last of the three days. Now then Sir Percival, finding a moment's brief respite, followed by his page rode to the palace where sat his mother and two sisters. There he found Sir Uwaine already in deep converse with Helene, who was the older of the two maidens and whose knight he was. "See you, son, there do be knights who find time to pay respect to us, even though our own are slower footed." So spoke the Lady Olande yet did it jestingly and with no intent to hurt for she had great love for her son. "And I doubt not, Uwaine does make up for any seeming lack of mine," replied Sir Percival. "If, mother mine, I were not made a judge, my time would be more my own. "But here, I must have lost what manners I have been taught. Mother, this is Allan who is my page, and these, Allan, are my sisters Helene and Yosalinde. Allan is son of Sir Gaunt, whom you all know. Forgive my not making you known before this, lad." Pleasantly did the ladies greet him and so well that he found no embarrassment therewith. And so now Sir Percival turned and spoke in low tones to his mother. Sir Uwaine and his lady walked away, claiming that they must give greeting to certain high ladies. And therewith left Allan, the boy, and Yosalinde, who was even younger than he, to themselves. Allan strove to speak but found he could not and so sat on horse waiting. The girl calmly watched him from her place, yet was there mischief in her eyes. "If you would, you may dismount from your horse and find place hither. There is room, as you see," she suggested. The lad looked uncertain. Yet Sir Percival had already found place next to his mother and was now in earnest converse. So he found he could not do otherwise. Now Yosalinde laughed at what showed so plainly his unwillingness to sit beside her. "I shall not bite you. See how harmless I am? No witch, I hope, you think I am. For shame that youth, who would be brave knight, should fear a lady and in especial one so young as I." "I fear you not," replied Allan hotly. "Then perhaps you dislike me?" the minx questioned innocently. "Certes, no. How could I?" the guileless youth replied. "Then you do like me? Although I doubt I find any pride in that since I must need force the words from you." At a loss now the lad could not answer. For the girl had better of him because of her quick tongue and he found she twisted his words and meaning to suit her taste. Yet finally, she turned the talk and so Allan found himself telling her of his high hopes. So simply too, without boasting, he told her of the fine words of Arthur to him. And last, because it had made its deep impress upon him, he spoke of Merlin's dream. And of this Yosalinde, now serious and wide eyed, questioned him closely, and soon knew all that he did. So now Percival uprose and made ready to return to his duties. So therefore, too, did Allan, and found he now felt more at ease and without constraint of the girl. "I _like_ you, Allan, and I say it though I should make it harder for you to know, than it was for me. I give you my friendship and if it help you, take this ring and wear it. May it serve you in time of stress. And at all times consider it token of your lady." And then once again the laughing, teasing minx, she, added: "Yet, after all, you are but a boy and I am no less a girl. Yet, let us make-believe, you a bold knight and I your lady. Mayhap it may be true some day." So she was gone now to her mother leaving Allan with stirred feelings and somewhat in a dream, too. For Sir Percival had to call twice to him before he mounted his own horse. And even as they both made their way, he turned his head back to see if he could perceive aught of this strange girl. And thought he saw a waving hand but was not sure. CHAPTER SEVEN The Tournament On the first of the three days of the tournament there were great feats of wrestling and trials of archery. So too did yeomen prove their skill with mace and clubs. Foot races were many. And constant flow of ale and food so that none among the yeomen and even of the varlets found aught to want. Many fools there were too and these pleased all mightily. But as the day advanced of all the yeomen but a half dozen remained for the wrestling. And for each of these but one, there was high acclaim from those other yeomen who were there and from such knights as owed fealty to selfsame banner. And of the archers too, but very few remained for last tests of skill. For the one yeoman, who wore green tunic and red cap, there was none to cheer. A stranger, he kept silent and yet was equally skillful with the best. He had entered himself for the archery prize and for the wrestling. "Dost know this knave?" asked King Arthur of Sir Percival. "Only that he belongs not to any of us of the Round Table," replied Percival. "Is he forsooth one of your men, worthy Ban?" "I would he were, Arthur, yet is he not." Now Sir Percival rode forward and divided these last six wrestlers into teams. Yet did this man prove victor for he had a wondrous hold which none of the others knew. And when he had won, so turned he to watch and join in the archery. And as he watched came there knaves to him and mocked him. "Faith though you wrestle well," one spoke, "it doth not make you an archer. For here you find true archery than which none can do better." "And I carry a club I would fain try on your thick skull," said another who was even less gentle spoken. "Of a good time, my friend, and you may," replied the lone knave. "No such time befits the same as now," replied the first knave. "If they will wait for my trial with bow and arrow I would be the last to keep you waiting." So spoke the stranger. So then one of the knaves hurried away and received permission. "Then furnish me a club," said the stranger. "Here then is mine," offered the third knave. Yet, forsooth, the club was but a sorry one and so the unknown would not use it. "Then show you a coward's heart," replied he who would strive with him. And then the three rushed upon the stranger and would do him hurt. So now came bearing down on the three none other than Allan who had overheard the parley. "For shame, knaves. No true men would treat stranger so. He asks nothing more than is fair. Give him a club of his choosing." "Of a faith, young master, this quarrel is none of yours, and warrants no interference. Leave this fellow to us, and we shall give him clubbing of his choosing." And the man who addressed the boy, though he looked not straight at him, growled surlily. "I shall give you a thrashing, fool, unless you do my bidding," replied the boy, hotly. But the three surly brutes moved uneasily. And then came Sir Percival forward. "What have we here?" he asked. So Allan waited for the men to say. But they, now frightened, made no spoken word. "These knaves would play foul tricks on this strange fellow. This one, would strive with him and yet would not offer other club than this. And when the stranger asked to have one of his choice they called him coward and would beat him." "And I doubt not, fools, this club you offer will not stand one blow." So Sir Percival brought it down on the first knave's head, and, lo, though the blow was not a hard one, yet did the club break in two. "So methought. Now go you Allan and get club that will do. And then will you, stranger, give this villain a sound trouncing." And Sir Percival stayed so that the troublemakers did not depart. So Allan brought a club which suited the stranger. Now did the two battle long and well. Both the stranger and he who fought with him were of great strength and each was exceeding quick. As wood struck wood and each tried to get full blow upon the other, so turned all eyes upon the two. And except for glancing blows neither could bring the other down. And though the sparks flew, yet each held his club and was hardly hurt. So now they rested for a few moments. And while they waited, the stranger turned to Allan and spoke. "I thank you for your brave upstanding of me, young master. And I hope some day I may serve you equally well." "You are a worthy man. Serve me now by trouncing the knave who battles with you." "I can but try, yet right skillful is the fellow." So they turned to again. Yet this time the stranger fought the better. Soon the other was forced back, foot by foot. And even as the stranger seemed to have all the best of it, his foot seeming slipped, and he went to his knees. Fiercely the other came upon him. Yet as he came closer the stranger's club moved swiftly. From out the seeming victor's hand flew his mighty club and next second found him clubbed to the ground, senseless. Now the stranger sat himself down for he needed rest sorely. But only for a little while and thereafter he turned to try his skill with bow and arrow. And though he had shown skill in all of the other feats he proved his mastery here. For he was wondrous expert in his archery. "Here you, is fair target," he finally suggested after many trials. And went to distant tree and removed from bough upon it, all its leaves but one. "Shoot you all at this. And if you bring it down I will call you skillful." But only one would try for it. And he came close but missed. Now did the stranger raise his own bow. Nor did he seem to take aim but let the arrow fly. And the arrow carried the twig and leaf with it to the ground. "Of a truth," said King Arthur, "a right worthy knave is that and I would speak to him." So they brought the stranger before the king. "Thou hast done exceeding well, this day, fellow. Tell us then the banner that you serve." "That I cannot do. For, sire, such are my master's commands. Yet may I say no knight is more true and worthy." "Then must we wait for your master's coming. Go thou hence and tell your master he can be proud of thee. And take you this bag of gold besides such other prizes as are yours." So as the knave stood there, the King turned to Sir Dagonet, his jester, who was making himself heard. "A fool speaks, sire. Yet claim I, like master like man. So then must this fellow's master be right skillful to hold him. And since this master is not you, nor Sir Launcelot, then I pick him to be Sir Tristram." "Fool's reasoning, yet hath it much sense," said the King. Now the stranger left. But ere departing, he turned to Allan. "I trust, young master, I shall see you again. As to who I am, know you for your own keeping--fools ofttimes reason best of all." The yeoman rode far into the forest. Then when he came to a lone habitation he dismounted. A knight seated near the small window at the further wall greeted him as he entered. "How did the day turn out? No doubt they trounced you well." "No, master, no trouncing did I get. Instead, the good King spoke pleasantly unto me, gave me this bag of gold, and commended me to my master. Furthermore, see you these prizes that are mine?" "Aye," the yeoman continued, not a bit grieved at the knight's banter, "I even heard the King's fool remark that since the man was so good, the master need must be. And then and there he hazarded a shrewd guess that if this master were not the King, nor Sir Launcelot, then it must need be you." "Then truly am I in good company. Now then tell me what news is there of tomorrow?" "The King of Northgalis desires your aid. That I heard him say. Sir Launcelot is to joust for Cadoris as is Sir Palomides, and these two, of a truth, make it one-sided." "Worthy Gouvernail, prove again my faith in you. Procure for me a shield, one that holds no insignia, so that I may enter the lists unbeknownst to any. I would not have them know I am Tristram, so that it may be my good fortune to joust with many knights who know me not." "That, good master, is not hard. I know a place where I can obtain a black shield, one that holds no other remembrance upon it. It should serve your purpose well." "By my faith, did ever better knave serve master? Right proud of you am I, Gouvernail. And would that I too had bags of gold I could give you for your loyal service." "Nay, master, such service as I give I measure not by aught that you can pay." "That do I know full well, else had you left me long since, for little have I paid," Sir Tristram answered, soft spoken and with great affection. CHAPTER EIGHT Sir Tristram's Prowess So the next day Sir Tristram, carrying the black shield, went forth to enter the lists. And none knew him. The great conflict had already begun when he arrived. He found himself a place among those knights who jousted for Northgalis. And very soon all perceived that this knight with the black shield was skillful and strong. Well and lustily did he battle and none could withstand him. Yet did he not meet with Sir Launcelot nor with Sir Palomides, on this first day. Nor did any know him, but all marveled at his worth and bravery. So, as the day was done, this Unknown and his servant, Gouvernail, rode back into the forest. And none followed him for he was a brave knight and all respected him and his desire to stay unknown. Yet did the judges declare the side of Northgalis victor and as for single knight, the most worthy was the Unknown. And he was called "the Knight of the Black Shield." Now as the judges' duties were done, King Arthur showed how wroth he was that strange knight had carried off such great honors. "Yet do we hope tomorrow shall show other reckoning than this. For good Launcelot shall be there and so shall we." On the morn the heralds called forth the brave knights once again. And with the call came the "Knight of the Black Shield." Sir Palomides was await for him, eager and alert, to be the first to joust. And so they, like great hounds, went at each other. And truly, Sir Tristram found his foe a worthy one. Long did they joust without either besting the other until he of the black shield by great skill and fine force brought down a mighty blow and did smite Sir Palomides over his horse's croup. But now as the knight fell King Arthur was there and he rode straight at the unknown knight shouting, "Make thee ready for me!" Then the brave sovereign, with eager heart, rode straight at him and as he came, his horse reared high. And such was the King's strength he unhorsed Sir Tristram. Now, while the latter was on foot, rode full tilt upon him, Sir Palomides, and would have borne him down but that Sir Tristram was aware of his coming, and so lightly stepping aside, he grasped the arm of the rider and pulled him from his horse. The two dashed against each other on foot and with their swords battled so well that kings and queens and knights and their ladies stood and beheld them. But finally the Unknown smote his foe three mighty blows so that he fell upon the earth groveling. Then did they all truly wonder at his skill for Sir Palomides was thought by many to be the most skillful knight in Britain. A knight now brought horse for Sir Tristram, for now, all knew that it must be he. So too was horse brought for Sir Palomides. Great was the latter's ire and he came at Sir Tristram again. Full force, he bore his lance at the other. And so anew they fought. Yet Sir Tristram was the better of the two and soon with great strength he got Sir Palomides by the neck with both hands and so pulled him clean out of his saddle. Then in the presence of them all, and well they marveled at his deed, he rode ten paces carrying the other in this manner and let him fall as he might. Sir Tristram turned now again and saw King Arthur with naked sword ready for him. The former halted not, but rode straight at the King with his lance. But as he came, the King by wondrous blow sent his weapon flying and for a moment Sir Tristram was stunned. And as he sat there upon his horse the King rained blows upon him and yet did the latter draw forth his sword and assail the King so hard that he need must give ground. Then were these two divided by the great throng. But Sir Tristram, lion hearted, rode here and there and battled with all who would. And of the knights who opposed him he was victor of eleven. And all present marveled at him, at his strength and at his great deeds. Yet had he not met Sir Launcelot, who elsewhere was meeting with all who would strive with him. Not many, however, would joust with him for he was known as the very bravest and most skillful. So as he sat there all at ease, there came the great acclaim for the Knight of the Black Shield. Nor did Sir Launcelot know him to be Sir Tristram. But he got his great lance and rushed toward the cry. When he saw this strange knight he called to him, "Knight of the Black Shield, prepare for me." And then came such jousting as had never been seen. For each knight bowed low his head and came at the other like the wind. When they met it was very like thunder. Flashed lance on shields and armor so that sparks flew. And each would not give to the other one step but by great skill with shield did avoid the best of each other's blows. Then did Sir Tristram's lance break in two, and Sir Launcelot, through further ill fortune, wounded Sir Tristram in his left side. But notwithstanding, the wounded knight brought forth his sword and rushed daringly at the other with a force that Sir Launcelot could not withstand, and gave him a fearful blow. Low in his saddle sagged Sir Launcelot, exceeding weak for many moments. Now Sir Tristram left him so and rode into the forest. And after him followed Gouvernail, his servant. Sore wounded was Sir Tristram yet made he light of it. Sir Launcelot on his part recovered soon and turned back to the tourney, and thereafter did wondrous deeds and stood off many knights, together and singly. Now again was the day done and the tournament, too. And to Sir Launcelot was given full honor as victor of the field. But naught would Sir Launcelot have of this. He rode forthwith to his King. "Sire, it is not I but this knight with the Black Shield who has shown most marvelous skill of all. And so I will not have these prizes for they do not belong to me." "Well spoken, Sir Launcelot and like thy true self," replied the King. "So since this knight is gone, will you go forth with us within the fortnight in search for him. And unless we are in great error we shall find this Knight of the Black Shield no more, no less, than Sir Tristram." CHAPTER NINE The Kitchen Boy Among all those who came to the court of King Arthur at this Pentecost seeking hospitality, were two strangers in especial, who because of being meanly garbed and of a seeming awkwardness brought forth the mockery and jest of Sir Kay the Seneschal. Nor did Sir Kay mean harm thereby, for he was knight who held no villainy. Yet was his tongue overly sharp and too oft disposed to sting and mock. Too, the manner of their coming was strange. One was a youth of handsome mien. Despite his ill garb, he seemed of right good worship. Him, our young page Allan found fallen in a swoon, very weak and near unto death, asprawl on the green about a mile from the castle. Thinking that the man was but a villain, he would fain have called one of the men-at-arms to give him aid, but that something drew him to closer view. And then the boy felt certain that this was no villain born for his face bespoke gentle breeding. So he himself hastened for water and by much use of it the man soon opened his eyes and found himself. So he studied the lad as he helped him to greater ease but either through his great weakness or no desire he did not speak. "Stranger," said Allan to the man, "if there is aught that I can do for you or if I can help you in any way I give you offer of service. Mayhap of the many knights who are here, there is one whose aid you may justly claim." The stranger held answer for many moments, then he spoke. "There are those here, lad, whose service I may well accept for they hold ties of blood to me. But I would not. Rather, if your patience will bear with me, I would fain have your help so that I can appear in the presence of the King this day. For so it is ordained and by appearing there I shall find some part of my row accomplished. On this holy day, I have boon to ask from your King." "So shall I and right gladly lead you there. Good sir, my name is Allan. I am page to Sir Percival, and I would bespeak your name." "I beg of thee, Allan, think not that I am churlish and yet must I withhold my name. For it is part of the vow I have made. Nor, forsooth, am I therefore the less grateful." "No offense take I, friend. So when you feel disposed I shall guide your steps for audience with our good King." The stranger, weak and spent, leaning mightily on his young friend made his way to the great hall. And as we have recounted, though all were struck by oddness and meanness of the stranger's clothes, yet only Sir Kay made point to taunt him. Yet did he make no answer to these taunts but waited with a great meekness for his turn before the King. And that he should wait with such meekness was strange for he seemed to be a high born knight. There were many who sought audience with the King and it was long before the stranger's turn came. Weak he still was, but he made no complaint, and when others would crowd before him so that they could speak the sooner to King Arthur, he did not chide them but permitted it. At last Sir Launcelot came forward, for he had observed this and made each of them find the place which was first theirs, so that the stranger's turn came as it should. Weak though he was he walked with a great firmness to the dais, and none there saw his poor clothes for the fineness of him. The King turned to him and he nodded kindly. "Speak, friend. In what way can we be of service to thee?" "Sire," said the stranger, "I come to ask of thee three boons. One I ask this day and on this day one year I shall come before you and crave your favor for the other two." "If the boon you ask, stranger, is aught we can grant, we shall do so cheerfully, for on this day we heed all prayers." "I ask very little, sire. This and no more do I wish--that you give me food and drink for one year and that on this day a year hence I shall make my other two prayers." "It is indeed little you ask. Food and drink we refuse none. It is here. Yet while your petition might well beseem a knave, thou seemeth of right good worship, a likely youth, too, none fairer, and we would fain your prayer had been for horse and armor. Yet may you have your wish. Sir Kay," and the King turned to his Seneschal, "see you to it that this stranger finds his wish satisfied." So the King turned to others present, for of those who sought audience there were many. And so forgot all of the fair youth for many a day. Sir Kay laughed mockingly at the unknown. "Of a truth this is villain born. For only such would ask for food and drink of the King. So therefore he shall find place in our kitchen. He shall help there, he shall have fat broth to satisfy himself and in a year no hog shall be fatter. And we shall know him as the Kitchen Boy." "Sir Kay," frowned Sir Launcelot, "I pray you cease your mocking. It is not seemly. This stranger, whosoever he may be, has right to make whatsoever request he wishes." "Nay, Sir Launcelot, of a truth, as he is, so has he asked." "Yet I like not your mocking," said Sir Launcelot as he looked frowningly at Sir Kay, while next to him stood Sir Gawaine and Sir Percival, neither of whom could scarce contain himself. "It is well, we know you, Sir Kay. Or, by our guardian saints we would make you answer for your bitter tongue. But that we know it belies a heart of kindness we would long since have found quarrel with you." So spoke Sir Percival and Sir Gawaine nodded in assent. "Stay not any quarrel for any seeming knowledge of me, kind friends," frowned back Sir Kay. But the two knights moved away. Sir Kay was of great shame. And so to cover it he turned to the stranger in great fury. "Come then to your kennel, dog," he said. Out flashed the sword of Sir Gawaine. Yet did Sir Launcelot withhold him. "Sir, I beg you to do me honor of feasting with us this day?" "I thank you Sir Launcelot. Yet must I go with Sir Kay and do his bidding. There do be knights well worth their places at the Round Table. And I note right well that they set high example to those who are still but lads and who are to become knights in good time. So to you all I give my thanks." Then followed the stranger after Sir Kay while the three knights and Allan watched him go and marveled at his meekness. CHAPTER TEN Pentecost And so in turn came the second stranger before King Arthur. Poorly clothed, too, yet had his coat once been rich cloth of gold. Now it sat most crookedly upon him and was cut in many places so that it but barely hung upon his shoulders. "Sire," said the stranger, "you are known everywhere as the noblest King in the world. And for that reason I come to you to be made knight." "Knights, good friend," replied the King, "are not so easily made. Such knights as we do appoint must first prove their worth. We know thee not, stranger, and know not the meaning of thy strange garb. For truly, thou art a strange sight." "I am Breunor le Noire and soon you will know that I am of good kin. This coat I wear is token of vow made for vengeance. So, I found it on my slain father and I seek his slayer. This day, oh King, I go forth content, if you make promise that should I perform knightly deed you will dub me knight of yours." "Go thou forth, then. We doubt not that thou wilt prove thy true valor and be worthy of knighthood. Yet proof must be there." On this selfsame day, Breunor le Noire departed. Next morn, the King together with Sir Launcelot, Sir Percival, Sir Gawaine, Sir Pellimore, Sir Gilbert, Sir Neil and Sir Dagonet, indeed a right goodly party, prepared to depart. Nor did they purpose to return until they met with Sir Tristram, for King Arthur was of great desire to have this good knight as one of the Round Table. Now as these, the flower of King Arthur's court, were waiting for Sir Dagonet who was to be with them and who had delayed, Sir Launcelot saw Allan the boy watching them from the side. Saw too, the great wish in the lad's eyes. Nor did Allan see himself observed for Sir Launcelot was not then with the others. A thought came to this fine spirited knight and it brought great and smiling good humor to his lips. He rode to Sir Percival's side and the two whispered for many moments. Then did the two speak to the King and he laughed, but did not turn to gaze at the boy. Sir Gawaine now joined in the whispering. Then did all four laugh with great merriment. So Sir Pellimore and the other knights inquired the cause for the merriment and, being told, laughed too. Kindly was the laughter, strong men these who could yet be gentle. Sir Launcelot now turned and rode hard at the boy. "And wherefore, lad," and dark was his frown and greatly wroth he seemed, "do you stand here watching? Rude staring yours and no fit homage to pay your betters. Perchance, we may all be displeased, the King, Sir Percival, and all of us." Now the lad's eyes clouded. To have displeased these knights, the greatest men in all the world, for so he thought them. Then and there he wished he could die. Woe had the knight's words brought to him. "Indeed, and I meant no disrespect, Sir Launcelot. Indeed--" and said no more for he knew he would weep if he spoke further. So he saw not the dancing laughter in the knight's eye, nor the wide grins on the faces of the others. "Yet we must punish thee, lad. So then prepare you to accompany us. Get your horse at once. Nor will we listen to any prayer you may make for not going because of your youth." Agape, Allan turned to look at him. For he knew he could not have heard aright. But now, as he looked, he saw that Sir Launcelot was laughing and then as he turned wondering, he saw his own lord and the King and the other knights watching him with great glee. "You mean then, that I--I--may go with all of you!" And then so that there would be no chance of its being otherwise, he rushed in mad haste to get his horse. Joy was the wings which made his feet fly. He came back in quick time, a bit uncertain, riding forward slowly, diffidently, and stopped a little way from them, awaiting word. Then did Sir Launcelot ride to him and place kindly arm about the youth and bring him among them all. Now Sir Dagonet was with them and they rode forth. With the equipage came the hounds, for the first day of their journey was to be given over to hunting. There came also the master of the hounds who was to return with them at the close of the hunt. None other than the great Launcelot rode with Allan and none sat straighter and more at ease in his saddle than the boy as they passed the Queen, the Lady Olande, her two daughters and many other ladies of the realm. Nor did the boy see any other than the minx Yosalinde. But she--she did not seem to find him among the knights, yet he wondered how she could help but see him. He would have liked to call to her, "See, here am I among all these brave knights." Instead he rode past very erect. If she would not see him, what matter, since, he was there, one of the company. Then, of a sudden, she smiled straight at him. So that for him was the full glory of the world. And we doubt not, for that smile he would have fought the bravest knight in all the world and found man's strength therein. Now the company found itself in the woods and many hours journey away. So they rode hard for they liked not to tarry on the road. Long after midday, King Arthur and his men spread out for the hunt. The forest in which they now found themselves held game and wild animals in plenty. Soon thereafter did the hounds give tongue for they had found the scent. No mean prey had they found though, for the quarry gave them a long race. Close behind the hounds came King Arthur and almost as close, Sir Percival and Sir Launcelot. Now, at last, the stag, a noble animal with wondrous horns, lithe body and beautifully shaped limbs was at bay. Straight and true, at its throat, flew the leader of the pack, and sank its teeth deep into it, while above the King blew loud and long the death note of the chase. No need for other hounds nor for weapons of the men. Dark had stolen over the forest when the men with huge appetites came to sup. Juicy venison steak was there, so was the wild duck and the pheasant in plenty. To the full they ate as did the few men at arms that were with them. Yet none stayed awake long thereafter. It had been an arduous day. Allan alone was wide-awake; his eyes would not close. And he knew of a certainty that he was the most fortunate lad in all the world. When he should become a man, he would be--well, he was not certain whether he would be like unto the King, Sir Percival or Sir Launcelot. Yes, he did know, he would be like them all. Now there came mixed thoughts of a maid who waved her hand and smiled at him. And he felt of a precious ring upon his finger. So now his eyes closed; he found himself seeking the Holy Grail. And during all of the night dreamed that he had found it. CHAPTER ELEVEN Allan Meets a Stranger The noble cortege, after the first day's hunt, continued on its journey. It had reached Leek, in Stafford on the morn of the fifth day ere word came of Sir Tristram. Here, was heard from some, Sir Tristram was then on way to Scotland, and from still others, that he was bound for Kinkenadon in Wales. "By my faith," spoke Sir Gawaine, "there are none that are more ready to testify to Sir Tristram's greatness and ability, too. Yet still, have I many doubts as to his being both on way to Scotland and to Wales as well." "If it were left to me," said Sir Dagonet, "I would hie me to Ireland. A likely spot to find him, say I. For there are none who have said that they know of the good knight's journey thitherward." "We, for ourselves, think it best," the king interrupted, "to tarry here this day. Our comrade, Pellimore, expresses great desire to have us partake of his hospitality and we are fain, so to do. What say you?" "It were wisdom to do so, methinks," agreed Sir Percival. "Tomorrow we may find here some further news of Sir Tristram's way." "Aye, sir knights," added Sir Launcelot, "for we need must know whether we continue our travel north or west from this point." So all of them were housed within the castle walls. And Sir Pellimore spread bounteous feast before his guests at midday for he held it high honor to be host to such as these. Now, as the repast had been completed, Allan grew restless. He was of a mind to ride forth and so craved permission from Sir Percival who gave ready consent. Forth he went and rode for many an hour. And then, since the day had great heat, he found himself turn drowsy. Thereupon finding a pleasant, shaded spot, he quickly made a couch of cedar boughs and soon was fast asleep. It seemed to the boy he had slept but few moments when his eyes opened wide with the certainty that other eyes were directed upon him. Nor was this mere fancy nor dream. Near him sat a monk, and from under the black hood the face that peered forth at him was gaunt, cadaverous, with eyes that seemed to burn straight through the lad. But for the eyes, this figure could well have been carven, so still and immovable did it sit there and gaze at the youth. Nor did the monk speak far many minutes even though he must have known that the boy was awake and watching him. The sun now hung low in the sky. Allan knew that he must have been asleep for at least two hours. He knew, too, that he should rise and return to the castle, since the hour was already late and his time overspent. Yet did the monk's eyes hold him to the spot. Nor was the thing that held him there fear; rather could it be described as the feeling one has before a devout, sacred and holy presence. Despite the holy man's unworthy aspect he inspired no fear in the lad. "Allan, boy," and the lad wondered that the monk knew him by name, "two things I know have been chief in your thoughts these days." Kindly was the monk's tone. "What then are these two things?" No thought had the boy of the oddness of the monk's words, nor of his questions. Nor of the fact that the monk seemed to be there present. Somehow, the whole of it took on some great purport. Allan stopped not to wonder, which the two things the monk mentioned were uppermost in his mind but straightway made reply. "Strange monk, I think and dream of the Holy Grail. And think too of Yosalinde, sister to my Lord Percival. And of naught else so much. But pray you, holy father, who are you? "Truth, lad. As to who I am or as to where I come, know you this. I come to you from that same place as do all dreams. "Aye lad. Dreaming and fancying shall ever be yours. These son, shall bring you the visions of tomorrow and many another day. "I have come to tell you this, lad. But two years or more and you shall start in earnest on your search for the Grail. And whether you find the same, I shall not and cannot say, for the finding depends on you. The way shall be hard, youth of many dreams, though you will have help and guidance, too. But the great inspiration for it all shall come to you from the second of these, your two big thoughts. "I sought you many a day, lad. Merlin has sounded the message for me to all the knights of Britain. Once before, years ago, I came to find the likely seeker for the Grail and thought that I had found him. Yet did the crucible's test find some alloy and so I had need to come again. "Then," said Allan but barely comprehending, "you are none other than Sir Joseph of Armathea." "Lad, it matters not as to who and what I am. It is of you, we are now concerned. Dear, dear, lad, they shall name you again and the name which shall be yours shall ever after be symbolic with the very best that manhood holds." "Go your way, now. For I must speak with many more this day ere I return. A knight comes but now, with whom I must hold counsel. And I would fain speak to him, alone." "True, father, I had best go. For Sir Percival will think me thoughtless, if not worse. As to what you have said, I can do but that best which is in me and ever seek to make that best better. And so, I ask your blessing." The boy knelt. The monk, lean, black cowled, eyes glowing with a light that held the supernatural, placed hand upon the boy's head and gave him blessing. So then the boy mounted horse and was away. He rode hard for he held great anxiety to return quickly. And all the time he rode he thought of the things the strange monk had told him, Some of it, he did not altogether understand. That was because of his youthfulness. It was to come back to him when many months had passed. This however, he knew, he was destined to make search for the Holy Grail. For so, the holy man had ordained. Sir Percival, a bit anxious, was waiting for the lad when he returned. "I went far and then fell asleep," Allan explained. "Nor did I awaken until the sun hung low." He did not speak of the meeting with the monk. "It is well you are back, lad. For I was fast growing worried over the lateness of your return. Turn in then. I wot not, but that food will be found for you on which you can sup. Sir Launcelot went forth some hours ago. I fancy he went in search of you, though he would not admit this to be the purpose of his departure." CHAPTER TWELVE The Stranger and Sir Launcelot Let us then turn to Sir Launcelot now making his way along the road over which Allan had been seen to depart. Though the knight had denied that he purposed to seek the lad, yet had his horse taken that way. A growing fondness for the boy which he had not made too obvious, for it was not his wont to show too easily his feelings. Display or show of emotion ever embarrassed him. He had noted the long absence of Allan and so had mounted his horse intent to all appearance on a short canter. Half way to where Allan had made his couch, the road over which he had ridden branched right and left and some miles down came together again. Now when Allan returned he took the road to his right having ridden the other way earlier in the day. Sir Launcelot made for the road to the right of him and so missed the boy returning. He found himself at the place at which the boy had slept. He dismounted to observe more closely. Then he beheld the holy man as he stepped from the shadows. "Good day to you, holy father," the knight greeted him. "God's blessing stay with thee, son. I have been expecting thee." "Nay, father, not me. Other knight, mayhap. For I knew not myself I would be here." "Yet did I know, Sir Launcelot. You came here to seek the youth Allan and knew not that you came in obedience to greater will than your own. And having come, you must, prithee, listen to the things that must be told you." "Launcelot," and the monk spoke sternly and yet with great sadness, "as measured by men thou art the bravest knight in Christendom. Chivalrous, strong, yet gentle and ever ready to succor the weak and distressed. Your name shall be emblazoned as symbolic of chivalry." The strange man paused for a time. "I speak now of the Holy Grail," he resumed. "Who would be better fitted to seek and find the Holy Grail? Are there any who hold greater desire to find the same? And who seeks to make himself more worthy?" "And yet, though you seek until Judgment Day you will never find it. In the innermost soul of you, you know it to be so. The pity of it." "Strange monk," and a dull red mantled the knight's cheeks, "those are bold words you speak. None but Launcelot himself can tell the things he may or may not do. And since I am not in search of father confessor, nor since I sought not this meeting, I pray thee offer not your counsel nor advice." "The truth, then, sears, sir knight!" Now the monk's eyes flashed. Straight and tall he stood and his lean figure held so much of that which was not earthly, that even the mighty Launcelot was daunted. "Who then has more right or reason to tell you of these things. It is I who first picked you, long since, as likely finder of the Holy Grail. And when I found you slipping ever so little, and well you know wherein you have failed me, I sent Merlin to all of you. For since he on whom I had built my faith could not measure to the test I had strong need to find someone else. "For Britain must hold the Grail. Somewhere in it, there must be the man who measures up to the test, high though it be." "Son, son, the things you could have done. The fineness of you, coarsened by the temptations you have met and not overcome. The joy you have found in things that are sordid and count for so little." Low hung the knight's head, His anger had left him now. In its stead was a deep humility. "Father, you bare my soul. And yet have I striven. High did I hold the ideals which first inspired me, I have overcome much, have tried to keep to the high set purpose. Yet I am but common clay, after all." "Nay, nay son. I would all men held half thy nobility. Only," and now the monk's tone was again kindly, "there are some we weigh on much finer scales than others. We ask more of them, seek more from them. Forgive less, too. Perhaps we are wrong to desire so much from any mortal soul. Yet have we faith,--we believe." "I find no complaint, holy father, in the measure you have set for me. For I saw the things, I had the vision to see them. Saw too, the things that were wrong even as I did these things." "Yet, my son, a great task shall be yours. Now of the boy Allan." The monk paused. "What of him, father? A fine lad is he. So young, yet is he too, to be burdened with great responsibilities? I pray thee, let him keep his youth." "Launcelot, my son, when will you grow to thy true self? For there lies your failure. You who took your responsibilities as burdens, when you should have found great joy in that they were yours. Yet, now listen to me as to this boy Allan. I have seen him this day, have spoken to him of the Holy Grail. A dreaming youth, yet is he fired by fine inspiration and great ideals. He is ordained to seek it. That holds no strangeness for there are many such. As to whether he finds it or not is dependent upon him, as it was once upon yourself. And since you cannot find it, seek it as you will, I charge you with helping him keep clean souled. Should he do so, ere many years will pass, he may find it. For you, there will be the joy, the glory of service, of having helped. Without your help, success for him will be so much less likely. Will you help him Launcelot? Think well before you make reply." Not at once did Sir Launcelot answer. Yet it was the best within him that did give final utterance. "I promise you father, that such help as I can give the lad I shall. Much have I learned. And with these things that I have learned he shall be guided. No bitterness mine. Since I am not to be the finder of the Holy Grail, I pledge you now my aid to Allan." "Launcelot, so little fails you for that needed greatness. None have I loved so much. If you have sinned you have been great and glorious even in the sinning. "Never have you been finer than now. Allan will need your help, your strength. There shall be a maid too, to help him. The threads have also been woven for that now. When the time shall come, you will call this lad Galahad, the Chaste. Treat him ever as your son, Launcelot." "Son and comrade, too, he shall be for me. Father, I thank you." "So then I go, son. I could not love you more were you less a mortal sinner." CHAPTER THIRTEEN The Party Divides When the morning came there was great indecision as to the further way, for no new information had come of Sir Tristram. Sir Gawaine now spoke for going north to Scotland. So too, was Sir Pellimore minded and Sir Gilbert as well. But Sir Percival spoke for Wales and so did Sir Neil. "As for me," said Sir Dagonet, "I pick Wales, since Kinkenadon is the nearer to Ireland. My fool's head still fancies that we shall have need to turn there ere we shall find this errant knight." Neither the King nor Sir Launcelot up to this time had expressed a choice. But now the King vouchsafed a plan. "It seems to us good plan for our party to divide. Some of us to go north, some west. You Launcelot could well go with one party and we with the other. What say you friends?" That plan suited them all. So then the King went with Sir Gawaine, Sir Pellimore, and Sir Gilbert, while Sir Launcelot accompanied Sir Percival, Sir Neil, Sir Dagonet and Allan. With each party, too, went three men-at-arms. Our way shall be with Sir Percival. At the end of the first half day they found themselves near the crossroads of Nantwich. "We must soon find place for food," remarked Sir Percival and lustily they all agreed. "See you castle beyond yonder crossroads?" questioned Sir Neil, "Sir Manstor lives there with his three brothers. Right skillful knights are these but woe the lone stranger who passes by. For these are villainous four." "Right bitterly do you speak of them, Neil," remarked Sir Launcelot. "And why?" "I pray fortune to permit me to meet with this Manstor. I stopped there for food one day. Then did this knight, his brothers by his side, demand the bag of gold I carried with me. Nor would single one among them battle with me. It would have fared ill with me but for two knights who passing by, came to my aid." "Our vow," said Sir Launcelot thoughtfully, "is to find Sir Tristram. Yet can I see no harm in straying from our way an hour or two, can you, Percival?" "Not if there is promise of such entertainment as this," was the reply. "These knights," interrupted Sir Neil, "have stomach for neither joust nor other encounter when the odds are not with them. Nor will they venture to impede our way unless we number less than they." "If greater or equal number withholds them," said Sir Dagonet. "I would favor them and withdraw. Then would there be one less doughty sword." "Aye, Dagonet, we know your unselfish spirit," said Sir Neil and laughed. "The knight does not live who has bested me, nevertheless," replied the jester, with pretended heat. "The knight does not live who has had the chance," said Sir Percival. "Yet we love you none the less, brother." Said now Sir Launcelot: "One of us could ride ahead. And, perchance, these scheming knights will think that easy prey comes and so strive to impede the way. Then when they bear down upon him we can appear and give them such entertainment as they have not had in many a day." Now one of the men-at-arms came forward. "And if you will, masters, yonder cruel knight is cruel master as well. And he holds my own brother within his prison walls for small cause. So I pray you, masters, succor him." "Of a surety, Wonkin," said Sir Percival, "we shall make every effort to set your brother free. Neil and I shall go forward and so find ourselves seemingly enmeshed by them. Then will you, at proper time, Launcelot, come forward. And if Dagonet so wishes, he can protect our rear." The two knights then hurried on. They had not far to go to the turn of the road and there the four knights within the castle grounds, seeing them, stood watching for a moment or so. Then each mounted his horse and in armor, rode forth from within the walls. "We are knights on way to Wales," said Sir Percival in mild tone. "We seek food for our midday meal." "Food we will give you right gladly," replied the oldest of the four. "But ask in payment such gold as you may have." "That would be poor bargain," replied Sir Percival, still mild spoken. "We had liefer go our way to place which seeks not such high pay." "That may you well do, strangers, yet must you still leave your gold behind. For we have great need of it." "Yet no greater need for it than have we. Come, comrade, we must be on our way." So spoke Sir Percival to Sir Neil. And now the robber knights were certain that these were but timid men. So out came their swords as they rode at the two. But they found them ready and watchful. And though the odds were two to one, it was not hard matter to hold the robbers off until Sir Launcelot came charging into the melee. As the four robbers turned to the newcomer and beheld his shield and armor, they knew that it was Launcelot. And knew too that this was trap set for them. Thereupon did Sir Manstor withdraw for the moment from the struggle and blow horn he carried--two long and one short note. One of the brothers had already been unhorsed and most grievously wounded. Sir Manstor now came back to the aid of his brothers and of them all he was most skillful. So Sir Launcelot turned to him and him, the robber knight found more than a match. But from within the walls came forty and more men at arms, some with bow and arrow and others with club and mace. And with them, two other knights. When Sir Launcelot saw these, he called to his comrades. "Hard at them, hard." For he had in mind to down these three before the others came. Then did the three, that is, Launcelot, Percival and Neil with wondrous strength of arm, each by mighty blow, bring rider to the ground. And Sir Manstor was dead because of the fearful blow of Sir Launcelot. The other two were asprawl on the ground and but barely moving. "I call this right skillfully done," said Sir Dagonet who now came toward them. He had watched but had not joined in the struggle. Now, Wonkin and the two men at arms were there and so was Allan. "Will you, good men, try out your bows on these hinds who are coming thitherward?" said Sir Percival. Straightway then there flew three well aimed arrows. Then others flew and now answering arrows from the oncomers. But these did not harm for Wonkin and the other two stood under cover of trees and so were not easy targets. Twice more they let their arrows fly and five men of the forty had been stopped. Now as the others came at them with clubs and mace, Sir Launcelot commanded Wonkin and the other two to withdraw a hundred pace and from there continue to let their arrows fly. And this was great wisdom for else the three could not have long withstood the large number. So now the knights with their great lances fought off the villains and the two knights who were with them. Very few who came within the reach of the long weapons escaped. And from their place the three men at arms shot arrow after arrow into the attackers. Three of the knaves had hold of Sir Percival's horse and thereupon others swarmed upon him and what with the blows of their maces and clubs, he was in sorry plight. Nor could Sir Launcelot turn to help him for he was in great conflict with the two knights and a large number of them on foot and Sir Neil equally so. As for Allan he had already ridden down two of the attackers and had brought his weapon which was cross between sword and dagger down upon their skulls. Now as he turned he saw the plight of his lord. So did Sir Dagonet, who though timid had up to then made some ado to help. Whereupon both sped hard to Sir Percival's aid. And so skillful was the boy that he hewed down several of the knaves and Sir Dagonet too, soon found that others of Sir Percival's attackers were turning their attention to him. All of which gave needed time for Sir Percival to escape from his difficulty, draw sword and begin anew. Now Sir Launcelot brought down the two knights and the others like wolves stood off snarling at him, yet out of reach. Sir Neil too was freer. There were but ten of the attackers now. The others were either strewn about the ground or were making their escape. And of these ten, two even then were brought down by the arrows of Wonkin and his two comrades. Whereupon the last of the attackers turned and made haste to fly, the three archers in close pursuit. "These hinds would fair have overswarmed me had not the boy and Dagonet come to my aid," remarked Sir Percival as he lifted his helmet from his head. "How then, Allan, did you like the affray?" inquired Sir Launcelot. "Greatly," replied the lad. "But I had wish I carried a lance instead of this, which is neither dagger nor sword." "Right soon, shall these be yours as well, lad. Yet now we have earned such food as we may find within the castle. And I wot not," added Sir Percival, "many prisoners, too, who will be glad of freedom." CHAPTER FOURTEEN King Mark's Foul Plan Sir Neil and Sir Dagonet now loudly summoned the castle servants before them but there were none to answer. So they prepared kitchenward where they found the wretches in great affright not knowing what dire fate was to befall them. Yet they, when assured that naught was intended against them, eagerly hastened to obey the commands of the good knights to prepare a sumptuous meal. Sir Launcelot, Sir Percival and the other knights made, their way to the dungeon. And truly they found a sad sight there. Though a large place, yet was it overly crowded. In one place they found six knights, an unhappy six, three of whom had been imprisoned for many months, two had been made captives within the fortnight and one had joined this joyless group but two days before. "Aye," one of the first three explained to them, "it is through God's mercy that we still live. There were three others with us, two of whom were already here when this dire misfortune befell us and one who came some weeks later. These three could not survive the foulness of this hole." But now Sir Percival was seen to speak to the lone knight, the one who had been made prisoner last of all. A melancholy figure, he did not seem to realize that release had come with the advent of these knights. In fact, through all the hubbub he seemed to have been lost within himself. No doubt, they were bitter thoughts that possessed him and at such times one is verily unmindful of things about him. Nor did this knight seem mindful of the words spoken by Sir Percival for he made no answer and lost none of his brooding air. Yet, of a sudden, he seemed to awaken. For Sir Percival who had not been able to place him at first, had at last realized who the stranger was. "Who are you?" the other questioned in turn rubbing his eyes. "And these other knights? But then, I know you all. How came you here, Sir Percival?" When he was told, some of his dejection left him. "Mine was truly a great unhappiness. These four robber knights did beset me. And when I was overcome they demanded great ransom which I had no means wherewith to satisfy. Then, when I heard the tale of how long these fellow prisoners had been here I was greatly discouraged as to carrying out my intent to prove to King Arthur my worthiness for knighthood." In the meanwhile, Sir Launcelot and Allan had made their way to where the imprisoned yeomen and hinds had been kept. Here there were more than fifty and a sad sight they were. It brought a great gulp of pity into Allan's throat and unbidden tears came to his eyes. Sir Launcelot too was moved. Some of the prisoners were so weak they could hardly move. Wonkin had found his brother almost at once and theirs was a happy meeting. "Go you up, good Allan, and order that food be brought for these wretches. And see to it that there is plenty of it." Allan gladly went and repeated Sir Launcelot's orders which the servants made great haste to obey. So that all within the castle, fared well that day. And when Sir Launcelot and his party were ready to continue their journey the next morning, there was with them Breunor le Noire and an added number of yeomen picked from the men who had been prisoners. Just before departure, Sir Percival went to the two brothers of Sir Manstor who still were living, the other had not lived an hour. "Sir Knights, we leave you now. Take you heed from this day's happenings that such outlawry as yours brings just punishment. Remember, too, that King Arthur and all his knights will be ever watchful that you conduct yourself in knightly ways. Woe betide you, if you do not." The knights made no reply. Grievously wounded, with their brothers dead, they were in no mood for words. Yet must the truth of Sir Percival's words have been in their minds. Onward now went Sir Launcelot's party. Through that and the next day they made their way and were well in Cornwall without further untoward happening. Everywhere, the party made inquiries as to the whereabouts of Sir Tristram and from such news as they were able to gather they felt assured that they had taken the right way and that King Arthur and the men with him were on a false trail. It was on this day that they met with two knights who made them friendly greetings and finding out the purpose of their journey pretended not to know the whereabouts of Sir Tristram. Nor would they stay for any length of time giving as reason therefore great need of urgency on their part. Yet when these two knights had but gone a little way they turned, in great haste along another road. The end of the day found them in the presence of King Mark of Cornwall who had no great love for King Arthur nor for any of his knights and who would do any or all of them great harm could he do so without discovery. "Who then is this party?" inquired the King after listening. "They number but few," replied one of the knights. "Sir Launcelot, Sir Percival, Sir Neil, and one other, and that fool who is jester to Arthur. A boy is there too and fifteen men-at-arms." "You speak truly," replied the king, "as to their being few in number but I would that two of these few, were not Launcelot and Percival. Yet even with these two we should be able to overcome them. And in that way I shall find some recompense for the many slights and haughty overbearingness of Arthur and his men." As he so spoke, King Mark's face plainly showed its cruelty and craft. "Will you, good Bruyan, call Sir Bertram and Sir Pendore to me? And be sure to return for we must be speedy should we decide that it is wise for us to take any step for their discomforture." Now as Bruyan returned with the two aforementioned, there also came into the room a yeoman who served Sir Pendore. But of him neither the king nor any of the knights took notice but instead immediately began discussion as to the wisdom of waylaying these knights of King Arthur who were now in Cornwall. Whether King Mark knew this to be so or not, yet of all his court, there were no two who had more reason to hate Sir Launcelot than Sir Bertram and Sir Pendore. For Sir Launcelot had come upon them once when they were in the midst of tormenting two holy men having first taken from them a paltry purse which these two monks were carrying for worthy purpose. Then when Sir Launcelot had asked that they desist and return the holy men's purse they had replied with foul tongue and had made for him. Soon, however, they found that this single knight was master of them both and would they then have complied with his requests. However, Sir Launcelot who was ever slow to anger was now in great rage and he had taken them to the castle grounds of Sir Gawaine and there, before a large number he told of what had happened. And while fair ladies laughed at them and while men looked at them as they would at hinds, Sir Launcelot had taken the flat of his sword and had brought it down on both. Then he had asked two yeomen to club them from the castle grounds since they were unfit to be in the company of knights. This the yeomen had done right lustily. Neither Sir Pendore nor Sir Bertram had ever made mention of this event. But there was no one in all of Britain whom they so fully hated as Sir Launcelot. Now, there seemed likely chance for revenge. "How many men can you muster?" asked Sir Bertram, speaking not over anxiously yet with meaning looked at Sir Pendore. "Seven score or more" replied the king of Cornwall. "I would have more," replied Sir Pendore. "What with Percival and Launcelot and this Neil whom I know not, one must make it more than certain." It was at this point that the yeoman who was busily at work over the weapons, cleaning them and putting them into perfect condition, as none other in Cornwall could do, had become interested. Sir Percival? It was this Sir Percival, knight of the Round Table, who had saved the father of this yeoman from the deadly mace of one of his men in one of many melees. It was but a small thing to the knight, long forgotten no doubt, but to Walker, the son of the man who was saved, it meant that he was in debt to this knight. So now he listened, interested. Then too, he had no great love for his master who was never kindly and he had decided long ago that he would find a new master when the opportunity offered. "I shall find more men, if I can," Mark offered in reply to Sir Pendore's suggestion. Nor did it seem strange to him that the knight should think that odds of seven to one were not enough. "Where are these knights?" asked Sir Bertram. Sir Bruyan told him, the yeoman listening all the while. "Let us then be off within thrice this hour," Mark concluded. "Get you as many men ready as you can," he said to Sir Bertram and to Sir Pendore who were his chiefs. Walker, the yeoman, soon had completed his work. Thereupon he made his way into the forest to find him, who was best friend of his, to get advice as to what to do. He, whom he sought, was none other than our old friend Gouvernail, who, of course, was not far from Sir Tristram, his master. Though he had long since severed fealty to King Mark, Sir Tristram had returned near unto the court because of the love he bore one of the damsels who was in it. It was Walker who had carried the messages Gouvernail had brought from his master to this same lady. Walker soon came to the hiding place of his friend. "What ho?" asked Gouvernail. "What brings you here at this unseemly hour?" "I need your advice," replied Walker. "My poor head carries too great a muddle." "You come to one who can offer but poor solace there," replied Gouvernail. "If it were trusty arm, good club or something belike, you could well come to me. But speak, what troubles you?" So Walker told him. Except that at first he made no mention of names. "Keep you from it," advised Gouvernail. "It is the business of your betters and not of your meddling." "Yet had Sir Percival done this thing for my father, and if he would, he could have thought the same,--that it was not his affair but an affair of hind or yeoman." "Is this Percival, he who is of King Arthur's court?" asked Gouvernail. "Aye," replied Walker, nodding his head. "Do you know him?" "Somewhat. Who else is there?" he further questioned, now interested. "Sir Launcelot, Sir Neil and some others." "Did they speak of a boy being there?" "I do not remember. Yet I seem to recall that they did," replied Walker. "I will help you. Come," and Gouvernail took his friend but a little way to where Sir Tristram was lodging. Sir Tristram seated himself and listened to the two. He understood at once. "When did King Mark say that he would start with his men?" he asked Walker. "In three hours, Sir Knight," the man answered. "Good. Let us be off. Good Gouvernail, get you my mail ready for I would don it." Within the half hour Sir Tristram with the two yeomen were on their way to meet Sir Percival and Sir Launcelot. So, strangely, they who sought him, were to find him come among them. CHAPTER FIFTEEN The Weasel's Nest "Greeting, good knights," he announced. "I am Sir Tristram." Nothing could have thrown Sir Launcelot's party into greater astonishment. And yet no news could have been pleasanter. "Right glad are we to see you, Sir Tristram, since we have sought you for a great number of days. I am Sir Launcelot. Here is Sir Percival." And so this knight announced them all. The two knights, Sir Tristram on the one hand, Sir Launcelot, on the other, observed each other. Each of them found much to like in the other. Then and there was the beginning of a friendship that was to last until the day of Sir Tristram's death. After the first few moments, had passed, Sir Tristram came to the reason for his coming among them. That the danger was grave, they knew at once. King Mark was cruel and crafty. He would not venture this attempt unless he were certain that he had great numbers behind him. "My thought seems to be to retire to the nearest castle and there defend ourselves as best we can," said Sir Percival. "A right kindly thing, this of yours, Sir Tristram, to bring us this news. And if we come out of this, I hope that I shall be able to find you at any place you bespeak," Sir Launcelot remarked. "The kindness is on the part of this man here." And Sir Tristram told them of Walker. "Need I say that I stay with you and share in your fortune such as it is. It should offer great sport and I would not miss it, if I could." Sir Launcelot nodded his head nor did he make any further demur. "And you two?" he now asked of Gouvernail and Walker. "Oh, I," replied Sir Gouvernail, "I find my place where my master is." "And I?" added Walker. "I owe something to Sir Percival and so I too will stay." "Well then, perhaps we may keep them off, though not so easily," said Sir Neil. "We can but try," added Sir Launcelot. But now Sir Dagonet, jester and fool, made his way forward. "Spoke you of finding castle?" he asked of Sir Percival. Sir Percival nodded his head. "Good man," Sir Dagonet spoke now to Walker. "Did this weasel king say aught as to the number of men he would send against us?" "Only, master, that when he mentioned that he would send one hundred or more and with them twenty knights, one there, thought that number not enough and advised that the king add to it. Which the king said he would do." "The more the better," said Sir Dagonet. "A strange wish," said Sir Neil. "But then you are fool and that wish belongs to a fool." "Yet not such a great fool after all," spoke up Sir Launcelot. "Truly Dagonet, I often wonder at you. For here is what is in Dagonet's mind. Since the weasel comes after us and leaves his home empty, why not go to the home of the weasel?" Such a laugh now went up. For all of these knights saw that this would be a deed that would ring throughout Britain and if successful, make Mark the laughing stock of the land. But after the laughter, Sir Tristram spoke, "I ask a strange thing, good knights, and hope it will receive favor in your eyes. King Mark has been a strange uncle to me. He has treated me scurvily oft enough. Yet when, if we come through this event as we hope, I would that you hold no further ill will against him. Understand me well. I ask for naught, if any among us are hurt at his hand, for then he deserves all that comes to him. But if we come through so that all can laugh at him, then I ask you to forget the ill will for which he gives you such good cause. For after all, he is blood kin of mine, a sorry thing, yet which I cannot forget." And now the knight waited answer. Now all the knights turned to Sir Tristram and there was something about him that made them nod their heads in assent. "Then do we promise this thing, you ask," said Percival. "So now let us go to the weasel's nest." In great humor and with many jests the men made their way to the road upon which the two knights of King Mark had made their return. And so we find that as the crafty king was making his way forward to the attack, believing that it would be an overpowering surprise, and already counting the fruits of victory, his intended victims were slipping through his clutches and making their way into the last of all places he could imagine. Now on their way, Sir Percival called the two yeomen, Gouvernail and Walker to him. And though he did not remember the event that Walker narrated yet was he glad he had followed a kindly thought. And Allan too, realized that bread cast upon the water often returns. "Need you a good yeoman?" ventured Walker hopefully. "If you are half as good as your friend here, then indeed have I need for you," was Sir Percival's reply. "I count him my better, Sir Knight," replied Gouvernail. "This fool would overpraise me and lead you to expect overmuch," said Walker. "I will do my best if you will but try me." "That I shall," replied the knight. And thereupon the two, Gouvernail and Walker, fell back a little way and came to Allan who was glad of a chance to talk to Gouvernail. And as they rode forward the boy listened to some of the tales and some of the doings of Sir Tristram. Now in the front there rode, the two, Sir Tristram and Sir Launcelot and with them Sir Dagonet. "Truly, I often wonder, good Dagonet, wherefore they call you a fool," spoke Sir Launcelot. "Here comes this thought of yours that could come only from the wisest man or the greatest fool. Often, I wonder which you are." "Yet good Launcelot, since I am I, I know which of these I am. What sooth, what matters it, which you and all of these," and Sir Dagonet pointed to the others with them, "which you think me? If it pleases all of you, it pleases me to be a fool. Howsoever, it is ill wind that does not blow some good and here we have Sir Tristram who is not in Ireland though I had reason for believing him there." "Faith, friend, and I had but decided that I would journey henceward within two days," replied Sir Tristram wonderingly. "See you then, Launcelot. I made but a fool's guess. Had I been a wise man I would not have been two days ahead of Sir Tristram." Now Sir Tristram who knew the way advised silence. For they were nearing the great castle walls. When they came thereto they found the gates closed and the drawbridge up. Then did Sir Tristram make call to those within. And these mistaking this for the party that had gone therefrom hastened to obey and lowered the drawbridge and unlocked the gates. And then found themselves facing strange knights, a strange party. And of all of them they only recognized Sir Tristram. Then would they have made great ado to close the gates but it was too late. "Tell you all within these gates, that we shall treat none harshly except those who would make trouble." So when Sir Percival's party was safely esconced, Sir Tristram left them for a few moments. A few moments that lasted into the half hour. For he went to see his lady love who was even then with the queen. Nor did the queen treat him as harshly as she might have. Perhaps this was because she felt that they were safe as long as this nephew was with these intruders. Or perhaps she had not favored the ill treatment by her royal spouse of so brave a knight. And if King Mark and his men had been surprised to find the bird flown, imagine then what must have been their thoughts when they returned and found that they could not enter their own gates. That the bird was there and was shouting defiance at them. And worse yet, that in these shouts of defiance there was laughter and taunt and jest at their expense. "What now?" asked the cruel and crafty king. Nor could one of his men tell him. CHAPTER SIXTEEN To The Rescue "Methinks," said King Arthur on the fourth day of their journey into Scotland "that we will not find this Sir Tristram. What say you Gawaine?" "Only that I cannot find it in me to do aught but agree with you," the latter made reply. "And I advise that we return, for had Tristram made his journey hitherward we should long ago have had inkling of it." "So then, we return today, friends," Arthur announced to his knights. "We have it in us to hope that Percival and Launcelot have had better fortune than we." And none loath, the party joyously made preparations for return. It had been an eventless search for the brave knight, Tristram, and these men hated inactivity. "What say you, to sending someone of us to Cadoris announcing that we shall pay him a visit of not more than a day?" So queried the king. "If there is promise of joust and adventure there," said Pellimore. "I for one can see no harm therein. What matters a day more or less?" The other knights agreed with Pellimore and as Gawaine pointed out, it was not more than but few leagues from their returnward way. So the party having first sent Sir Gilbert before them to herald their approach arrived at the court of Cadoris, king of Scotland. And never was king or knights more royally received than was Arthur and his men. Of a truth, there was warm affection for Arthur, and Cadoris and his knights, though they held great rivalry, for the Knights of the Round Table had ever proven honest and worthy opponents. The stay of the day stretched into the fourth day and not one of King Arthur's party had thought of returning. Jousts were there, much hunting and activity, enough to suit the most exacting. Howsoever, Arthur announced on the fifth day that they could stay but another day. "Of a truth, am I downright sorry that you must depart. For highly have I been honored by your visit, and as greatly have I enjoyed it." Warm spoken was Cadoris. "And we shall remember your hospitality for many a day," replied Arthur. "If we but make you half as much at home when you visit us, good Cadoris, we shall feel that we have accomplished much. Is it not so, friends?" "Truly," assented King Arthur's knights. "And I would, your Majesty, that you make that visit right soon," added Gawaine. "That we surely will," replied Cadoris heartily. So King Arthur and his men made their preparations having been much cheered by their stay. And they had turned to their last meal which was a sumptuous one and were greatly enjoying it when a servant of King Cadoris came into the great dining hall and whispered into the ear of Sir Donald, one of the bravest knights in the kingdom of Scotland. He in turn, whispered the news to the king. "There are two riders without, Arthur, who want word with you," the Scottish King announced. "Shall I ask them to wait until we finish this meal? It were pity to disturb you now and I doubt not their message may wait." "That may well be so, good friend. Yet, if it disturbs you not, I shall ask Gawaine here to see these men and find out what message they bear." Cadoris nodded his head in assent and Gawaine thereupon hastened outside the dining hall. It was none other than Allan he saw. Allan with Breunor le Noire. Great was his surprise at seeing them and greater still, at their account of what had occurred. And when he heard how Launcelot and Percival and the others, together with Sir Tristram were holding the very castle of King Mark, he shook with a great laughter. So loud was this that the kings and the knights at the dining table heard it and wondering greatly, hurried out to find the cause for it. Forgot their food for the time being in their curiosity. The king of Britain was no less surprised to see Allan and this stranger whom he but faintly recalled. And to him, to Cadoris, and the assembled knights, the two had to recount again what had occurred. And when the full gist of it came home, Arthur brought down a heavy hand on the shoulder of Cadoris who was shaking with laughter and himself fell into a seat nearby for very faintness at his own mirth. While about him there was great boisterousness and loud guffaws. A yeoman who had listened eagerly to the account hurried without and himself recounted to the men there what had happened at the court of King Mark. So that there were great shouts, much merriment. "To think," said King Arthur, "a bare few took King Mark's own castle. I marvel at their impudence and yet it is but what could be expected from such as they." "As for me," said Gawaine, "I would give all I have to have been there. And all I ever expect to have, to have been near Mark when he realized what had happened." "Yet," said Arthur now grown serious, "let us hear what Allan and this other brave youth are here for. They did not come this great distance to tell us of their impudence. That, I'll swear." "Nay, sire," said Allan, who was spokesman because of greater acquaintance with those assembled. "Sir Percival and Sir Launcelot sent Breunor le Noire to you and me with him for aid. For King Mark, furious at the sorry figure he makes has sworn vengeance and has laid siege to those within his castle. Sir Launcelot sent us with this message. That while they could perhaps make their escape yet they thought that you would wish to come to their aid so that they need not run from King Mark. For they wish to see that king, to look at him. Half the jest they have played lies in that." "That we will do, of course," replied Arthur. "And though we must first return home to gather our men, yet we will do so quickly and hurry just as quickly to the court of Cornwall. For we too, would like to see Mark, and though we envy your party its good fortune, yet can we share in the jest. Say you not so, friends? "Aye, sire, that we do. Yet haste is indeed necessary." So spoke both Pellimore and Gawaine. "Methinks, it would be a right friendly act on your part, Arthur, should you allow me and my men to accompany you. So then there will be no need for you to first return home and thereby save time. For I too," added Cadoris, "would like to call on Mark at this time." "Come then," said King Arthur. "It would not be in us to refuse you. Let us return to finish our food and both of you, we doubt not must be right hungry by now." So all of them returned to the dining hall. And Gawaine found room next to him for Allan and Breunor le Noire. "How long Allan, is it since you left them?" he asked. "This is our third day," was the boy's reply. "How did you escape the besiegers?" Arthur, who with the rest was listening now inquired. "It was done at night, sire. We two climbed over the wall. Two yeomen helped us over. One of King Mark's men saw us and at first mistook us for men from his own camp. Him, Breunor le Noire, gave little time for outcry. We gagged and bound him and then Walker and Gouvernail climbed back for a long rope and lifted him over on the castle side. For we had no wish to have King Mark's men find him and suspect that some of those within had gone for aid." Now the meal was over. Within another hour King Cadoris had gathered five hundred of his men. King Mark and his men would never have stomach for affray. When the afternoon's sun was in the low western sky, the rescuing party was well on its way. CHAPTER SEVENTEEN In King Mark's Castle So we return to the doughty few who are behind the walls of the great castle. "We shall wear out these impudent knaves," King Mark had said after the first great surprise. "Surely they cannot expect to hold out for any great length of time." "Aye," had agreed the ever present Pendore and Bertram. "And when they are overcome," Sir Pendore had added darkly, "then shall we find our day has come. For Launcelot shall surely suffer." But the days went and the besiegers found a far greater and more stubborn resistance than they had expected. Their losses were many, due to the skillful archery of the few within. King Mark's castle was of the kind that could only be assailed at two points which was in itself great help to the besieged. If, perchance, the men of King Mark had had greater stomach for the attack, things might have gone ill with those within. But there were many of the men of this king who favored but little the quarrel with the besieged, counting it, in their own hearts, a scurvy action on the part of Cornwall's king. And men fight poorly who have such thoughts. Not that all was well with those within. On this, the eighth day of their occupancy of the castle, the men were a haggard lot. Little sleep had they. Some of them had been wounded, wonder it was that these were so few and that none were dead. Sir Neil was lost to them for the time, Wonkin, too had fought heroically but had fallen, sorely wounded in an attack. Three others had been hurt, and for every man who fell, there grew the greater burden on those who were left. Constant watch, constant need for being present to repel the attackers had left the mark of weariness on Sir Launcelot, Sir Tristram and Sir Percival. Yet these three were a host in themselves as they, with Gouvernail and Walker, set an inspiring example to the rest. "Faith," said Sir Percival at this moment, "I cannot say that I would not welcome the arrival of Arthur and our men." "I had never thought sleep so great a luxury," rejoined Sir Tristram. "Nor I," added Sir Launcelot. "However, do you both take such little of that now as those knaves who are on the outside permit." But this neither of the two had in mind to do. Yet Sir Launcelot insisted and only had his way when he promised that he would also take time for sleep after them. They had, so it seemed to them, but barely fallen asleep, when there was great outcry from both within and without the gates. The men of King Mark had evidently decided on a determined attack with full intention to overcome the stubborn few. In a great mass they came and though many fell and every arrow told yet were they not to be denied. And as they came close to the walls King Mark's men opened wide their ranks and a score of men were seen carrying a bridge to throw over in place of the drawbridge which they could not reach. "Now has it grown right serious," said Sir Launcelot. "Will you Percival hold these walls while Tristram, I, Gouvernail and Walker, make every effort to see that the bridge does not stay." There was no time for further words. The four quickly made for the gates. They opened and closed them quickly. Each held a stave that seemed not unlike a young tree, of which a number were inside the gates. "Let them place the bridge first," said Sir Launcelot. Upon them a hail of arrows fell but none were hurt. Gouvernail and Walker were protected for the time in both coats and helmets of steel which Sir Tristram had made them wear. Now the men of King Mark had thrown the bridge over the embankment. But as the first of them rushed upon it the thick staves of the four men did their work well. Mighty work it was but it was question whether there were four men in all of England who had greater strength than these. And so as the men came rushing over, the bridge seemed moving with them. A great outcry came from them. The new made bridge, moving slowly at first, now cleared its support, and fell into the depths below carrying twenty men with it. Some managed to get back to safety, some, almost as unfortunate as those who had fallen with the bridge, made their way to the castleside. These Sir Tristram and Sir Launcelot and the two yeomen easily overcame. From the walls a hail of arrows, stones and javelins were sent on the attackers. The four outside the walls, their work accomplished, returned within. But King Mark and his two lieutenants, of whom one had been on the bridge, were now not the less determined to carry the walls. The besiegers at the furthermost points were seen to clamber over the walls. They were battering at the gates at which Sir Tristram, Sir Launcelot and a number of the men had taken their stand. Things indeed looked dark for those within. Sir Percival, for one, had been grievously wounded in the last affray. But the gates made to withstand against attack held well. Yet it was now a mere question of time. This, both those within and without fully realized. "Unless our two messengers find King Arthur," said Sir Tristram calmly and unhurriedly, "it matters but little whether we fight our way out now or later. Is it not so?" "I have faith in the coming of the king," said Sir Launcelot. "For the boy Allan, I know to be tireless in the performance of such duty. And if I mistake not the other will try his utmost too, for he seeks to be dubbed a knight by our king." So now down at the gates, now on the walls, sending death and destruction upon the attackers the two knights held their own, fighting hopefully, unyieldingly, hour after hour. There was a cry of joy now, of exultation from Gouvernail. For his eagle eye espied in the distance a horse and rider, then other horses and other riders. The faint notes of the slughorn came to their ears. The men on the outside ceased their attack for the moment watching wonderingly, not guessing as yet what all this meant. From his bed of pain, not far off, Sir Percival called to the two knights. "Is it Arthur who comes?" "Methinks so. Yet it seems I see the banners of Scotland. Whether it is men of Cadoris or of Arthur, of what matter?" "Aye, Launcelot, Scotland is there. But yonder figure is Arthur." So spoke Tristram. "There too, is Gawaine and Pellimore. And there the boy, Allan. See you him?" Sir Tristram nodded assent. Now Mark and his men gathered close together. The king and Sir Pendore and Sir Bertram were in close converse. Up to the walls came the rescuing party. King Arthur in front frowning, mighty, a majestic figure who seemed to breathe fire and fury. "What does this mean, Mark? What scurvy trick have you now tried?" "I found these men within holding my own castle when I returned from a short journey. What else could I do but try to oust them?" "I know better. If any harm, if but one of my knights is hurt, I shall make you pay right fully." Now the gates opened wide. There stood Sir Launcelot, and Sir Tristram, both supporting Sir Percival. Into the castle rode King Arthur and King Cadoris. "Have you been hurt? Who else is wounded? Are any dead?" These were the questions of the king. So Sir Launcelot told him. And now when the king found that none were dead and he realized how many men Mark had lost, good humor again came to him. His eyes twinkled merrily. "Shall we hang this scurvy king?" he asked. "If you will, sire," said Sir Tristram. "I fancy he has suffered much by now. And since he is uncle of mine I beg of you treat him more gently than he deserves. Let us rather laugh at him. True, there are some of us who have been wounded, but none fatally." "And after all," said Sir Percival, "see how _much_ we can laugh?" Sir Launcelot too nodded in agreement. "In truth," King Arthur agreed, "I have found no fancy to act as hangman to him. For knave and villain though he is, yet is he still a king. What say you Cadoris?" "It is no brew of mine, good Arthur. Yet were I he and you had such good cause to laugh at me, I wonder if I would not rather hang." So King Arthur turned to King Mark. Laughter was in his eye, mocking laughter. About him the others gathered and these, too, seemed laughing at him. "I offer you advice, Mark, which so it seems to me, you would do well to heed. Keep not your doors so wide open hereafter. Knaves like these are too apt to accept such hospitality. And, good Mark, when next you go a hunting, I fancy, you had best hunt at home. It is safer and for one thing you are sure to have it. 'Tis a sad state for you to find these men making themselves at home while you are away on so peaceful a mission. 'Tis a sad pity and should not be permitted." "Tis sad,'tis sad," said the men about King Arthur. King Mark scowled in fury. And somehow, it seemed, he scowled most at his own nephew, Tristram. [Illustration] CHAPTER EIGHTEEN The Kitchen Boy Again Now King Arthur, his knights and all of his men were home once again. Here they found great good humor at their account of the adventure at the castle of King Mark. Tristram came with them. For many years thereafter he served under King Arthur. Honor and glory he brought to the court of the King and Arthur held him in high esteem as well he might. Between Launcelot and Tristram there grew a great friendship. Each of them believed the other to be the greatest knight in Christendom. And Allan, too. Now he was a year older. The urge to go forth, strong within him, had grown that day a year earlier, when the strange monk had met him in the forest and told him the things he might do. Youth though he still was, not yet sixteen, he had learnt much. Sir Launcelot and Sir Tristram, too, had spent much time with him--could there have been better teachers? Gouvernail and Walker, as well, taught him to make the best use of such strength as he had. So that by now he was the equal of many knights, better, too, though none of his teachers would let him know that, and he, secure in his own modesty, unknowing of his great prowess. The year, too, had brought Sir Kay's kitchen boy once again before the King. Him, Allan had learned to know. Although his friend had never admitted that he was better than his position warranted, Allan was certain of it. When Pentecost had come again he was curious as to what other boons were to be asked of the king by this kitchen boy. But the day found him away--sent to the castle of Sir Percival, which was a half day's journey. Yet was he not altogether disappointed, for at that castle was Yosalinde, Sir Percival's sister. Again there were many who sought the favor of the King on this day. There, too, were many knights present and among these were Sir Gawaine, Sir Percival and Sir Launcelot, the three who had been there the year before. "And so, sire," the kitchen boy said, when the king turned to him, "I have done my work as best I could. Now I crave my two boons." "These shall be yours, if we have it in us to grant you item. What are these boons you ask?" "That I be made a knight by Sir Launcelot. Him and him only do I wish to dub me with knighthood. And that furthermore you permit me to take up the first adventure which may need knight to carry same." "So shall it be. We pray you, however, that you give your name." "That will I do, sire, after Sir Launcelot had jousted with me, if he then finds me worthy of knighthood." "Of a sooth," said Sir Kay, "you ask not much. That so brave a knight should joust with a kitchen boy is fit cause for merriment." Loud was that knight's laughter but none joined with him. "Mayhap," said the strange youth, "it will be your pleasure to joust first with me." Uncertain seemed Sir Kay for a few moments. "I promise you, Sir Kay, mine is gentle blood, and you may well combat with me," the kitchen boy added mildly. Then did the two straightway prepare, horse and armor having been obtained for the younger man. Not long did they battle however, for the kitchen boy proved Sir Kay's master right quickly. Whereupon, Sir Kay becoming furious, made great ado to wound his opponent. But could not do so; instead, the other brought him down with fearful stroke which crushed through helmet and all. "If you please, now, Sir Launcelot, to joust with me, I shall find it great honor." So spoke the youth to the knight. Then there was such a battle as none had seen in many months. Neither of these two brought to play his full, strength, yet right cleverly, each struck, counterstruck and brought his skill to play. Much marveled the knight at the youth. Then finally, Sir Launcelot said. "Your quarrel and mine, youth, is not so sore, we may not leave off." "Truly, that is truth," replied the lad. "But it does me good to feel your might." "So tell me your name, that I may dub you knight. Right gladly will I do so." "My name," said the other, "is Gareth. I am brother to Gawaine. I made vow to prove myself worthy of knighthood by finding myself able to undergo the mean tasks as well as the noble ones." So Sir Gawaine came forward wonderingly, to see this brother whom he had not seen since he was a babe. He made him fond embrace. "Right proud of you am I brother. Proud too, that it is Launcelot, whose knight you shall be." Then Sir Gareth became knight. And as they made their way again into the great hall, the King beckoned to Sir Gareth. "Are you still of a mind to take on yourself the first adventure that cometh. For here is one that promises a lengthy time in its fulfillment." Before the new knight could make answer, Sir Gawaine spoke. "This sire, is Gareth, my youngest brother. Worthy of knighthood has he proven so far as strength and skill go." "Then are we right proud to have you among us, nephew. And we pray that you will add lustre to your honored name and to the Round Table as well." "That, I warrant, he will," vouchsafed Sir Launcelot. "Perchance, it seemeth a wise thing to have Sir Kay feed all our knights in prospect the same fat broth he has furnished Gareth." "As to the adventure," the King returned. "There came but a little while ago a maiden, Linet, by name, who craves that we send a knight to succor her sister, the fair Dame Lyoness who is besieged in her castle by the Knight of the Red Lawns." "Good herald," the King continued, "bring you the lady, Linet before us." Into the great hall came a maiden fair. To her the king addressed himself. "My Lady Linet, and it please you, pray tell us of what manner of siege this knight holds against your sister. If to you it seems of avail, we shall be glad to send a goodly number of our knights and yeomen, too, to raise this siege." "Nay sire, that I deem not necessary. Only, since I have heard that the knights of the Round Table are the bravest and best in all Britain, I have come to you that you send one of these to battle with the Knight of the Red Lawns. A stout knight is he, many have come to rescue the fair lady who is my sister but the way is perilous and he hath seven men's strength. So that I pray you to send the best and bravest knight who is here." [Illustration: "My Lady, I Am Your Loyal Knight"] "We would gladly heed your request, good lady. Nor do we care what manner of knight this is, if Sir Launcelot or Sir Tristram or any one of ten or twelve more were to go to your fair sister's rescue. But we have made promise that the next adventure, which this is, was to be taken up by Sir Gareth and unless he forego this, there is naught else left for us to do. What say you, Gareth?" "I beg you, sire, that you permit me to carry out this adventure. I shall do my utmost to bring it to successful conclusion." So did Gareth reply. "And I for one, sire, doubt not, that if the adventure can be carried out successfully, he will do so. For he is as brave and stout a knight as is among us," added Sir Launcelot. "Yet is he so young," said the maiden as she sighed. "I doubt that any of you know how powerful is the knight he must oppose." "Yet will he go," Arthur now decided. "Make you your plans Gareth. The way seems long and I doubt not, you will be disposed to continue on adventure's course, if this should be carried to successful conclusion." Now the maiden left the great hall. Sir Gareth joined Sir Launcelot, Sir Percival and his brother. As he did so, there came to him, Breunor le Noire. "I pray you to favor me, good Sir Gareth by permitting me to go with you and gather for myself such adventure as I may." Sir Gareth pondered for a moment, then made reply. "I had a mind to ask a boon of Sir Percival yet I can see no reason why it would interfere with your going." "It is this, Sir Percival. I know how much your page Allan craves for some adventurous journey before he also becomes knight. Be so kind, therefore, and permit him to go with me." "Truly, it will be Youth seeking adventure. For each of you is indeed youthful." So spoke Sir Gawaine, while Sir Percival thought before making reply. "What say you, Launcelot?" he finally asked. "It cannot harm the lad to go with others than ourselves for then he will receive opportunity to test himself. I would say that you permit him, if he wishes it." "Then may he go," said Sir Percival. "Except that I would wish that one of my yeomen, whose name is Walker, go with you. You will find him useful and a willing knave." "For that I thank you," replied Gareth. "Tomorrow, my friend," and he turned to Breunor, "we begin our journey." "I shall be ready," replied Breunor le Noire. CHAPTER NINETEEN On Adventure's Way Now, as the knights separated, Sir Launcelot, who had donned but part of his armor, called Sir Gareth. "I would a word with you, Gareth. I pray you to spare me the time." "Right gladly," said Gareth and seated himself beside the other. Sir Percival, who had a mind to return to them, on seeing them so seated, swerved his horse and passed by them. Nor did they see him. "See you this sword and shield. Take you these and use them well. They are good weapons and you will find the answering well to urge and parry. "Yet it is something of far more urge than this that I would speak to you about. I am right glad that you are to have Allan with you. I hope he will find much adventure and many experiences. Listen well to this." Then did Sir Launcelot tell of the message that had been given both to him and the boy. Told also of the need for Allan to stay the fine and devout lad he was. "You can help, too. I made promise to Sir Joseph of Armathea that I would do what I can. Since you are knight dubbed by me, I pray you to help me." "That shall I do right gladly, for I like the youth and his kindly ways. I give you my promise to give him by such example as I may set and in other ways the meaning of knighthood worthy of the search for the Holy Grail." "I wish you good fortune, Gareth, and that you overcome this knight of the Red Lawns. If you should need aid at any time, I promise I will come if I get word, no matter how distant you may be." "I know that," said Gareth soberly. So then they sat for many moments each thinking of many things. Until at last it was time for them to separate. Allan had returned a little while before. He had already heard who the kitchen boy was and how he had been dubbed knight by Sir Launcelot. It had been a day of events for him, too. Walker, who had made the journey with him had talked with him of many things. "This world is large," Walker had said. "Soon," Allan had said, "I shall go forth and find out for myself just how large it is." "Aye, lad," was Walker's reply, "if you travel all the years you live I doubt if you could see half of it. Far to the southeast is Rome and there are many lands one must pass before he reaches there. And to the northeast live the Norse and the Dane and other tribes equally wild and fierce. Then there are many seas, which I have heard tell are bigger than the sea of Cornwall, which I know well. And west of us, there is Ireland and beyond that the world ends." "Yet shall I go and see what I can. For, if need be I must go to the very ends of the world and I doubt not it will be right soon." "Why, young master?" asked Walker, struck by the seriousness of the boy's tone. But Allan answered not. Nor did the man press his question but watched the lad as he rode on and dreamed. So they came to the castle. There Yosalinde was awaiting him. Yet after the first greeting, the girl, whose usual contagion of high and gay spirits carried the youth, who was inclined to be more sober minded, along with her, fell into a brown study. Nor would she listen or attend to his attempts to bring her forth into lighter mood. So the boy, a little vexed and nettled, withdrew feeling hurt and gloomy. But all this was soon swept aside. For Yosalinde came to him and in her eyes was a great light. "Listen to me, Allan. I had mind made up at first that I would not tell you but have decided otherwise. I too, have dreamed of the Holy Grail. Does it not seem strange that I, a girl, should so do?" The boy nodded but remained quiet waiting for her to continue. "You and I are to soon part, Allan. I am to go to a convent where I can bring my mind altogether to the spiritual. I dreamed that when I became worthy I was to help you right well in the finding of it. A spirit will come to me which will guide us both. Think, Allan, if the dream is true, I am to help you and you are to find the Grail." "So the strange monk told me, Yosalinde. He spoke of one who was to help me and she of whom he spoke, I could not take to be other than you. You and one other and unless I mistake not that other is Sir Launcelot. But it hurts, this thought that you and I will not see each other for the long time you are in the convent." "But, dear Allan, there is always that time beyond that. It is wonderful to look forward to that, is it not?" The boy nodded in assent, a little slowly, as if he were realizing that it was so. He looked at the girl now and the feeling grew that Yosalinde was to be the one who would lead him onward. Even now, her fine spirit was helping him to cross the first of the pitfalls. The wish for the girl was the first rung on the high ladder of worthiness. In the late afternoon the boy returned to the court. Of a truth he had almost forgotten that this was the day for the kitchen boy to come forth. Nor did he, what with thinking of Yosalinde and his mission that must soon be, remember it until he had almost returned. "Come Walker, let us make haste, for I would know the news." So they hurried and had not been inside the gates many moments before Allan had found out. But it was only when he came to Sir Launcelot that he heard the other news that he could go forth with the other two on adventure's way. He was glad that he could go with these two who were also young for he could himself adventure so much the more readily. He would have been abashed to do so with knights such as his own lord or Sir Launcelot and Sir Gawaine. Sir Launcelot found the boy soon after. "When you return, and I think it will not be for more than a year, mayhap, two, the King will dub you knight, so I think. Remember Allan, to be worthy for the things ahead and remember, too, that I am at beck and call, if you need me, if so be you can find me. "This journey will be the great test. I pray that you return and prove what I think you will be. Sir Percival, I understand has armor, sword, lance and spear for you. I shall furnish you with shield. So go you your way and remember that there are few knights who will be found stouter or more skillful than Gareth." Allan found Gareth soon thereafter and thanked him for letting him go with him. Then did the three, Sir Gareth, Breunor le Noire and Allan plan for many things. The blood of youth raced in their veins even as they planned. Many things would they do. Britain would hear of these three, so they hoped. A goodly trio, of a truth, they made as they rode forth the next day, the maid Linet with them, and only Walker following behind. Three most worshipful knights watched them as they made their way down the long road and disappeared from view. Perhaps, too, it was only chance that led them again past the castle of Sir Percival. There Allan made point to enter the same promising to catch up with the others as they continued on their way. Nor could he stay more than but a few moments but in those few moments he had told all to Yosalinde. She, too, watched him, as he hastened to join the others. Long before he returned she had entered the convent in accordance with the plan of her mother and brother. Yet, in the heart of each of them was only the thought of the future, their hopes were in the far away. CHAPTER TWENTY Gareth Battles Sir Brian Brave and adventurous were the days that followed. Many days they journeyed to the north. Eager was Sir Gareth to reach the castle of the fair Dame Lyoness and to take issue with the Knight of the Red Lawns, her oppressor. "Yet, good knight," said the fair Lady Linet. "Not an easy road will you find it. There do be many brave knights you will find on this road who will seek to joust with you. Many brave knights who seek adventure as do you." "If it were not so, then would the way be long indeed. May such adventure come right soon, we shall welcome it." So spoke Gareth and his two friends echoed his words. Yet it was not until the second day that their wish was fulfilled. For as they rode forward there came a man in great haste toward them. He further increased his pace and gave a glad cry of relief. Said Allan, who was foremost, "What ails you. Why your haste?" "I have just escaped from some thieves who have entrapped my master. They number six and fierce and sturdy did they seem. I beseech your aid, good masters, for my master is a brave knight who has suffered misfortune." So then did the three, undecided for the moment, look to each other. Until Breunor le Noire exclaimed. "Let us to this knight's aid at once." The same thought being in the mind of the other two, they begged the Lady Linet to await them and hurried forward to this, their first adventure. But the man who came to them, unknowingly, had misled them. For the outlaws numbered more than six as they soon found out. So that when they came to the dell in which the thieves were lodged, the three of them together with Walker, there came forth to oppose them over a dozen ruffians, each carrying either club or mace or spear. Now did the three give proof of their mettle. Walker, too, wielded a mighty mace that spelled sure death on any of the thieves whom it reached. Right skillfully, as if they were veterans, did they hold their place. Right well, they withstood the onslaught of the outlaws and even pressed them back in defense. A number of the foe had fallen and others uncertain made as if to flee. But they could not go far, for the conquerers, mounted, overtook them. So that there was nothing left for them to do but to turn with their backs to a nearby wall and make a last stand. Now there were but four of these ruffians left and these threw their arms from them and pleaded mercy. And our youths took heed of their plea and permitted them to escape. They made rescue of the imprisoned knight who marveled much, after his first expression of gratitude, how so youthful a trio could have overcome the large number of outlaws. Then did he give further proof of his appreciation in that he begged of them that they make his home their abode for that night and he promised them food in plenty and goodly lodging. Though they were of mind to accept they first besought the wishes of the Lady Linet and she, they found, was not opposed thereto. Right well did they sup then and made themselves find comfort before the great fire which blazed merrily. As the night went by, they talked of many things and found their host full of tales of days gone by. The next morn found them on their way again. Many days they journeyed. Other adventures befell them and in each they accredited themselves right well. On one of these days, Breunor le Noire who had speeded ahead so that he was an hour's journey before them had a sad adventure. For as he rode there came toward him an equipage which held many knights and the leader of these was none other than Sir Brian de les Isles. So as Sir Brian saw him he rode toward him. "Of what fellowship are you, youth?" "Of King Arthur's court and it is King Arthur himself who will soon make me his own knight." "Ill will do I owe this king of yours and all who hold lealty to him. Therefor will I imprison you." But this they found not quite so easy. Well did the youth oppose them, and many of them suffered thereby. Until there were those among them who were ready to believe that this was no youth in life but fiend instead. Yet did he at last succumb because their number was so many. And then did Sir Brian cast him into a prison where Breunor found as many as thirty knights who were prisoners of Sir Brian, some of these were knights of the Round Table. Soon Gareth and Allan speeded their way to overtake Breunor le Noire of whose absence they began to wonder. Nor did they find trace of him anywhere. Until Allan suggested that they return to the large castle which they had passed, where trace of their comrade might be. So then did Sir Gareth come to the castle gates; Allan with him. To his beckoning there came forth one of Sir Brian's henchmen. "Tell your master, Sir Gareth waits outside the gates and would bespeak him." But when Sir Brian was given the message, he did not deign to answer in person, instead, he sent one of his knights in answer to the call. "Sir Knight," addressed Sir Gareth, "I seek the master of this castle. Are you he?" "Nay, but then Sir Brian deems it not fit for him to answer all calls. Such business as you may have, I doubt not, I may quickly dispose with and so not keep you from your journey." "I seek a youth, companion of ours, who had strayed from us and who mayhap, has met with foul adventure. His name is Breunor le Noire. Do you or the knight who is your master here know aught of him?" So spoke Sir Gareth disdaining the insolence in the tone of the other. "It may be that we do. Wait you here, while I make return to the castle to find the answer for you." Therewith the knight left them to stand in front of the castle gates and made his own way back to the house. "He is an ill bred knave," said Allan hotly. "To think that such as he holds knighthood." "Knighthood," said the ex-kitchen boy, "is merely a cloak. And I find, Allan, that it is a garment that is only seemly when he who dons it wears it well. Yet this is no time for anger. Of what matter that this knight is ill bred. If there is any quarrel I shall seek it with his master." "Think you that they know of his whereabouts?" asked Allan. "I liked not the manner in which he made answer." "Nor I. But I doubt not we shall know more surely within the next few moments." Nor did the two have long to wait. For there came from the castle another who seemed to be the high lord. In armor and shield, carrying lance and riding a great black horse, he stood out from among the knights who followed him. When he came to the gates they were opened wide for him. Then as he saw Sir Gareth and the boy, he made them a sweeping courtesy. "Forgive our boorishness, Sir Gareth. Pray to enter our humble lodging. Are you then Prince of Orkney?" "I am so known," replied the young knight. "Yet I seek to be known as Gareth, Knight of the Round Table. I know not your name, Sir Knight, but I find your courtesy welcome." But now Allan had noted how the knight's manner had changed. No longer did he seem kindly; instead a dark scowl frowned his face. "I am Sir Brian de les Isles," was the answer. But the voice was no longer a voice that welcomed, instead it was menacing and stern. But Sir Gareth seemed to take no note of this. "I seek, Sir Brian, to find a youth who accompanied us. His name is Breunor le Noire, and he seemed to have met with foul adventure." "Not foul, Sir Gareth, but only such as is meet for all of King Arthur's henchmen." "Then, I take it, you know of him and of his whereabouts," said Sir Gareth. Still was his manner mild, yet forked lightning seemed to flash from his eyes. "That we do," replied the other. "He is indeed in safe keeping, such keeping being no other than ours." "I must trouble you, Sir Knight, to make return of him to us." "And if I will not?" questioned Sir Brian. Insolence was in his tone, a sneering smile was on his lips. "I take it, if you will not release him you will fight me as would any honorable knight." "That will I. Right gladly and to the uttermost, Sir Gareth. For all knights of the Round Table, I am sworn foe." Then there began a battle such as there was seldom seen. Confidence was in Sir Brian's every move, and truly it would seem that this young knight, still unknown in the field of chivalry, was but a poor adversary to one of the best known of England's knights. But if Sir Gareth was young, if he was but little known, yet the skill at which Sir Launcelot had marveled, stood him in good stead. This, Sir Brian soon realized. As steel met steel, the older knight knew that his adversary was no mean one. So they battled for a time, neither of them gaining advantage over the other. Great strength was Sir Brian's, but it was matched by skill and quickness of thrust and parry. Allan, a lone figure, the only one of the group assembled to stand for Sir Gareth, watched the struggle with bated breath. This boy who had seen men like Sir Launcelot, Sir Tristram, Sir Percival and others of almost equal repute, found his friend no less able and bold. Clenched were his hands, tense the boyish figure, as with heart and soul afire he watched the two knights. But soon it became evident that unless untoward happening occurred the outcome of the brave fight was but a matter of time. Slowly, yet surely Sir Brian gave ground. Slowly but surely Sir Gareth pressed him. All the cunning of his foe availed him naught. To the last Sir Brian fought bitterly, silently. His heart held bitterness over the probable outcome, over the youthfulness of the victor to be. Now as he parried a bold stroke of the other, for each of them had turned to swords long before, there came a flash of steel and Sir Brian felt a great nausea overcome him. Then he knew nothing more for a long time. He came to later. Eager hands were ministering to him. Feebly he turned, not knowing for the moment why all of this should be. Then his eyes beheld the victor and the boy next to him and he realized what had taken place. "Sir Gareth," he murmured, as his knights moved aside in response to the weak gesture of his hand, "yours are a victor's spoils. Well have you fought and won." "Sir Brian," the other replied, "I seek but Breunor le Noire and the release of such knights as you may hold who owe lealty to king Arthur. You are a brave knight, would that your cause were worthy you." Now Sir Brian called one of his knights to him. The latter followed by Sir Gareth and Allan made their way to the dungeon of the castle. There they found their companion, there too, they found the other knights of the Round Table who had been made prisoners by those within the castle. Great was their joy at release and warmly they thanked their fellow knight. And now there came a knight to them and told of how well Breunor had fought and what difficulty they had had to make him prisoner. "If this youth fights but half as well as do the two we have seen, you do indeed make a formidable trio." Then the three rejoined the Lady Linet and the next morn they were well on their way. CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE Knight of the Red Lawns Events followed swiftly thereafter for their journey toward the castle of the Dame Lyoness was not made on easy road. Yet through all these, good fortune stayed with them and so at least they were within a day's journey of their destination. Word had come to the Red Knight of the Red Lawns of the coming of Sir Gareth. Word too had come to him of the brave deeds of this knight and his two companions. Yet did the Red Knight find naught in it all but cause for great merriment. "Truly will their courage ooze from them when they behold those many knights hanging from yonder oaks, knights who thought to battle with me and so rescue the Dame Lyoness. Nor did I blame them overmuch, for it is well worth hanging for, perchance to win a smile from so fair a lady. Would that I could be so fortunate." So said the Red Knight and sighed. No crueler knight there was in all of Christendom yet was he gentle minded in his love for his fair lady. And though he would not free her of his presence and though he held her closely besieged within the castle, yet had he no desire that harm should come to her. Now he again made his way to her castle wall where his herald did blow his slughorn and announce that the Red Knight of the Red Lawns besought the light of the lady's countenance and also word with her. After a due wait there came forth on a balcony within the wall a lady who was indeed beautiful. Straight she held herself, straight and direct her look. Soft brown hair, and her eyes shaded from a dark to lighter brown as they flashed her moods. Fine was her face, a face of true nobility and gentleness. And as the Red Knight beheld her, his voice grew gentle, his words strangely softspoken. "My lady, I am your loyal knight. I pray you to listen to me as I pledge again my loyalty and homage." There was scorn in the lady's voice, as she cast a withering look upon the knight. "Soft are your words, Sir Knight. Yet if I do not do the cat a great injustice it is the same softness as is hers when she spies her prey. For yonder I have proof of such knighthood as is yours." And Dame Lyoness pointed to the dead knights hanging from the trees. "Aye," replied the Red Knight, "and I would go further, I would tear such as would deign to keep me from you, limb from limb. Yet, gentle lady, have I ever shown you proper courtesy and respect as you may well testify. What, I pray you, keeps me from entering this castle now and taking you by force, if need be?" "My lord," answered Dame Lyoness simply, "that moment you enter these gates I shall drink this brew. A brew that will quickly dispose of all the misery that this earth holds for me. Then will you be able to claim my dead body but naught else. If hope were not mine, if I did not feel certain that some brave knight would come here from King Arthur's court to rescue me from your unwelcome presence, a knight sent here at the beseeching of my sister Linet, I would long ago have drunk this poison and so rid the world of one who has brought naught but misery to many brave knights." [Illustration: He Knocked With The Hilt Of His Sword] "Lady," the Red Knight rejoined, "I hear that such a knight is now on his way. Yet have you overmuch faith in him or mayhap I have given you poor proof of my own skill and strength. If he should come, if his blood does not turn to water, think you he will win from the Red Knight?" "Yet do I so hope. I pray that he has greater skill and strength than yours. And I shall dare hope." Then did the lady turn and make her way within, giving the knight no further glance. Ruefully he turned away, and so woeful a figure that few would have known him for the brave and commanding Red Knight of the Red Lawns. There came the Lady Linet first of all our party of five. She it was who entered the gates of the castle of Dame Lyoness unmolested. So had it been arranged. There she recounted of Sir Gareth and of the others, too. She told of the knight's bravery and how he had overcome Sir Brian de les Isles, and of all their other adventures. Told too, of who Sir Gareth was, and how gentle and how eager he was to take up her gauntlet. Until Dame Lyoness' eyes grew large and their shade dark brown. For she was overly pleased at the description of her champion. "Yet must he be of the strongest and most skillful," she said fearfully, "to overcome this cruel knight. For the Red Knight is far superior to even Sir Brian." "Dear Sister," replied Linet, "I have faith in this youthful knight. Naught has he found too difficult as yet and I do not fear the Red Knight whom he meets tomorrow." So the next morning, Sir Gareth arrived. Awaited him the Red Knight of the Red Lawns who had been advised of his nearness. As the lady's champion turned with the road, Allan, Breunor and Walker with him, there rode forward to meet him, the knight he was to do battle with. "What brings you here?" asked the Red Knight, though he knew full well. "I come to the rescue of Dame Lyoness, who, it seems, is besieged by some unworthy knight who finds it worthy him to war on women." "I am the Red Knight," the other replied without parley. "See you, my fair knight, yonder trees. See you the things that hang therefrom. They are the bodies of such other fools who have come here to teach me what I may or may not do." "That, too," replied Sir Gareth, "makes me but doubly certain that knighthood is not the garment you should wear. I shall do battle with you, Sir Knight, so soon as you don armor. Meantime I await your pleasure." Then did the three ride toward the castle. And as they neared it there came to the open window both the Lady Linet and the Dame Lyoness. Low did the latter courtesy to them all, but chiefest to Sir Gareth. Long did these two gaze at each other and in that gaze love was in the dawning. Now, the Red Knight came forward. For a few moments each watched the other, their horses stepping now this way, now that. Then of a sudden, they made at each other, with all their might. And well it was that shields were there to meet the blows. For such was their force that breast plates, horsegirths and cruppers burst. Both knights were sent to earth, Sir Gareth holding the reins of his bridle still in his hands. Sore stunned was each for many minutes. Wonder it was that neck of either was not broken. Now the two left their horses and with shields in front they battled with their swords. And they fought until midday and until they both lacked wind. So that each was forced to take rest. From their window, the two ladies watched the affray. Both of them prayed that harm should not come to their champion. But the Red Knight watching them and seeing how in especial Dame Lyoness was interested, conceived a new idea. "I fancy that when I overcome this knight and prepare to hang him, yonder good lady will give herself to me to save him. For she seems to care overmuch for him and greatly do I wish I were in his place. Yet must she be the lady of the Red Knight." So he mused. They fought all of the afternoon. Now one would grovel in the earth, the other too weak to carry the battle to successful conclusion, now the second would grow equally weak. Then did they rest again and Breunor and Allan brought water for Sir Gareth so that he could drink and bathe his face. They rested for a half hour and then battled once again. Now the younger knight seemed weaker. The Red Knight pressed him hard as he saw this. Things began to look dark for the lady's champion. She, too, saw this. And coming far to the edge of the balcony she called out. "Sir Gareth, I pray for your success." And as he looked toward her there was a great, eager light on her countenance. It gave to him renewed strength, renewed faith. As if he had ten men's strength. And so he turned on the Red Knight and the other could not withstay him. Fearfully he struck him, such a fearful blow that the Red Knight never moved again. Yet even as his foe succumbed, the victor slowly crumbled to the ground, spent and so weak that for a few seconds Allan, Breunor le Noire and the two ladies who had hurried to him, thought he was dead. In a few moments however the young knight opened his eyes. Then, beholding the gentle face of Dame Lyoness, he closed them again, well content. CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO Sir Galahad Of the things that befell Sir Gareth, of how he wedded the good Dame Lyoness and of how he gave right seemly proof of his worship, this story will not detail. Nor can we go on the byway that deals with the deeds of Breunor le Noire who was made a knight of the Round Table by King Arthur soon thereafter and who then avenged the cowardly slaying of his father by the unknown and false knight. For our tale must hold its course hereafter. The boy Allan had grown with the two years that had passed since the adventure of the Red Knight of the Red Lawns. He had not returned to the court of King Arthur, instead he and Walker had set out on journey of adventure. No hit and miss journey this, instead it followed a call that the boy had had, a call which he knew meant that the time had come for him to begin seeking the Holy Grail. The two years had been eventful ones for Allan. All over England had he found his way, he and Walker. Adventures were many and everywhere this youth through kindly deeds and brave actions left good repute behind him. So at the period which our narrative now covers there had grown from a whispering into a more or less certainty and belief that a man had come who would find the Holy Grail again for Britain and so add honor and fame to England. And therewith there was great wonderment as to whether the finder would be of the court of Northgalis, or of Northumberland, or of Cornwall, or of Arthur's court. Pentecost was but a few days away. Now on this day the good King Arthur with Launcelot, Percival and Merlin, the wizard, made the round of the sieges or seats of the Round Table, each of which held a name, for on this Pentecost to come, there were to be many new knights made and place must be found for them. So then here and there the places were assigned. Now they came to the last of the places. "What new knight shall be placed here?" asked the King. "It seems to us that this place his been empty this long time." "This," answered Merlin, "is the Siege Perilous. Here no one shall sit until four hundred and fifty four years after the passion of the Lord." Now then Sir Launcelot make quick reckoning. "In the name of God," he made haste to say, "then should this siege be filled on this Pentecost day that comes." "That I doubt not," replied Merlin, "And no one else but the rightful occupant may fill it for he that is so hardy as to try it, he will be destroyed." So Pentecost day came. And all but Merlin wondered as to who the newcomer, who would fill this seat could be. Early day found the new knights already seated. Early day, too, found Allan, once again, after the many months away from the court, returned. This was home to him--and close to three years had passed since he had been there. He had learned much, he had searched thus far in vain for the Holy Grail. Yet not altogether in vain, for he felt within him that he was closer to his quest with the passing of each day. The boy, now in young manhood, had indeed developed well. Broad shouldered, slim-waisted, supple limbed, he gave little indication of his strength, yet Walker riding close beside him, had watched him, had trained him and had with great pride, noted his skill with lance, sword and spear. Well he knew that this youth would soon be second to none in ability to cope with foe or in friendly jousting as might befall in tournament or elsewhere. [Illustration: A Solitary Horseman] Now on this Pentecost day, Allan had returned because it was wont that he should do so and also because desire urged him thence. So then he entered the great hall and because all of King Arthur's court were within, none there were who knew him. And once he found himself within, only Merlin the Wizard knew who he was. The others knew him not, not even Sir Percival nor Sir Launcelot. So Merlin came forward and greeted him. "They do not yet know you lad, for greatly have you changed with these few years. Almost grown to full manhood and of a truth full well and ready for the further conduct of your mission. Come you with me for your seat is saved." "Nay, sir, I hold no seat for I am as yet no knight, though hopeful," replied the lad. "Yet is your place here, lad. So come." And herewith the lad had need to follow. While all about, the knights and others watched them both. So now as they came to the Siege Perilous, Merlin stopped and motioned Allan toward it. Yet the boy hesitated and turned his eyes to his king, whose eyes searched both the Wizard and the boy. Thereupon Merlin turned to them all. "Here is Galahad, he who shall achieve the Grail. And proof of it is in this that he shall sit in the Siege Perilous and no harm shall come to him therewith. Sit you down, lad." So Allan sat down in the place assigned. There seemed to play about him and the seat a strange light. Well be seemed to fit therein. "Oh, King," went on Merlin. "Some years since, there came a stranger to this youth and also to one other here. There and then he declared that the finding of the Grail was made possible. That the finder was to be known as Galahad the Chaste. Pure and upright must the seeker be and up to now there is none other among you who so well fills this requirement. He who left here as Allan, page to Sir Percival, returns, fitted and grown to the task. He shall henceward be known as Galahad. And it please you sire, make you him a knight of the Round Table. So that if he do find the Grail, honor and glory shall be with you, too." Wondered the boy yet, but at word from the king he came forward and knelt. "We dub you knight, Allan. You shall be known as Sir Galahad. Fruitful may your mission be. We know that knighthood shall not suffer through you." A little apart, Sir Launcelot watched the boy. And though the newly made knight knew it not, the former had watched him through the many days he had been away from the court, had never been very far, yet never so near that the young adventurer knew it. Most keen and watchful had he been to see that the lad kept on the clean road ahead. And of a truth he had noted, with a restful content, that such was the boy's inclination and desires. Yet he kept apart even as he watched and in all the years had not come face to face with the boy. CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE The Beginning of the Quest A week and a day Sir Galahad stayed at the court. Nor was he there many hours before he found that Yosalinde was not home as yet but would be within the month. Yet he would not stay, for after long and serious converse with both Merlin and Sir Launcelot, he followed the great urge to go forward. For he felt the call now greater, more insistent. Yet did he somewhat fret since this urge, this call seemed to lead him nowhere, seemed only to beckon that he go. "Fret not, lad, perhaps many a year shall you wander before you find the Grail. Many places shall you go. Yet let not your way ever be impatient." So spoke the Wizard. "I go to Normandy soon, Merlin." "You shall find me there," now spoke Sir Launcelot, "for I too go hither to seek adventure. I pray that we meet, Galahad and that together we have many eventful days. Though full well do I know your way in great part, must be alone." "That it must be," Merlin advised. And so the next day and the next he stayed. From everyone and everywhere great favor was his. King Arthur, too, held much converse with him and he remembered the first days the lad had come to court and how he had ordered the herald to send him forth for Sir Launcelot and Gawaine. But the day came at last when he and Walker adventured forth. And the new knight carried no shield for one was awaiting him, a shield that carried a great cross to signify his seeking. This he was to find at the convent near Carboneck. So Merlin had advised him. Two days of journey passed without ontoward event but on the third day there came to him a yeoman in great woe. "What grieves you, friend?" asked Walker while Sir Galahad waited. "Great are my troubles for my master will surely flay me until I die. I was bringing him his best horse from the castle when a knight stopped me. Though I told him that the horse was my master's and how much store he set by it yet did he take the same from me. When I protested as best I might, he brought his sword upon me and it was fortune that I was not slain." "Know you the knight?" asked Sir Galahad kindly. "Nay, Sir, except that he told me he needed the horse at Calomet." "I shall go hither. It is but a short journey and you may come with me. For it does not seem a knightly act, this taking of your master's horse and it needs explaining." "I thank you master. For little value though my life may be, I value it nevertheless," replied the yeoman. So they went on to Calomet. And when they arrived there the yeoman most fortunately espied his master's horse. "Yonder, Sir Knight, is the horse," and he pointed excitedly. There stood a white horse, truly a beast well worth owning. A beautiful head, a great body that showed strength and grace, set well on strong, shapely limbs. A head which its owner held right fearlessly, yet the eyes of the beast were soft and kindly and indicated that he could be ridden by child or woman. "A good beast and well worth fighting for, if need be," said Walker. "Yet more worthy the fight, if there is need of one, the fact that this knight we are to meet is so unfair," replied Sir Galahad. So now they came to the house. Walker and the yeoman dismounted and went up to the horse, which had been tied but temporarily and was awaiting its rider. And as they stood there, there came from within the house a knight who had espied them. "What wish you, knaves?" he asked, scowling. "It is my master who wishes your presence," replied Walker. "He shall have his wish satisfied," the knight made reply, turning to Galahad, who was a little further away. "Do you wish word with me, Sir Knight?" he asked. "I seek him who claims to be the owner of this horse," replied Sir Galahad. "Then you have found him for he is no other than I," was the answer. "Yet how can he be yours, Sir Knight, if this yeoman claims it is his master's horse?" Sir Galahad questioned. "I have made you answer to question that should concern you but little. What ado wish you to make of it?" "Only that the horse goes to this yeoman so that he can bring him to his rightful owner." The other laughed aloud. "I wot, strange knight, I wonder well how you can do this thing when I am here to say you nay. And when my sword is even more severe in keeping you from boastful attempt." And then without further parley the knight brought his sword to play. But sorry adventure this for him and Sir Galahad though still without shield brought him right quickly to earth. A sorry match was he for the young knight, so ill matched that Walker smiled in glee at his efforts. The knight now held his peace as Sir Galahad told the yeoman to take his master's horse and go hence. But he scowled and as Sir Galahad turned to go he bespoke him. "Sir Knight, I shall not forget your meddling in what was of no concern to you. And the day may come when you will regret this deed." [Illustration: Sir Galahad In The Forest] "True, Sir Knight," replied Sir Galahad. "I shall have need to make assurance that my horse is secured so that he may not be stolen." And laughing and full at ease he left the beaten knight to his surly thoughts. Yet as he went the strange yeoman followed him. So that Sir Galahad turned to him somewhat in amaze. "I thought that your way was opposite." "My way, Sir Knight, goes only to yonder turn. Yet before I leave I make you gift of this horse. He is yours. That was not a true tale as to who owned this horse. For its true owner is none other than you and my story such as to test you and find answer to whether you would help those who are in trouble, though the trouble owner be lowly born. The horse is sent by friend of yours whose name is not to be related. I wish you well, Sir Knight." Much overcome was Sir Galahad at the princely gift, for the horse had impressed him much. "Tell you this unknown friend of mine, that I value this gift as naught else. Tell you too, that I name him the Seeker, in full honor of my quest." So then the strange yeoman departed whilst the knight and his faithful man went on their way. CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR In Normandy Of the travels of Sir Galahad, of how he journeyed through many lands and new scenes, there is much to be told. Ever with him, went his faithful man, Walker, who served him well and loyally. Eager was the young knight to reach Normandy of which he had heard much. So he sailed away and since many rumors held the Grail to be there he hoped to find it. In Normandy, a strange land, he met with much adventure, many knights brave and true, and some who were not. But no sign of the Grail was there to be had. On his white horse, the Seeker, he made his way southward, finding lodging where he could. It was so, in the first month of his travels, that he came to the castle of one of the best of Normandy's knights. Of him, Sir Launcelot had spoken highly; he held him in great esteem, and so had counseled the youthful knight to make it his purpose to visit him when there. Sir Guilbert gave him friendly greeting. Many had been his visits to England, well he knew Sir Launcelot and Sir Percival and the great King himself. Sir Galahad found his stay a pleasant one; there were friendly jousts in which he met some of Normandy's worshipful knights. In all of these he was victor. Sir Guilbert had full praise for the young knight. There was son of his, a youth of seventeen, who also admired the newcomer, even as Allan the boy had admired Sir Launcelot. When his visitor's stay was drawing to a close, Sir Guilbert spoke of this. "My son Charles, Sir Galahad, has taken great fancy to you and wishful am I that you could find it in your plans to take him as page. He is a quiet lad, sturdy and obedient, you will find. And following wish of his mother, he knows your English tongue well, for she is Englishborn. He has made study of Latin too, it seemed for a time that he would turn to priesthood. But that will not be, and I cannot say that it finds me regretful. I would have him a true knight, had I my way." "Your wish, Sir Guilbert, may well be served. But if I may, I should like first to speak to the lad, before I make answer." "Faith, and you may. For we should want the lad to satisfy you and merit your friendship. I shall see to it that you have the chance to speak with him. It were better, that he know not the reason for your questioning. Is it not so?" "It would be best, Sir Guilbert," Sir Galahad replied. Then the two talked of other things and the young knight questioned his friend as to the likely whereabouts of the Holy Grail. "Many rumors have I heard, Sir Galahad. But never actual trace. Understand you well, my friend. Knights from every land seek this Grail and I would wish that it were Norman who found it. But if it cannot be one from my own land, I would it were one from your country. I fear me, it shall not be easy search, it may lead you far." "I am well prepared for that," replied the Seeker. "If it were easy to find, the glory would be so much the less. I can but hope that I shall have the vision to see it when it is near me." "I wish you well," Sir Guilbert made answer. "Now let us repair to the dining hall for the meal waits." It was after they had eaten that Sir Galahad found the opportunity to hold speech with the youth, Charles. He found the lad to be all that his father had said of him. "What have you wish for, Charles?" he said. "I should like to journey far and to many places," the boy replied. "There is much to see and I envy the many who have traveled to foreign lands." "How then, if you could, would you travel?" "As a true Norman knight serving God and the Church against all infidels." "Well spoken, lad. But it needs many years and one must learn much to be a good knight. It is not easy work." "I know that, Sir Galahad. But I shall not count the years for I am still young." More questions the knight asked the lad and he made eager though respectful answer. It was apparent that he had thought of it for many a day. But Sir Galahad said never a word to him of the reason for his questions and left the lad without knowledge of his purpose. But the next day he spoke to Sir Guilbert and gave him answer. "I should like the youth as my page. He is the kind I could well use. And I promise you that he shall come back to you so that neither you nor his mother shall have reason to be other than proud of him. He will be of great help to me when I reach Rome for I purpose to journey there, I know naught of the tongue." "Have you told the lad, as yet?" the father asked. "I thought it best that either you or your lady speak first with him and then will I." "That is a gracious deed on your part, my knight. And if it bears fruit or not, I shall indeed be in your debt." "Not so, Sir Guilbert. For the boy will but have such chance as I was given by Sir Percival when I was even younger than he." CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE Sir Galahad Offers Help It was but a week and a day later that Sir Galahad proceeded further. With him was the faithful Walker who was overly pleased to be on his way and also Charles, the young son of Sir Guilbert. Eager was the lad and highly pleased to go forth with the brave knight. Sir Galahad had had hopes of meeting Sir Launcelot who had planned to be in Normandy, and Merlin as well. But he would wait no longer, he was in no mood to tarry now. There came a day of storm, fierce was the rain and sleet and the wind so strong that the knight, and his party found it arduous task to keep the road. Sir Galahad decided to stop and seek shelter at the first refuge that they should find. A little later they came to an old but magnificent castle and in answer to the summons of Walker, an ancient man appeared. "What will you?" the old man quavered. "My master seeks shelter until the storm passes. He is a worshipful knight. Go you to your master with his request." The man hobbled within the castle. Soon he returned. "There is no master here but my mistress bids me welcome the worshipful knight and beseech his entrance." So they went within and the old man threw logs on the open fire which blazed right merrily. Sir Galahad and the two with him made themselves comfortable. Soon food and drink was brought to them of which they partook with good grace. The storm did not subside and night came on. "Old man," Sir Galahad said to the ancient servitor. "Pay you my respects to the lady whose hospitality we enjoy and ask that she grace us with her presence. Tell her that it is Sir Galahad, Knight of the Round Table, who seeks it." There came a long wait which left the three a wondering. Then there came forth a lady who was followed by the ancient servitor. Stately she was and of noble bearing. Yet it could be seen that she was fearful and disturbed. "My lord wished my presence?" she asked and her tone was tremulous. "I owe you apology for this disturbance," the knight said courteously. "But we also owe you thanks for your gracious hospitality. There seems need that we disturb you further since the storm stays and we cannot proceed as we would. May we find lodging within your walls?" The lady looked fearfully about. "I cannot deny you. Truly it is no night to be outdoors. Stay then and welcome." Morning found the storm in no wise abated. The lady of the castle did not appear at the morning meal. But the old man was there to serve them. He too, seemed much disturbed and made as if to have speech with Sir Galahad, once or twice. "What troubles your pate, old man?" Walker finally asked him. "These are dark days for the house of Sanscourt," the latter replied and crossed himself. "Perhaps, good man, it may be within us to lighten them," Sir Galahad said kindly, "If we can, it may repay in part for your mistress' hospitality." "Would that my lady could find it in her to confide in you. For you seem right friendly, my lord." "Beseech you her. Tell her that Sir Galahad offers his services if she has need of them." The man soon returned. "My lady thanks you kindly for your offer and she will see you soon," he said. The Knight waited but a few moments when his hostess came into the room. "You are gracious, Sir Galahad. I doubt whether there can be any help for me. Yet I shall tell you my story for there still may be hope for so wretched a person as myself." "My lady, it is the duty of all true knights to be of help to those in distress. Wherefore, I hold but to my knightly vow, in my promise of service to you." The Lady Jeanne made no answer, seemingly she had not heard him. Sir Galahad watched her, saw her look which seemed afar, saw the dark rims around her eyes. They spoke of many hours of weeping. Now she turned to him. "I think, my lord, this storm that seems as if it will not cease has been sent by God. Strange though it may seem it brings me hope, dim though that hope may be, yet I treasure it. Little reason for hope have I had. "Think me not rude, Sir Galahad, and think not that I question your valor or skill. But this is task for no lone knight, for my enemy is strong and powerful. I may be selfish too, in that I draw you into my troubles but I am like one who drowning, must need snatch at a straw. And many knights would hesitate long to offer service where the cause is as hopeless as mine seemingly is. Nor will I blame you or hold you, if after my story is done, you find no way in which you can help me. "Listen then and you will see why I count this storm as sign of hope sent to me." CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX Lady Jeanne's Story Two years will it be next month when the Duke of Gascony with fifty knights went forth on a quest that would take them to far Eastern lands. Of these fifty, Sir Vilard, my husband, was one. "He left with me, my son Ambrose, my daughter Helene and two servitors, old men who could not go with him. It was in a good and holy cause so I had no tears for him to see. Rather did I bid him Godspeed and a safe and quick return. "You see me alone now. Two years, and I have neither son, nor daughter, nor husband. Did I know they were dead, bitter would be my woe yet would I count God's mercies many, His ways strange, but not for any mortal to question. But I do not know that. They would have me believe my husband dead. Ambrose went forth one day and I have had no word of him since then. And my daughter is lodged within prison walls waiting the whim of Sir Dolphus who holds her in his power. "They tell me that my husband perished with the Duke and all but three of the knights that went forth with him. And that before he died he sent word that it was his wish that I permit Sir Dolphus to marry our daughter. Yet do I know that Sir Dolphus is already lawfully wedded to a wife whom he would discard. Knowing my husband as I do, I could not believe such to be his message. So I withstood the pleadings of this knight until his pleadings turned to bitter threats. "He would make himself Duke of Gascony. And when I would not listen to him, his pleadings or threats, he came here one day with two other knights and professed to abide by such decision as I had made. They dined with us. Ambrose, my son, was away that day. "Enough to say that they stole my daughter from me. This old man you see and the other, Albert, were clubbed to earth, the one to death. I tried so hard to resist them but my hand was weak. "When Ambrose returned, I could not keep him. He went forth to rescue his sister. Poor lad, I have had no word from him since then. Is he dead? Did they kill him? I have sent for word, have begged that they tell me what fate has befallen him but they profess not to know. "I have heard that the Church will not sanction his marriage to Helene. Nor will it permit Sir Dolphus to annul the marriage with his wife. A good priest also tells me that Sir Dolphus has set his black heart upon marrying my poor Helene so that he can then lawfully own all this land and estate that belongs to us. It will be small matter to rid himself of me and I fain would not wish to live were it not that I still have hope. "My lord, I have hoped so much. Until my very hope turned black for never was there any one so helpless against the power of this wicked man. I dread the coming of each day and yet mixed with my dread there still is ever present that one small hope which will not be killed. "I think I would have died but for this small hope," she added wistfully. She paused now and seemed lost in the dark thoughts that possessed her. "All of them gone. Not one of them to remain with me." "Sir Galahad," she turned to him. "It is not a pretty story. I seem to be encompassed with tragedy. I would not include you in my woes, you have other missions, other work ahead. And though you have the valor and strength of ten, it would count for so little." "My lady," the knight replied. "What use would such valor be, if I had it, if I did not but use it for its full worth? Could I be a true knight and not heed the call your sorrow brings? I can but try to help you. And that, I swear, I will." A light shone in the lady's eye. "I was not wrong to hope. Even now I feel that succor must come. Your words, dear knight, give me strength. Surely then, the storm has brought me some ray of that hope I speak of." "I shall devise some plan," Sir Galahad said, "wherein we can make rescue of your daughter, and find out the fate of your son." The Knight's thoughts were deep for many minutes. "Did this Sir Dolphus say where your husband met his death?" "Near Lombardy," she replied. "If I succeed here, my lady, I shall continue my way to Rome. From there I shall journey north and seek news of your husband. It may be that he is not dead. Dead or alive, you at least will know. "Tomorrow, if the day clears, we shall turn to the work before us. It seems a hard task but as I have said, we can but try. In the meantime, my Lady Jeanne, have courage and keep your patience." So Galahad left her. But Walker stayed. "Lady, I would but add my humble word of cheer. In all of England, of all the Knights of the Round Table, there is none who equals my master in skill and bravery. I tell you this so that you may know how worthy your champion is. Would that he had but one other with him and I would not care what odds were against him." "And who, my man, is that other?" "Sir Launcelot," Walker made reply. "I thank you for telling me of Sir Galahad. It adds to the hope I have and the courage he bids me possess." CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN Sir Launcelot Arrives The day dawned bright and clear. But it brought to Sir Galahad no plan for the rescue of the daughter of his hostess. My lady came down to the breakfast table greatly cheered, as was plain to be seen. Sir Galahad had not the heart to tell her that as yet he had found no way for the rescue of her daughter. Instead he said. "It seems to me that there is one thing I can but do. I shall seek this knight's castle and wait for such event there as may befall. Luck may come my way. But I promise you this, my lady, I shall make no rash or fruitless attempt at rescue. Rash acts may well come after the rescue of your daughter, not before." The Lady Jeanne agreed. So then immediately after the meal Walker, and the page Charles prepared the things they would need for the journey. "I go forth to prepare the horses, young master. Will you see to these things here?" So spoke Walker and when Charles agreed he hurried outdoors. [Illustration: Suddenly They Made For Each Other] Hardly had he reached there, however, when he saw two horsemen coming toward him. His trained eye easily recognized them. One could be no other than Sir Launcelot. Only he sat his horse so. And the rider with him was Gouvernail, he who had been squire to Sir Tristram until that brave knight had died and who now was in the service of Sir Launcelot. "By my faith," spoke out Walker to the empty air. He rubbed his eyes. Yes, it was they. "A wish come true," was all he could think of. And then he danced first on one foot, then on the other, uncertain whether to rush to meet the advancing horsemen or to run inside and advise his master. His uncertainty ended only when he was indoors again. "Master, master, come you here," he called. "See who comes," he shouted gleefully. Sir Galahad came toward him. But not as quick as the eager, youthful Charles. After them all, came the Lady Jeanne. "It is Launcelot, by my faith," Sir Galahad shouted gleefully. "He was to meet me in Normandy and has followed close on my heels. What luck!" And he waved to the approaching knight who returned the salute and increased his speed. The Lady Jeanne turned questioning eyes to the squire, who nodded happily. "My lady," Sir Galahad turned to her. "Now you may well have hope and faith. And well may you give us your blessing for we shall bring your daughter to you, have no fear." So spoke the knight whose faith in Sir Launcelot's prowess was most profound. Now the approaching knight came up to them. "Good Allan," he said still calling his friend by the name of his boyhood. "I have traveled through a day of storm to catch up with you. Until I am sure that this knave here is prepared to seek a master who would be saner and more considerate." "Not so," replied Gouvernail, "for I was no less the anxious." "You come in good time, dear friend. For never were you more needed. There is work ahead for us, serious work. This lady here needs our help. She is sore distressed. But let her meet you." So the Lady Jeanne met Sir Launcelot. And once again the tale of her plight was revealed. And even as Sir Launcelot listened, the plan of what to do came to Sir Galahad. But he kept his tongue until his friend was fully informed and had in turn had time to question their hostess. Charles stood close to his master, whose arm encircled him as if it would include him in all of it. A little in the background stood the two squires who were close friends and old comrades. Gouvernail's interest was keen. So when the tale was done, Sir Galahad turned to his friend and said "Know you perchance where Merlin is?" "We left him behind us. His old bones could not risk yesterday's storm. But he promised me that he would follow when it cleared and so he is but a day behind. But have you a plan, Allan?" "It has but just come to me--this possible plan. It may be that he can be emissary from Arthur to the Duke of Gascony for such purpose as may be devised. And we go with him as knights. We _know not_, of course, that a pretender sits where the Duke of Gascony should. And I fancy that this Dolphus will be right well pleased to welcome us and if we seemingly appear not too scrupulous ourselves we can worm the story from him and act thereon." "It can be done, if the plan is well thought out. Only dear lad, I doubt whether thy face will not count against you in any pretended villainy. Think you not so, madame?" The Lady Jeanne smiled. It was strange to see her smile but it gave proof that she was lighter hearted. "I think that Sir Dolphus is not the kind to think that there are any who hold aught but villianous thoughts," she replied. "So then, we must need delay until Merlin comes." "Think you the king will be provoked at our use of him and his court?" Sir Galahad asked. "Aye, that I do. Provoked that he was not with us to share in the adventure." Launcelot laughingly replied. "Lady," Sir Launcelot addressed her in a moment's pause. "You had little need to worry when this knight became your champion. He is overly modest. Gladly shall I help him." "God is good," the Lady Jeanne replied brokenly. "And He has placed me and my troubles in godly hands." And then she wept. And it seemed as if like a spring freshet, her thoughts, soul, and heart, were cleared and cleansed. CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT A Rescue "I seek speech with him who is Duke of Gascony. I bring him a message from Arthur, King of England." So spoke Merlin as he stood at the entrance of the great and splendid castle of the ruler of Gascony. By his side were the two knights, Galahad and Launcelot. The page Charles stood close by and somewhat behind them were the two squires, Walker and Gouvernail. "From England's king?" the Gascon knight questioned. And made as if he would further satisfy his curiosity. But changed his mind. "I pray you wait, good sir, until I tell my lord, your message." So then he went within the great hall. "A rash adventure, say I," and Merlin shook his head dolefully. "You were ever a croaker, good Merlin," replied Sir Launcelot. "See not the thing so dolefully, I pray you." "And think of the worth of what we accomplish," added Sir Galahad. "Here now comes the Gascon with his answer, I see. Let us listen to what he says." "We bid you welcome to Gascony and pray you to come within. My master sends his greetings and awaits you." They followed then their guide and so came within the great hall of state where Sir Dolphus awaited them. "Come you from England?" he asked. "That we do," replied Merlin, "and carry a message for the Duke." "There is no Duke of Gascony. He is dead. But I, by the will of all the nobles of the land, rule in place. If you have message from England's king honor is mine to receive it." "That message will I deliver right gladly. My king has long desired to come to Gascony and to other countries in France. So has he sent me forth to find first, how welcome will his visit be, second, as you may well understand, that such country as may come within his plans may worthy be his presence. For England's king must hold his honor and his presence at their royal worth. "So come I to this brave land the which my king has heard well spoken and which he holds in high esteem. I find it sad news that he who reigned is dead, yet Gascony cannot suffer if you, most worshipful sir, rule instead." Now did the crafty Dolphus find himself quick to see the worth to him of such a visit from the great king of England who was held in high esteem everywhere. If Arthur were to visit him then could none question his pretense to the throne. Too, were such visit soon, there would be need for him to be declared Duke of Gascony at once, so that Arthur could be met in royal state. "Gascony, good sir, would welcome your king. And count it honor to receive him with all the honors due so great a name. When does your master plan to come?" "Shortly, sir, after I make my return to England and make report. For he hopes also to visit Rome and pay homage to His Holiness, the Pope." When he heard this, Sir Dolphus urged the emissaries of England's king to tarry awhile in Gascony. "So that, kind sirs, you find our friendship for your master, such as may befit his visit to us. Greatly do we desire him to come and we would wish your report to be a kindly one. So find you welcome here. We shall eat, drink and be merry." So the party made itself at home. Sir Dolphus soon took great fancy to Sir Launcelot who proved a merry soul and the two spent many hours together. "I would count it fortunate, Sir Launcelot, were you knight of this court. For I need friends such as you." "Rather, I fancy, is the need otherwise. For the Duke of Gascony's friendship is no small thing and many there are who would hold it high honor. Of friends, you should have many." So the knight made flattering answer. "Aye, but you know not. There are those who would believe that the dead duke lives and who though silent, yet are sullen over my rightful claim to take his place. And I find the Church of little help to me. Though I have offered it many gifts, and promised it great riches, yet will it oppose my will." "Does the Church object to you as Duke?" Sir Launcelot questioned. "I see not why." "Nay, 'tis not as Duke but in other matters." Caution seemed to overcome Sir Dolphus for many minutes. But he had great desire to confide in this friendly knight whose good will he wished. "Art thou married, Sir Launcelot?" he asked. "A strange question, my friend. Yet do I find my happiness in the single blessedness which is at present mine." "Yet is marriage a most convenient thing sometime. 'Twould be for me at present." "Say you, _'twould be?_ Yet, if I mistake not, have I heard that that blessed state is already yours. Though no sign have I seen as yet, of the Lady Dolphus. "Aye, friend, married am I, worse the pity. And when I ask the Church to annul this unhappy state, and give it many gifts, still does it turn stubborn over such a little thing." "What harm therein, my friend? Since that the lady is not with you?" Friendly was Sir Launcelot's tone and right sympathetic. "Aye, there I come back to what I have said--about marriage being most convenient at times. For would they annul the marriage I could then marry again, one who owns vast estate. And that would make me all powerful in Gascony." Such laughter as shook the frame of Sir Launcelot. Nor was it unkindly. "A great rogue you," he spoke pleasantly. "Off with the old and on with the new. Is it not so? And I fancy the new is also right young or I am greatly mistaken? Eh?" Great was Sir Launcelot's hilarity. Nor did the other take offense thereat. "I care little as to her youth or not. But I do care for the estate that goes with her," replied Sir Dolphus. "She must like you greatly, to be willing?" "Hardly could I say, she's that. But that would be small matter if I could but get the Church to sanction the deed. Yet have I hope that if I could get your king's goodwill, he could persuade the Pope on his visit to Rome. And there, good friend, you could help me greatly and well would I repay such kindness." Not once did Sir Launcelot permit the hot temper within him to be unloosed. Played he so well with the wicked knight that it was but a few days thereafter Sir Dolphus invited him to visit with him the young damsel who was kept within prison walls. Never once did the knight demur or permit the other to think that he did not sympathize and agree with his plans. As they walked away from the prison door, he turned to the other. "Strange that she should be all alone. Has she no one who would make you trouble?" "Her father went forth with the Duke and others among us to the land of the infidels. On our way back, in Lombardy, our small force was overcome by disaster. But three of us escaped, I know not what happened to the others. Then it was, I decided to possess the land of the Sanscourt and told the Lady Jeanne that her husband wished and commanded that her daughter Helene marry me. But she would have none of this. So that I had to steal the damsel. And when her brother came here to rescue her, we overcame the helpless youth. He would not have lived had I my way, but the others would not permit that and so we have him safely lodged in the dungeon below and I fancy he will not abuse our hospitality for long." That night Sir Launcelot spoke to the others and told what he had heard. Great was his rage, which he had curbed so well when in the presence of the other. "I would," Merlin spoke in great gloom, "that we were well out of this." "We can be well out of it when the youth and girl are also safely out," Sir Galahad replied and there was a stern look in his eye. "Tomorrow we shall find the dungeon place. Then will we act quickly. But also we must see to it that this false knight receives his just deserts. Is it not so, Launcelot?" "Tomorrow, it shall be," the other replied. "And I myself, shall deal with this Sir Dolphus, for I have had to listen to his foulness without demur." So they planned. And the next day, Sir Galahad professed a great desire to see the whole of the castle. And so was shown in due course the great dungeon and saw there, the weak and spent lad, Ambrose. That night, Sir Dolphus and Sir Launcelot went by themselves to the chamber of the former to make merry. And there, Sir Dolphus who counted the other's sympathy as beyond doubt, told more of his knavish plots. Until the listener sick with listening turned to him in the quiet and secrecy of the great chamber and said in stern tones. "Sir Dolphus, I would advise you to pray now. For you die in three minutes!" Nor did the other mistake the voice, the tone. Nor even make pretense to misunderstand. Instead he made as if to raise a great shout. But found the other's mighty hand closed over his foul mouth so that his call for aid was unuttered. And the hand remained there--even as the owner forced him to his knees with no great effort. "Pray, if you will. Your time is almost gone." But the wretch groaned and squirmed and tried to escape the hold that held viselike over him. It was five minutes later that Sir Launcelot left the room. There was a grim, fixed look on his face that few had ever seen before. He joined the others. And then while [he] and Gouvernail went to the prison chamber of the damsel, Helene, and rescued her with little effort, Sir Galahad went down to the dungeon door and there overcame the guard with ease and opened the door wide with the keys obtained. And Walker carried the weak lad to the entrance door and so they joined the others. So then Sir Galahad and Sir Launcelot with the two squires went for and obtained their horses, without suspicion. With the two they had rescued, the whole party rode forth from the castle. And but for the outcry of the guards at the gate which they forced them to open wide, they had no one to cope with. Forth they road swiftly, Merlin carrying the young girl and Charles supporting the boy, leaving the others free to ride behind and meet such pursuers as might come. But none pursued. "I think they will find a task on hand to care for the other prisoners the open dungeon door unloosed," Sir Galahad said. "And with the wonder over Sir Dolphus," Sir Launcelot added and his look was far away. A day later found them at the castle of Sanscourt. Happy was my Lady Jeanne over the return of her dear children and grateful, too. It did not take long for them to prepare to go forth to England with Sir Launcelot and Merlin. So they bade each the other goodbye. And as they went forth, Sir Galahad watching them go, said to the Lady Jeanne, "Still hope, my lady. For I shall bring or send you word of Sir Vilard, good or bad." "I shall never cease to hope, Sir Galahad. And I shall pray for you, each day until you return." CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE Facing the East So then the trio turned toward the East seeking but never finding that all elusive Grail which seemed ever ahead of them. Strange lands they passed through and it left them with wonderment at the bigness of the world in which they lived. For Sir Galahad and for the boy Charles, each day brought the wonder of new things to see. For Walker, the Squire, though he would not make confession to his master, there grew the wish to see again the pleasant green of England's shore. None of the wonders of these strange lands held allure for him, since they but proved England's greater worth. But when twitted by his master he would make no confession of his home-sickness. "Nay master. I am a man and would hold it weak whimsy to let yearning for my home land encompass me. I go where you will and soon enough will I make return to our home shores." And the Grail, Symbol of Honor, of Faith, of Service and of Piety! No nearer to the finding did the young knight appear to be. Even so, the zest for it, the need for finding it stayed ever with him. So he reached Rome and stayed in it for many days. Many strangers were there from many lands but few who knew of the Holy Grail. And none who could tell him where it could be found. "I would seek, were I you, in the Holy Land," said one pious man. While still another thought so holy a thing would never be permitted to go so far as England and that the knight's search was fruitless. From Rome Sir Galahad went north to Lombardy in search of news of Sir Vilard. Long was his search here but not hopeless. Nor need we make record of how at last he found that the Gascon was not dead but imprisoned with some of the other knights of that ill fated group. And when ransom was agreed to he returned to Rome and sent a message to Sir Launcelot by a friendly English knight to find the Lady Jeanne and have sent to him the ransom desired. Months passed. Then came Ambrose and with him the gold for the freedom of his father and his companions. So that they were free. Only then did Sir Galahad go on. He reached the Holy Land in company with others, men who came there to pay reverence, men who came to repent of many sins, men who ever restless must journey everywhere. And on the way he had gained the friendship of an old priest whose journey he had made somewhat the lighter by such help as youth may offer old age. The priest had been greatly interested in the mission of the knight. Many were his questions, of where Sir Galahad had traveled, how far he purposed to journey in his search. "My journeys shall not cease, good father, until I have found the Grail. For so have I set my whole life that I may find it. And time counts not. Though I wish it could be found right soon for then may I turn my face to England." Since Sir Galahad had spoken of Yosalinde, the priest understood. "What then, Sir Knight, makes you think you will find the Grail in far lands?" the priest asked. "It must need be so, since were it nearer home it would have been found long since." To which the priest made no answer. Days later, when they were gathered about again he told the story of Elam, the son of Anner, who had a great desire to gain wisdom and knowledge. "So then, young friends, he started out to learn from all the founts of wisdom. Far he traveled and much he learned." And then the reverend man gave long account of the places to which Elam had gone and the things he had learned. It was a tale of many years and it took time in the telling. "Then when he had learned much of the wisdom of the then world and had gained in knowledge, he returned home. And when he was there but a few days, lo, he found that yet had his father Anner, greater knowledge than he and wisdom more profound. And he knew this now, returned home from all his sojournings. Nor would he have known this unless he had traveled far, for my sons, it was in this way that he gained the vision to see. Of a truth, it was then that he knew that his father was wisest of men and well could he learn from him." "I have not heard of this man Elam, before," Sir Galahad said. "Yet had he great need to travel, if he gained this vision to see." "True and well spoken, Sir Knight," replied the priest and watched him keenly. CHAPTER THIRTY Homeward Still further did Sir Galahad have a mind to travel but he found from learned men that to go further East was to travel into uncertainties which few had ventured before him. Nor would he have paused even then, were it not that he realized well that little likelihood was there for the Lost Grail to be found in the far East. So he turned his face west again. Slowly he made his way home. There were days now, he misdoubted the success of his search and he questioned his own worthiness. After months and months of travel he reached France once again. When he came to Gascony he found the rightful ruler on the throne and the house of Sanscourt, well and happy. Great was the welcome given the knight by the happy family and a great feast was held for them. The Lady Jeanne was radiant with the happiness which had returned after seeming desertion. "We owe you much, Sir Galahad," said Sir Vilard, "so very much that it is beyond repayment." "Mine and Sir Launcelot's was the joy of service, my lord. That you must well understand." When they reached Normandy, Charles was given a happy reception. He had grown, and had profited well by his travels and service to Sir Galahad whom he would not leave now. For he hoped to be made a knight by him. In Normandy, Sir Galahad stayed for more than a month. He had acquired great fame because of his travels and deeds yet did he find small pleasure in this for the great purpose of his journeys had failed. It was on a day just before he was to return to England. He had mounted the Seeker and without companion had gone forth for the morning. His thoughts were of the Grail, of his great wish to find it, and ever with his thoughts the wish to prove to Yosalinde that it was in him to find it. Well he knew that she would understand his desire even though he could not bring to her the fulfillment of that desire. "Yet who am I to find myself disheartened. I must not question, keep ever seeking." So he thought to himself and gave no heed to where the Seeker carried him. Nor did it seem strange to the knight that he found himself in a narrow path of the woods and before him the strange monk who had first given him urge to seek the Holy Grail. "I greet you, holy father. Nor can I say to you that I have yet proven worthy of the finding of that which I have long sought." "Yet have you traveled far, my son. Is it not so?" "Far and to many lands, holy sir. But nowhere have I found that which brought me nearer to it." "Too, I know how worthy of the finding you are. Well have you kept your purpose high, knightly have your deeds been?" "Holy father, I have but tried. Ever have I kept your words before me. And deem it all worth the while, even though it end with my not finding the Grail. For, father, this will I always say, that joy has there been in the seeking." "Think you then, my son, you will not find it?" the monk asked. "I know not, father. Think me not grown tired of the search. Think not that I complain that the search is long or arduous. I shall go on seeking where the call may lead me. And ever seek to be worthy of finding it. He who decides all things shall decide as to that. Nor will He find me ever questioning. For this I have found. God is good and His ways are ever for the best." "Glad am I to hear that the search goes on. My blessing goes with you. Well have I kept the count of all the days of your journeyings and great is my pride in you. So son, seek on for who can tell what the morrow brings." Then the holy man left him. Yet Sir Galahad did not go until long after sundown. And when he did, doubled was the strength of his purpose. And on the morrow he was on his way to England. CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE The Beggar And The Grail England to Charles, was indeed strange but so much had Walker spoken thereof that he looked forward to seeing it as if it were his native land. The joy of Walker at its nearness, though he tried to hide it under pretended calm was yet a thing quite obvious to Sir Galahad and the boy and much did it amuse them. "Of all the fair lands we have passed through, have you yet found none that pleased you more, good Walker?" the knight asked him. "There is but one heaven, my master and there is but one England," replied Walker. "Then must I confess my sorrow at keeping you this long time from heaven," said his master with mock regret. "Nay, master, one can only know heaven when one has seen all the other places. Too, I care not even for England when my master is not there." "Kind words, good Walker. And spoke I ten times as kindly, yet could I not do justice to how much you have counted and how well. Will I say this, that I find it sweet to know that we are so near to England's shores and that it is but a few days when we shall again find ourselves at home. I would see all our friends, the good king, Sir Percival, Sir Gareth, Sir Launcelot and the others. This wind that fills these sails cannot blow too strong for me." Well did the wind hold yet did it seem as if the next days were over long. At last they were but a half day from the great castle of King Arthur. Now as they rode, adventure there had been none since they had left Normandy, they were stopped by a strange beggar who sought alms. Sick did he seem, ragged and wretched, and as if life could hold but little for him. It was the selfsame beggar they had passed when they started on their journey. "Good master, I starve. Charity I seek." Now though, Sir Galahad was impatient to reach the castle, yet did he stop for the poor wretch drew his pity. "What will you, my man?" "Food, if you have it, Sir Knight. Such help as you can give so low a thing as me." So then without further ado, he bade Walker feed the knave, which the latter did, grumbling at the delay the same must cause. Then, the knight spoke kindly again to the beggar and gave him some silver. "Master," the beggar said. "The Lord will bless you, for you found time for so wretched a soul as me. Far have you traveled, many of high degree have found it honor to hold speech with you. So great a knight as you and yet have you had time for the beggar on the road. "Honor have you shown, Faith have you ever had. Service have you rendered. This day you prove that you have Piety and Charity. So then for your food and for your silver and your kind words and the spirit behind it all, I pay you now. Here, then is the Grail. Long sought in many lands, in many places, yet was it always near at home." "The Grail? Here, where I never thought to see it. And a beggar to possess it. Aye, even the lowliest possesses riches." Mixed were the knight's emotions nor could he voice the thoughts and the feelings within him. While nearby the two with him watched it all in awed silence. "Aye, Sir Galahad. Think not that your search in far lands was fruitless. Rather was it the caldron in which your worth was seasoned. Yet will this fact ever remain--that one need not travel far to find Honor, Faith, Service and Piety. For these are ever near." "I am like Elam who went everywhere and found that what he sought was near at home." "True, good knight. This day shall be a great day for England, for through the worth of one of its knights, the Grail stays here. Go you then, for word will already be at the Round Table that Sir Galahad comes with the Grail." "Strange man, I know not what to say. Dear is the possession of this precious vessel to me. Long have I sought it. And to find it to have been so near at home stirs mixed and wondrous feelings within me. So I can but go and if I fail to say the thing I should, forgive me." The knight, Charles and Walker as well, found themselves kneeling to receive the benediction of this strange man who was both beggar and holy man. And when they looked up again he was gone. "Thought I," said Walker, "that that day, my master found this Grail there would be great doings, that there would be great combats. Instead of which a seeming beggar has it to give us. Verily, it is far beyond me." And the good squire scratched his head in great puzzlement. CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO Conclusion We find our story now near ended. We can well see the great welcome given the still youthful knight as he entered the great hall. There was King Arthur in high good humor. About him stood many of the knights of the Round Table, and among them Sir Galahad saw his many friends. And as the young knight stood there there came to him the memory of that first day and the wondrous hope he had had now come true. In all the hall none was so happy as that brave and noble hearted knight, Sir Launcelot. Well pleased he was. Merlin was there, also well content. And there, when they sat down to the great feast spread out for them, Sir Galahad told the story of his search or the Grail. A long tale it was for they would hear it all. To it they listened in silence, without interruption, until he had done. Though he showed it not, the young knight was eager to be free of all these friends. For he had great desire to hasten to the home of Sir Percival. He knew from what Sir Percival told him, Yosalinde would he there. Yet could he not leave until the late afternoon. Swiftly did the Seeker take him there. Eagerly he sought the sight of the castle as if in seeing that, he would also see this damsel who had helped so much to give him the great purpose of his search. But it was not until he had entered within, that he saw her. So we draw the curtain and leave you to suppose the joy and the gladness of this welcome. And though to each the finding of the Holy Grail was of high importance yet they spoke not of that but of other things for many an hour until the sun had gone down and darkness had come. Wonderful was the picture Sir Galahad had carried of his lady, yet he found the real presence far dearer. Of the things they talked, one was the future and what it meant to both of them. We leave them then. High the moon shines, the stars are everywhere. It is a wonderful night, soft the gentle breeze. Such a night as each had pictured for their first meeting. Charles, the Norman lad, had his wish come true in good time, when Sir Galahad made him a knight. Then the new knight made his way back to Normandy. It was his children's children who made their way in later days to England and settled there. The deeds of the brave knights of the Round Table continued great and glorious. Sir Galahad, Sir Launcelot, Sir Percival and the others upheld the honor of King Arthur's court. And never did Sir Galahad lower the banner of his great house. Honor, Faith, Service and Piety. [Illustration] 
610	----	Idylls of the King IN TWELVE BOOKS by Alfred, Lord Tennyson Flos Regum Arthurus (Joseph of Exeter) Contents Dedication The Coming of Arthur THE ROUND TABLE Gareth and Lynette The Marriage of Geraint Geraint and Enid Balin and Balan Merlin and Vivien Lancelot and Elaine The Holy Grail Pelleas and Ettarre The Last Tournament Guinevere The Passing of Arthur To the Queen Dedication These to His Memory--since he held them dear, Perchance as finding there unconsciously Some image of himself--I dedicate, I dedicate, I consecrate with tears-- These Idylls. And indeed He seems to me Scarce other than my king's ideal knight, 'Who reverenced his conscience as his king; Whose glory was, redressing human wrong; Who spake no slander, no, nor listened to it; Who loved one only and who clave to her--' Her--over all whose realms to their last isle, Commingled with the gloom of imminent war, The shadow of His loss drew like eclipse, Darkening the world. We have lost him: he is gone: We know him now: all narrow jealousies Are silent; and we see him as he moved, How modest, kindly, all-accomplished, wise, With what sublime repression of himself, And in what limits, and how tenderly; Not swaying to this faction or to that; Not making his high place the lawless perch Of winged ambitions, nor a vantage-ground For pleasure; but through all this tract of years Wearing the white flower of a blameless life, Before a thousand peering littlenesses, In that fierce light which beats upon a throne, And blackens every blot: for where is he, Who dares foreshadow for an only son A lovelier life, a more unstained, than his? Or how should England dreaming of his sons Hope more for these than some inheritance Of such a life, a heart, a mind as thine, Thou noble Father of her Kings to be, Laborious for her people and her poor-- Voice in the rich dawn of an ampler day-- Far-sighted summoner of War and Waste To fruitful strifes and rivalries of peace-- Sweet nature gilded by the gracious gleam Of letters, dear to Science, dear to Art, Dear to thy land and ours, a Prince indeed, Beyond all titles, and a household name, Hereafter, through all times, Albert the Good. Break not, O woman's-heart, but still endure; Break not, for thou art Royal, but endure, Remembering all the beauty of that star Which shone so close beside Thee that ye made One light together, but has past and leaves The Crown a lonely splendour. May all love, His love, unseen but felt, o'ershadow Thee, The love of all Thy sons encompass Thee, The love of all Thy daughters cherish Thee, The love of all Thy people comfort Thee, Till God's love set Thee at his side again! The Coming of Arthur Leodogran, the King of Cameliard, Had one fair daughter, and none other child; And she was the fairest of all flesh on earth, Guinevere, and in her his one delight. For many a petty king ere Arthur came Ruled in this isle, and ever waging war Each upon other, wasted all the land; And still from time to time the heathen host Swarmed overseas, and harried what was left. And so there grew great tracts of wilderness, Wherein the beast was ever more and more, But man was less and less, till Arthur came. For first Aurelius lived and fought and died, And after him King Uther fought and died, But either failed to make the kingdom one. And after these King Arthur for a space, And through the puissance of his Table Round, Drew all their petty princedoms under him. Their king and head, and made a realm, and reigned. And thus the land of Cameliard was waste, Thick with wet woods, and many a beast therein, And none or few to scare or chase the beast; So that wild dog, and wolf and boar and bear Came night and day, and rooted in the fields, And wallowed in the gardens of the King. And ever and anon the wolf would steal The children and devour, but now and then, Her own brood lost or dead, lent her fierce teat To human sucklings; and the children, housed In her foul den, there at their meat would growl, And mock their foster mother on four feet, Till, straightened, they grew up to wolf-like men, Worse than the wolves. And King Leodogran Groaned for the Roman legions here again, And Caesar's eagle: then his brother king, Urien, assailed him: last a heathen horde, Reddening the sun with smoke and earth with blood, And on the spike that split the mother's heart Spitting the child, brake on him, till, amazed, He knew not whither he should turn for aid. But--for he heard of Arthur newly crowned, Though not without an uproar made by those Who cried, 'He is not Uther's son'--the King Sent to him, saying, 'Arise, and help us thou! For here between the man and beast we die.' And Arthur yet had done no deed of arms, But heard the call, and came: and Guinevere Stood by the castle walls to watch him pass; But since he neither wore on helm or shield The golden symbol of his kinglihood, But rode a simple knight among his knights, And many of these in richer arms than he, She saw him not, or marked not, if she saw, One among many, though his face was bare. But Arthur, looking downward as he past, Felt the light of her eyes into his life Smite on the sudden, yet rode on, and pitched His tents beside the forest. Then he drave The heathen; after, slew the beast, and felled The forest, letting in the sun, and made Broad pathways for the hunter and the knight And so returned. For while he lingered there, A doubt that ever smouldered in the hearts Of those great Lords and Barons of his realm Flashed forth and into war: for most of these, Colleaguing with a score of petty kings, Made head against him, crying, 'Who is he That he should rule us? who hath proven him King Uther's son? for lo! we look at him, And find nor face nor bearing, limbs nor voice, Are like to those of Uther whom we knew. This is the son of Gorlois, not the King; This is the son of Anton, not the King.' And Arthur, passing thence to battle, felt Travail, and throes and agonies of the life, Desiring to be joined with Guinevere; And thinking as he rode, 'Her father said That there between the man and beast they die. Shall I not lift her from this land of beasts Up to my throne, and side by side with me? What happiness to reign a lonely king, Vext--O ye stars that shudder over me, O earth that soundest hollow under me, Vext with waste dreams? for saving I be joined To her that is the fairest under heaven, I seem as nothing in the mighty world, And cannot will my will, nor work my work Wholly, nor make myself in mine own realm Victor and lord. But were I joined with her, Then might we live together as one life, And reigning with one will in everything Have power on this dark land to lighten it, And power on this dead world to make it live.' Thereafter--as he speaks who tells the tale-- When Arthur reached a field-of-battle bright With pitched pavilions of his foe, the world Was all so clear about him, that he saw The smallest rock far on the faintest hill, And even in high day the morning star. So when the King had set his banner broad, At once from either side, with trumpet-blast, And shouts, and clarions shrilling unto blood, The long-lanced battle let their horses run. And now the Barons and the kings prevailed, And now the King, as here and there that war Went swaying; but the Powers who walk the world Made lightnings and great thunders over him, And dazed all eyes, till Arthur by main might, And mightier of his hands with every blow, And leading all his knighthood threw the kings Carados, Urien, Cradlemont of Wales, Claudias, and Clariance of Northumberland, The King Brandagoras of Latangor, With Anguisant of Erin, Morganore, And Lot of Orkney. Then, before a voice As dreadful as the shout of one who sees To one who sins, and deems himself alone And all the world asleep, they swerved and brake Flying, and Arthur called to stay the brands That hacked among the flyers, 'Ho! they yield!' So like a painted battle the war stood Silenced, the living quiet as the dead, And in the heart of Arthur joy was lord. He laughed upon his warrior whom he loved And honoured most. 'Thou dost not doubt me King, So well thine arm hath wrought for me today.' 'Sir and my liege,' he cried, 'the fire of God Descends upon thee in the battle-field: I know thee for my King!' Whereat the two, For each had warded either in the fight, Sware on the field of death a deathless love. And Arthur said, 'Man's word is God in man: Let chance what will, I trust thee to the death.' Then quickly from the foughten field he sent Ulfius, and Brastias, and Bedivere, His new-made knights, to King Leodogran, Saying, 'If I in aught have served thee well, Give me thy daughter Guinevere to wife.' Whom when he heard, Leodogran in heart Debating--'How should I that am a king, However much he holp me at my need, Give my one daughter saving to a king, And a king's son?'--lifted his voice, and called A hoary man, his chamberlain, to whom He trusted all things, and of him required His counsel: 'Knowest thou aught of Arthur's birth?' Then spake the hoary chamberlain and said, 'Sir King, there be but two old men that know: And each is twice as old as I; and one Is Merlin, the wise man that ever served King Uther through his magic art; and one Is Merlin's master (so they call him) Bleys, Who taught him magic, but the scholar ran Before the master, and so far, that Bleys, Laid magic by, and sat him down, and wrote All things and whatsoever Merlin did In one great annal-book, where after-years Will learn the secret of our Arthur's birth.' To whom the King Leodogran replied, 'O friend, had I been holpen half as well By this King Arthur as by thee today, Then beast and man had had their share of me: But summon here before us yet once more Ulfius, and Brastias, and Bedivere.' Then, when they came before him, the King said, 'I have seen the cuckoo chased by lesser fowl, And reason in the chase: but wherefore now Do these your lords stir up the heat of war, Some calling Arthur born of Gorlois, Others of Anton? Tell me, ye yourselves, Hold ye this Arthur for King Uther's son?' And Ulfius and Brastias answered, 'Ay.' Then Bedivere, the first of all his knights Knighted by Arthur at his crowning, spake-- For bold in heart and act and word was he, Whenever slander breathed against the King-- 'Sir, there be many rumours on this head: For there be those who hate him in their hearts, Call him baseborn, and since his ways are sweet, And theirs are bestial, hold him less than man: And there be those who deem him more than man, And dream he dropt from heaven: but my belief In all this matter--so ye care to learn-- Sir, for ye know that in King Uther's time The prince and warrior Gorlois, he that held Tintagil castle by the Cornish sea, Was wedded with a winsome wife, Ygerne: And daughters had she borne him,--one whereof, Lot's wife, the Queen of Orkney, Bellicent, Hath ever like a loyal sister cleaved To Arthur,--but a son she had not borne. And Uther cast upon her eyes of love: But she, a stainless wife to Gorlois, So loathed the bright dishonour of his love, That Gorlois and King Uther went to war: And overthrown was Gorlois and slain. Then Uther in his wrath and heat besieged Ygerne within Tintagil, where her men, Seeing the mighty swarm about their walls, Left her and fled, and Uther entered in, And there was none to call to but himself. So, compassed by the power of the King, Enforced was she to wed him in her tears, And with a shameful swiftness: afterward, Not many moons, King Uther died himself, Moaning and wailing for an heir to rule After him, lest the realm should go to wrack. And that same night, the night of the new year, By reason of the bitterness and grief That vext his mother, all before his time Was Arthur born, and all as soon as born Delivered at a secret postern-gate To Merlin, to be holden far apart Until his hour should come; because the lords Of that fierce day were as the lords of this, Wild beasts, and surely would have torn the child Piecemeal among them, had they known; for each But sought to rule for his own self and hand, And many hated Uther for the sake Of Gorlois. Wherefore Merlin took the child, And gave him to Sir Anton, an old knight And ancient friend of Uther; and his wife Nursed the young prince, and reared him with her own; And no man knew. And ever since the lords Have foughten like wild beasts among themselves, So that the realm has gone to wrack: but now, This year, when Merlin (for his hour had come) Brought Arthur forth, and set him in the hall, Proclaiming, "Here is Uther's heir, your king," A hundred voices cried, "Away with him! No king of ours! a son of Gorlois he, Or else the child of Anton, and no king, Or else baseborn." Yet Merlin through his craft, And while the people clamoured for a king, Had Arthur crowned; but after, the great lords Banded, and so brake out in open war.' Then while the King debated with himself If Arthur were the child of shamefulness, Or born the son of Gorlois, after death, Or Uther's son, and born before his time, Or whether there were truth in anything Said by these three, there came to Cameliard, With Gawain and young Modred, her two sons, Lot's wife, the Queen of Orkney, Bellicent; Whom as he could, not as he would, the King Made feast for, saying, as they sat at meat, 'A doubtful throne is ice on summer seas. Ye come from Arthur's court. Victor his men Report him! Yea, but ye--think ye this king-- So many those that hate him, and so strong, So few his knights, however brave they be-- Hath body enow to hold his foemen down?' 'O King,' she cried, 'and I will tell thee: few, Few, but all brave, all of one mind with him; For I was near him when the savage yells Of Uther's peerage died, and Arthur sat Crowned on the dais, and his warriors cried, "Be thou the king, and we will work thy will Who love thee." Then the King in low deep tones, And simple words of great authority, Bound them by so strait vows to his own self, That when they rose, knighted from kneeling, some Were pale as at the passing of a ghost, Some flushed, and others dazed, as one who wakes Half-blinded at the coming of a light. 'But when he spake and cheered his Table Round With large, divine, and comfortable words, Beyond my tongue to tell thee--I beheld From eye to eye through all their Order flash A momentary likeness of the King: And ere it left their faces, through the cross And those around it and the Crucified, Down from the casement over Arthur, smote Flame-colour, vert and azure, in three rays, One falling upon each of three fair queens, Who stood in silence near his throne, the friends Of Arthur, gazing on him, tall, with bright Sweet faces, who will help him at his need. 'And there I saw mage Merlin, whose vast wit And hundred winters are but as the hands Of loyal vassals toiling for their liege. 'And near him stood the Lady of the Lake, Who knows a subtler magic than his own-- Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful. She gave the King his huge cross-hilted sword, Whereby to drive the heathen out: a mist Of incense curled about her, and her face Wellnigh was hidden in the minster gloom; But there was heard among the holy hymns A voice as of the waters, for she dwells Down in a deep; calm, whatsoever storms May shake the world, and when the surface rolls, Hath power to walk the waters like our Lord. 'There likewise I beheld Excalibur Before him at his crowning borne, the sword That rose from out the bosom of the lake, And Arthur rowed across and took it--rich With jewels, elfin Urim, on the hilt, Bewildering heart and eye--the blade so bright That men are blinded by it--on one side, Graven in the oldest tongue of all this world, "Take me," but turn the blade and ye shall see, And written in the speech ye speak yourself, "Cast me away!" And sad was Arthur's face Taking it, but old Merlin counselled him, "Take thou and strike! the time to cast away Is yet far-off." So this great brand the king Took, and by this will beat his foemen down.' Thereat Leodogran rejoiced, but thought To sift his doubtings to the last, and asked, Fixing full eyes of question on her face, 'The swallow and the swift are near akin, But thou art closer to this noble prince, Being his own dear sister;' and she said, 'Daughter of Gorlois and Ygerne am I;' 'And therefore Arthur's sister?' asked the King. She answered, 'These be secret things,' and signed To those two sons to pass, and let them be. And Gawain went, and breaking into song Sprang out, and followed by his flying hair Ran like a colt, and leapt at all he saw: But Modred laid his ear beside the doors, And there half-heard; the same that afterward Struck for the throne, and striking found his doom. And then the Queen made answer, 'What know I? For dark my mother was in eyes and hair, And dark in hair and eyes am I; and dark Was Gorlois, yea and dark was Uther too, Wellnigh to blackness; but this King is fair Beyond the race of Britons and of men. Moreover, always in my mind I hear A cry from out the dawning of my life, A mother weeping, and I hear her say, "O that ye had some brother, pretty one, To guard thee on the rough ways of the world."' 'Ay,' said the King, 'and hear ye such a cry? But when did Arthur chance upon thee first?' 'O King!' she cried, 'and I will tell thee true: He found me first when yet a little maid: Beaten I had been for a little fault Whereof I was not guilty; and out I ran And flung myself down on a bank of heath, And hated this fair world and all therein, And wept, and wished that I were dead; and he-- I know not whether of himself he came, Or brought by Merlin, who, they say, can walk Unseen at pleasure--he was at my side, And spake sweet words, and comforted my heart, And dried my tears, being a child with me. And many a time he came, and evermore As I grew greater grew with me; and sad At times he seemed, and sad with him was I, Stern too at times, and then I loved him not, But sweet again, and then I loved him well. And now of late I see him less and less, But those first days had golden hours for me, For then I surely thought he would be king. 'But let me tell thee now another tale: For Bleys, our Merlin's master, as they say, Died but of late, and sent his cry to me, To hear him speak before he left his life. Shrunk like a fairy changeling lay the mage; And when I entered told me that himself And Merlin ever served about the King, Uther, before he died; and on the night When Uther in Tintagil past away Moaning and wailing for an heir, the two Left the still King, and passing forth to breathe, Then from the castle gateway by the chasm Descending through the dismal night--a night In which the bounds of heaven and earth were lost-- Beheld, so high upon the dreary deeps It seemed in heaven, a ship, the shape thereof A dragon winged, and all from stern to stern Bright with a shining people on the decks, And gone as soon as seen. And then the two Dropt to the cove, and watched the great sea fall, Wave after wave, each mightier than the last, Till last, a ninth one, gathering half the deep And full of voices, slowly rose and plunged Roaring, and all the wave was in a flame: And down the wave and in the flame was borne A naked babe, and rode to Merlin's feet, Who stoopt and caught the babe, and cried "The King! Here is an heir for Uther!" And the fringe Of that great breaker, sweeping up the strand, Lashed at the wizard as he spake the word, And all at once all round him rose in fire, So that the child and he were clothed in fire. And presently thereafter followed calm, Free sky and stars: "And this the same child," he said, "Is he who reigns; nor could I part in peace Till this were told." And saying this the seer Went through the strait and dreadful pass of death, Not ever to be questioned any more Save on the further side; but when I met Merlin, and asked him if these things were truth-- The shining dragon and the naked child Descending in the glory of the seas-- He laughed as is his wont, and answered me In riddling triplets of old time, and said: '"Rain, rain, and sun! a rainbow in the sky! A young man will be wiser by and by; An old man's wit may wander ere he die. Rain, rain, and sun! a rainbow on the lea! And truth is this to me, and that to thee; And truth or clothed or naked let it be. Rain, sun, and rain! and the free blossom blows: Sun, rain, and sun! and where is he who knows? From the great deep to the great deep he goes." 'So Merlin riddling angered me; but thou Fear not to give this King thy only child, Guinevere: so great bards of him will sing Hereafter; and dark sayings from of old Ranging and ringing through the minds of men, And echoed by old folk beside their fires For comfort after their wage-work is done, Speak of the King; and Merlin in our time Hath spoken also, not in jest, and sworn Though men may wound him that he will not die, But pass, again to come; and then or now Utterly smite the heathen underfoot, Till these and all men hail him for their king.' She spake and King Leodogran rejoiced, But musing, 'Shall I answer yea or nay?' Doubted, and drowsed, nodded and slept, and saw, Dreaming, a slope of land that ever grew, Field after field, up to a height, the peak Haze-hidden, and thereon a phantom king, Now looming, and now lost; and on the slope The sword rose, the hind fell, the herd was driven, Fire glimpsed; and all the land from roof and rick, In drifts of smoke before a rolling wind, Streamed to the peak, and mingled with the haze And made it thicker; while the phantom king Sent out at times a voice; and here or there Stood one who pointed toward the voice, the rest Slew on and burnt, crying, 'No king of ours, No son of Uther, and no king of ours;' Till with a wink his dream was changed, the haze Descended, and the solid earth became As nothing, but the King stood out in heaven, Crowned. And Leodogran awoke, and sent Ulfius, and Brastias and Bedivere, Back to the court of Arthur answering yea. Then Arthur charged his warrior whom he loved And honoured most, Sir Lancelot, to ride forth And bring the Queen;--and watched him from the gates: And Lancelot past away among the flowers, (For then was latter April) and returned Among the flowers, in May, with Guinevere. To whom arrived, by Dubric the high saint, Chief of the church in Britain, and before The stateliest of her altar-shrines, the King That morn was married, while in stainless white, The fair beginners of a nobler time, And glorying in their vows and him, his knights Stood around him, and rejoicing in his joy. Far shone the fields of May through open door, The sacred altar blossomed white with May, The Sun of May descended on their King, They gazed on all earth's beauty in their Queen, Rolled incense, and there past along the hymns A voice as of the waters, while the two Sware at the shrine of Christ a deathless love: And Arthur said, 'Behold, thy doom is mine. Let chance what will, I love thee to the death!' To whom the Queen replied with drooping eyes, 'King and my lord, I love thee to the death!' And holy Dubric spread his hands and spake, 'Reign ye, and live and love, and make the world Other, and may thy Queen be one with thee, And all this Order of thy Table Round Fulfil the boundless purpose of their King!' So Dubric said; but when they left the shrine Great Lords from Rome before the portal stood, In scornful stillness gazing as they past; Then while they paced a city all on fire With sun and cloth of gold, the trumpets blew, And Arthur's knighthood sang before the King:-- 'Blow, trumpet, for the world is white with May; Blow trumpet, the long night hath rolled away! Blow through the living world--"Let the King reign." 'Shall Rome or Heathen rule in Arthur's realm? Flash brand and lance, fall battleaxe upon helm, Fall battleaxe, and flash brand! Let the King reign. 'Strike for the King and live! his knights have heard That God hath told the King a secret word. Fall battleaxe, and flash brand! Let the King reign. 'Blow trumpet! he will lift us from the dust. Blow trumpet! live the strength and die the lust! Clang battleaxe, and clash brand! Let the King reign. 'Strike for the King and die! and if thou diest, The King is King, and ever wills the highest. Clang battleaxe, and clash brand! Let the King reign. 'Blow, for our Sun is mighty in his May! Blow, for our Sun is mightier day by day! Clang battleaxe, and clash brand! Let the King reign. 'The King will follow Christ, and we the King In whom high God hath breathed a secret thing. Fall battleaxe, and flash brand! Let the King reign.' So sang the knighthood, moving to their hall. There at the banquet those great Lords from Rome, The slowly-fading mistress of the world, Strode in, and claimed their tribute as of yore. But Arthur spake, 'Behold, for these have sworn To wage my wars, and worship me their King; The old order changeth, yielding place to new; And we that fight for our fair father Christ, Seeing that ye be grown too weak and old To drive the heathen from your Roman wall, No tribute will we pay:' so those great lords Drew back in wrath, and Arthur strove with Rome. And Arthur and his knighthood for a space Were all one will, and through that strength the King Drew in the petty princedoms under him, Fought, and in twelve great battles overcame The heathen hordes, and made a realm and reigned. Gareth and Lynette The last tall son of Lot and Bellicent, And tallest, Gareth, in a showerful spring Stared at the spate. A slender-shafted Pine Lost footing, fell, and so was whirled away. 'How he went down,' said Gareth, 'as a false knight Or evil king before my lance if lance Were mine to use--O senseless cataract, Bearing all down in thy precipitancy-- And yet thou art but swollen with cold snows And mine is living blood: thou dost His will, The Maker's, and not knowest, and I that know, Have strength and wit, in my good mother's hall Linger with vacillating obedience, Prisoned, and kept and coaxed and whistled to-- Since the good mother holds me still a child! Good mother is bad mother unto me! A worse were better; yet no worse would I. Heaven yield her for it, but in me put force To weary her ears with one continuous prayer, Until she let me fly discaged to sweep In ever-highering eagle-circles up To the great Sun of Glory, and thence swoop Down upon all things base, and dash them dead, A knight of Arthur, working out his will, To cleanse the world. Why, Gawain, when he came With Modred hither in the summertime, Asked me to tilt with him, the proven knight. Modred for want of worthier was the judge. Then I so shook him in the saddle, he said, "Thou hast half prevailed against me," said so--he-- Though Modred biting his thin lips was mute, For he is alway sullen: what care I?' And Gareth went, and hovering round her chair Asked, 'Mother, though ye count me still the child, Sweet mother, do ye love the child?' She laughed, 'Thou art but a wild-goose to question it.' 'Then, mother, an ye love the child,' he said, 'Being a goose and rather tame than wild, Hear the child's story.' 'Yea, my well-beloved, An 'twere but of the goose and golden eggs.' And Gareth answered her with kindling eyes, 'Nay, nay, good mother, but this egg of mine Was finer gold than any goose can lay; For this an Eagle, a royal Eagle, laid Almost beyond eye-reach, on such a palm As glitters gilded in thy Book of Hours. And there was ever haunting round the palm A lusty youth, but poor, who often saw The splendour sparkling from aloft, and thought "An I could climb and lay my hand upon it, Then were I wealthier than a leash of kings." But ever when he reached a hand to climb, One, that had loved him from his childhood, caught And stayed him, "Climb not lest thou break thy neck, I charge thee by my love," and so the boy, Sweet mother, neither clomb, nor brake his neck, But brake his very heart in pining for it, And past away.' To whom the mother said, 'True love, sweet son, had risked himself and climbed, And handed down the golden treasure to him.' And Gareth answered her with kindling eyes, 'Gold?' said I gold?--ay then, why he, or she, Or whosoe'er it was, or half the world Had ventured--had the thing I spake of been Mere gold--but this was all of that true steel, Whereof they forged the brand Excalibur, And lightnings played about it in the storm, And all the little fowl were flurried at it, And there were cries and clashings in the nest, That sent him from his senses: let me go.' Then Bellicent bemoaned herself and said, 'Hast thou no pity upon my loneliness? Lo, where thy father Lot beside the hearth Lies like a log, and all but smouldered out! For ever since when traitor to the King He fought against him in the Barons' war, And Arthur gave him back his territory, His age hath slowly droopt, and now lies there A yet-warm corpse, and yet unburiable, No more; nor sees, nor hears, nor speaks, nor knows. And both thy brethren are in Arthur's hall, Albeit neither loved with that full love I feel for thee, nor worthy such a love: Stay therefore thou; red berries charm the bird, And thee, mine innocent, the jousts, the wars, Who never knewest finger-ache, nor pang Of wrenched or broken limb--an often chance In those brain-stunning shocks, and tourney-falls, Frights to my heart; but stay: follow the deer By these tall firs and our fast-falling burns; So make thy manhood mightier day by day; Sweet is the chase: and I will seek thee out Some comfortable bride and fair, to grace Thy climbing life, and cherish my prone year, Till falling into Lot's forgetfulness I know not thee, myself, nor anything. Stay, my best son! ye are yet more boy than man.' Then Gareth, 'An ye hold me yet for child, Hear yet once more the story of the child. For, mother, there was once a King, like ours. The prince his heir, when tall and marriageable, Asked for a bride; and thereupon the King Set two before him. One was fair, strong, armed-- But to be won by force--and many men Desired her; one good lack, no man desired. And these were the conditions of the King: That save he won the first by force, he needs Must wed that other, whom no man desired, A red-faced bride who knew herself so vile, That evermore she longed to hide herself, Nor fronted man or woman, eye to eye-- Yea--some she cleaved to, but they died of her. And one--they called her Fame; and one,--O Mother, How can ye keep me tethered to you--Shame. Man am I grown, a man's work must I do. Follow the deer? follow the Christ, the King, Live pure, speak true, right wrong, follow the King-- Else, wherefore born?' To whom the mother said 'Sweet son, for there be many who deem him not, Or will not deem him, wholly proven King-- Albeit in mine own heart I knew him King, When I was frequent with him in my youth, And heard him Kingly speak, and doubted him No more than he, himself; but felt him mine, Of closest kin to me: yet--wilt thou leave Thine easeful biding here, and risk thine all, Life, limbs, for one that is not proven King? Stay, till the cloud that settles round his birth Hath lifted but a little. Stay, sweet son.' And Gareth answered quickly, 'Not an hour, So that ye yield me--I will walk through fire, Mother, to gain it--your full leave to go. Not proven, who swept the dust of ruined Rome From off the threshold of the realm, and crushed The Idolaters, and made the people free? Who should be King save him who makes us free?' So when the Queen, who long had sought in vain To break him from the intent to which he grew, Found her son's will unwaveringly one, She answered craftily, 'Will ye walk through fire? Who walks through fire will hardly heed the smoke. Ay, go then, an ye must: only one proof, Before thou ask the King to make thee knight, Of thine obedience and thy love to me, Thy mother,--I demand. And Gareth cried, 'A hard one, or a hundred, so I go. Nay--quick! the proof to prove me to the quick!' But slowly spake the mother looking at him, 'Prince, thou shalt go disguised to Arthur's hall, And hire thyself to serve for meats and drinks Among the scullions and the kitchen-knaves, And those that hand the dish across the bar. Nor shalt thou tell thy name to anyone. And thou shalt serve a twelvemonth and a day.' For so the Queen believed that when her son Beheld his only way to glory lead Low down through villain kitchen-vassalage, Her own true Gareth was too princely-proud To pass thereby; so should he rest with her, Closed in her castle from the sound of arms. Silent awhile was Gareth, then replied, 'The thrall in person may be free in soul, And I shall see the jousts. Thy son am I, And since thou art my mother, must obey. I therefore yield me freely to thy will; For hence will I, disguised, and hire myself To serve with scullions and with kitchen-knaves; Nor tell my name to any--no, not the King.' Gareth awhile lingered. The mother's eye Full of the wistful fear that he would go, And turning toward him wheresoe'er he turned, Perplext his outward purpose, till an hour, When wakened by the wind which with full voice Swept bellowing through the darkness on to dawn, He rose, and out of slumber calling two That still had tended on him from his birth, Before the wakeful mother heard him, went. The three were clad like tillers of the soil. Southward they set their faces. The birds made Melody on branch, and melody in mid air. The damp hill-slopes were quickened into green, And the live green had kindled into flowers, For it was past the time of Easterday. So, when their feet were planted on the plain That broadened toward the base of Camelot, Far off they saw the silver-misty morn Rolling her smoke about the Royal mount, That rose between the forest and the field. At times the summit of the high city flashed; At times the spires and turrets half-way down Pricked through the mist; at times the great gate shone Only, that opened on the field below: Anon, the whole fair city had disappeared. Then those who went with Gareth were amazed, One crying, 'Let us go no further, lord. Here is a city of Enchanters, built By fairy Kings.' The second echoed him, 'Lord, we have heard from our wise man at home To Northward, that this King is not the King, But only changeling out of Fairyland, Who drave the heathen hence by sorcery And Merlin's glamour.' Then the first again, 'Lord, there is no such city anywhere, But all a vision.' Gareth answered them With laughter, swearing he had glamour enow In his own blood, his princedom, youth and hopes, To plunge old Merlin in the Arabian sea; So pushed them all unwilling toward the gate. And there was no gate like it under heaven. For barefoot on the keystone, which was lined And rippled like an ever-fleeting wave, The Lady of the Lake stood: all her dress Wept from her sides as water flowing away; But like the cross her great and goodly arms Stretched under the cornice and upheld: And drops of water fell from either hand; And down from one a sword was hung, from one A censer, either worn with wind and storm; And o'er her breast floated the sacred fish; And in the space to left of her, and right, Were Arthur's wars in weird devices done, New things and old co-twisted, as if Time Were nothing, so inveterately, that men Were giddy gazing there; and over all High on the top were those three Queens, the friends Of Arthur, who should help him at his need. Then those with Gareth for so long a space Stared at the figures, that at last it seemed The dragon-boughts and elvish emblemings Began to move, seethe, twine and curl: they called To Gareth, 'Lord, the gateway is alive.' And Gareth likewise on them fixt his eyes So long, that even to him they seemed to move. Out of the city a blast of music pealed. Back from the gate started the three, to whom From out thereunder came an ancient man, Long-bearded, saying, 'Who be ye, my sons?' Then Gareth, 'We be tillers of the soil, Who leaving share in furrow come to see The glories of our King: but these, my men, (Your city moved so weirdly in the mist) Doubt if the King be King at all, or come From Fairyland; and whether this be built By magic, and by fairy Kings and Queens; Or whether there be any city at all, Or all a vision: and this music now Hath scared them both, but tell thou these the truth.' Then that old Seer made answer playing on him And saying, 'Son, I have seen the good ship sail Keel upward, and mast downward, in the heavens, And solid turrets topsy-turvy in air: And here is truth; but an it please thee not, Take thou the truth as thou hast told it me. For truly as thou sayest, a Fairy King And Fairy Queens have built the city, son; They came from out a sacred mountain-cleft Toward the sunrise, each with harp in hand, And built it to the music of their harps. And, as thou sayest, it is enchanted, son, For there is nothing in it as it seems Saving the King; though some there be that hold The King a shadow, and the city real: Yet take thou heed of him, for, so thou pass Beneath this archway, then wilt thou become A thrall to his enchantments, for the King Will bind thee by such vows, as is a shame A man should not be bound by, yet the which No man can keep; but, so thou dread to swear, Pass not beneath this gateway, but abide Without, among the cattle of the field. For an ye heard a music, like enow They are building still, seeing the city is built To music, therefore never built at all, And therefore built for ever.' Gareth spake Angered, 'Old master, reverence thine own beard That looks as white as utter truth, and seems Wellnigh as long as thou art statured tall! Why mockest thou the stranger that hath been To thee fair-spoken?' But the Seer replied, 'Know ye not then the Riddling of the Bards? "Confusion, and illusion, and relation, Elusion, and occasion, and evasion"? I mock thee not but as thou mockest me, And all that see thee, for thou art not who Thou seemest, but I know thee who thou art. And now thou goest up to mock the King, Who cannot brook the shadow of any lie.' Unmockingly the mocker ending here Turned to the right, and past along the plain; Whom Gareth looking after said, 'My men, Our one white lie sits like a little ghost Here on the threshold of our enterprise. Let love be blamed for it, not she, nor I: Well, we will make amends.' With all good cheer He spake and laughed, then entered with his twain Camelot, a city of shadowy palaces And stately, rich in emblem and the work Of ancient kings who did their days in stone; Which Merlin's hand, the Mage at Arthur's court, Knowing all arts, had touched, and everywhere At Arthur's ordinance, tipt with lessening peak And pinnacle, and had made it spire to heaven. And ever and anon a knight would pass Outward, or inward to the hall: his arms Clashed; and the sound was good to Gareth's ear. And out of bower and casement shyly glanced Eyes of pure women, wholesome stars of love; And all about a healthful people stept As in the presence of a gracious king. Then into hall Gareth ascending heard A voice, the voice of Arthur, and beheld Far over heads in that long-vaulted hall The splendour of the presence of the King Throned, and delivering doom--and looked no more-- But felt his young heart hammering in his ears, And thought, 'For this half-shadow of a lie The truthful King will doom me when I speak.' Yet pressing on, though all in fear to find Sir Gawain or Sir Modred, saw nor one Nor other, but in all the listening eyes Of those tall knights, that ranged about the throne, Clear honour shining like the dewy star Of dawn, and faith in their great King, with pure Affection, and the light of victory, And glory gained, and evermore to gain. Then came a widow crying to the King, 'A boon, Sir King! Thy father, Uther, reft From my dead lord a field with violence: For howsoe'er at first he proffered gold, Yet, for the field was pleasant in our eyes, We yielded not; and then he reft us of it Perforce, and left us neither gold nor field.' Said Arthur, 'Whether would ye? gold or field?' To whom the woman weeping, 'Nay, my lord, The field was pleasant in my husband's eye.' And Arthur, 'Have thy pleasant field again, And thrice the gold for Uther's use thereof, According to the years. No boon is here, But justice, so thy say be proven true. Accursed, who from the wrongs his father did Would shape himself a right!' And while she past, Came yet another widow crying to him, 'A boon, Sir King! Thine enemy, King, am I. With thine own hand thou slewest my dear lord, A knight of Uther in the Barons' war, When Lot and many another rose and fought Against thee, saying thou wert basely born. I held with these, and loathe to ask thee aught. Yet lo! my husband's brother had my son Thralled in his castle, and hath starved him dead; And standeth seized of that inheritance Which thou that slewest the sire hast left the son. So though I scarce can ask it thee for hate, Grant me some knight to do the battle for me, Kill the foul thief, and wreak me for my son.' Then strode a good knight forward, crying to him, 'A boon, Sir King! I am her kinsman, I. Give me to right her wrong, and slay the man.' Then came Sir Kay, the seneschal, and cried, 'A boon, Sir King! even that thou grant her none, This railer, that hath mocked thee in full hall-- None; or the wholesome boon of gyve and gag.' But Arthur, 'We sit King, to help the wronged Through all our realm. The woman loves her lord. Peace to thee, woman, with thy loves and hates! The kings of old had doomed thee to the flames, Aurelius Emrys would have scourged thee dead, And Uther slit thy tongue: but get thee hence-- Lest that rough humour of the kings of old Return upon me! Thou that art her kin, Go likewise; lay him low and slay him not, But bring him here, that I may judge the right, According to the justice of the King: Then, be he guilty, by that deathless King Who lived and died for men, the man shall die.' Then came in hall the messenger of Mark, A name of evil savour in the land, The Cornish king. In either hand he bore What dazzled all, and shone far-off as shines A field of charlock in the sudden sun Between two showers, a cloth of palest gold, Which down he laid before the throne, and knelt, Delivering, that his lord, the vassal king, Was even upon his way to Camelot; For having heard that Arthur of his grace Had made his goodly cousin, Tristram, knight, And, for himself was of the greater state, Being a king, he trusted his liege-lord Would yield him this large honour all the more; So prayed him well to accept this cloth of gold, In token of true heart and fealty. Then Arthur cried to rend the cloth, to rend In pieces, and so cast it on the hearth. An oak-tree smouldered there. 'The goodly knight! What! shall the shield of Mark stand among these?' For, midway down the side of that long hall A stately pile,--whereof along the front, Some blazoned, some but carven, and some blank, There ran a treble range of stony shields,-- Rose, and high-arching overbrowed the hearth. And under every shield a knight was named: For this was Arthur's custom in his hall; When some good knight had done one noble deed, His arms were carven only; but if twain His arms were blazoned also; but if none, The shield was blank and bare without a sign Saving the name beneath; and Gareth saw The shield of Gawain blazoned rich and bright, And Modred's blank as death; and Arthur cried To rend the cloth and cast it on the hearth. 'More like are we to reave him of his crown Than make him knight because men call him king. The kings we found, ye know we stayed their hands From war among themselves, but left them kings; Of whom were any bounteous, merciful, Truth-speaking, brave, good livers, them we enrolled Among us, and they sit within our hall. But as Mark hath tarnished the great name of king, As Mark would sully the low state of churl: And, seeing he hath sent us cloth of gold, Return, and meet, and hold him from our eyes, Lest we should lap him up in cloth of lead, Silenced for ever--craven--a man of plots, Craft, poisonous counsels, wayside ambushings-- No fault of thine: let Kay the seneschal Look to thy wants, and send thee satisfied-- Accursed, who strikes nor lets the hand be seen!' And many another suppliant crying came With noise of ravage wrought by beast and man, And evermore a knight would ride away. Last, Gareth leaning both hands heavily Down on the shoulders of the twain, his men, Approached between them toward the King, and asked, 'A boon, Sir King (his voice was all ashamed), For see ye not how weak and hungerworn I seem--leaning on these? grant me to serve For meat and drink among thy kitchen-knaves A twelvemonth and a day, nor seek my name. Hereafter I will fight.' To him the King, 'A goodly youth and worth a goodlier boon! But so thou wilt no goodlier, then must Kay, The master of the meats and drinks, be thine.' He rose and past; then Kay, a man of mien Wan-sallow as the plant that feels itself Root-bitten by white lichen, 'Lo ye now! This fellow hath broken from some Abbey, where, God wot, he had not beef and brewis enow, However that might chance! but an he work, Like any pigeon will I cram his crop, And sleeker shall he shine than any hog.' Then Lancelot standing near, 'Sir Seneschal, Sleuth-hound thou knowest, and gray, and all the hounds; A horse thou knowest, a man thou dost not know: Broad brows and fair, a fluent hair and fine, High nose, a nostril large and fine, and hands Large, fair and fine!--Some young lad's mystery-- But, or from sheepcot or king's hall, the boy Is noble-natured. Treat him with all grace, Lest he should come to shame thy judging of him.' Then Kay, 'What murmurest thou of mystery? Think ye this fellow will poison the King's dish? Nay, for he spake too fool-like: mystery! Tut, an the lad were noble, he had asked For horse and armour: fair and fine, forsooth! Sir Fine-face, Sir Fair-hands? but see thou to it That thine own fineness, Lancelot, some fine day Undo thee not--and leave my man to me.' So Gareth all for glory underwent The sooty yoke of kitchen-vassalage; Ate with young lads his portion by the door, And couched at night with grimy kitchen-knaves. And Lancelot ever spake him pleasantly, But Kay the seneschal, who loved him not, Would hustle and harry him, and labour him Beyond his comrade of the hearth, and set To turn the broach, draw water, or hew wood, Or grosser tasks; and Gareth bowed himself With all obedience to the King, and wrought All kind of service with a noble ease That graced the lowliest act in doing it. And when the thralls had talk among themselves, And one would praise the love that linkt the King And Lancelot--how the King had saved his life In battle twice, and Lancelot once the King's-- For Lancelot was the first in Tournament, But Arthur mightiest on the battle-field-- Gareth was glad. Or if some other told, How once the wandering forester at dawn, Far over the blue tarns and hazy seas, On Caer-Eryri's highest found the King, A naked babe, of whom the Prophet spake, 'He passes to the Isle Avilion, He passes and is healed and cannot die'-- Gareth was glad. But if their talk were foul, Then would he whistle rapid as any lark, Or carol some old roundelay, and so loud That first they mocked, but, after, reverenced him. Or Gareth telling some prodigious tale Of knights, who sliced a red life-bubbling way Through twenty folds of twisted dragon, held All in a gap-mouthed circle his good mates Lying or sitting round him, idle hands, Charmed; till Sir Kay, the seneschal, would come Blustering upon them, like a sudden wind Among dead leaves, and drive them all apart. Or when the thralls had sport among themselves, So there were any trial of mastery, He, by two yards in casting bar or stone Was counted best; and if there chanced a joust, So that Sir Kay nodded him leave to go, Would hurry thither, and when he saw the knights Clash like the coming and retiring wave, And the spear spring, and good horse reel, the boy Was half beyond himself for ecstasy. So for a month he wrought among the thralls; But in the weeks that followed, the good Queen, Repentant of the word she made him swear, And saddening in her childless castle, sent, Between the in-crescent and de-crescent moon, Arms for her son, and loosed him from his vow. This, Gareth hearing from a squire of Lot With whom he used to play at tourney once, When both were children, and in lonely haunts Would scratch a ragged oval on the sand, And each at either dash from either end-- Shame never made girl redder than Gareth joy. He laughed; he sprang. 'Out of the smoke, at once I leap from Satan's foot to Peter's knee-- These news be mine, none other's--nay, the King's-- Descend into the city:' whereon he sought The King alone, and found, and told him all. 'I have staggered thy strong Gawain in a tilt For pastime; yea, he said it: joust can I. Make me thy knight--in secret! let my name Be hidden, and give me the first quest, I spring Like flame from ashes.' Here the King's calm eye Fell on, and checked, and made him flush, and bow Lowly, to kiss his hand, who answered him, 'Son, the good mother let me know thee here, And sent her wish that I would yield thee thine. Make thee my knight? my knights are sworn to vows Of utter hardihood, utter gentleness, And, loving, utter faithfulness in love, And uttermost obedience to the King.' Then Gareth, lightly springing from his knees, 'My King, for hardihood I can promise thee. For uttermost obedience make demand Of whom ye gave me to, the Seneschal, No mellow master of the meats and drinks! And as for love, God wot, I love not yet, But love I shall, God willing.' And the King 'Make thee my knight in secret? yea, but he, Our noblest brother, and our truest man, And one with me in all, he needs must know.' 'Let Lancelot know, my King, let Lancelot know, Thy noblest and thy truest!' And the King-- 'But wherefore would ye men should wonder at you? Nay, rather for the sake of me, their King, And the deed's sake my knighthood do the deed, Than to be noised of.' Merrily Gareth asked, 'Have I not earned my cake in baking of it? Let be my name until I make my name! My deeds will speak: it is but for a day.' So with a kindly hand on Gareth's arm Smiled the great King, and half-unwillingly Loving his lusty youthhood yielded to him. Then, after summoning Lancelot privily, 'I have given him the first quest: he is not proven. Look therefore when he calls for this in hall, Thou get to horse and follow him far away. Cover the lions on thy shield, and see Far as thou mayest, he be nor ta'en nor slain.' Then that same day there past into the hall A damsel of high lineage, and a brow May-blossom, and a cheek of apple-blossom, Hawk-eyes; and lightly was her slender nose Tip-tilted like the petal of a flower; She into hall past with her page and cried, 'O King, for thou hast driven the foe without, See to the foe within! bridge, ford, beset By bandits, everyone that owns a tower The Lord for half a league. Why sit ye there? Rest would I not, Sir King, an I were king, Till even the lonest hold were all as free From cursed bloodshed, as thine altar-cloth From that best blood it is a sin to spill.' 'Comfort thyself,' said Arthur. 'I nor mine Rest: so my knighthood keep the vows they swore, The wastest moorland of our realm shall be Safe, damsel, as the centre of this hall. What is thy name? thy need?' 'My name?' she said-- 'Lynette my name; noble; my need, a knight To combat for my sister, Lyonors, A lady of high lineage, of great lands, And comely, yea, and comelier than myself. She lives in Castle Perilous: a river Runs in three loops about her living-place; And o'er it are three passings, and three knights Defend the passings, brethren, and a fourth And of that four the mightiest, holds her stayed In her own castle, and so besieges her To break her will, and make her wed with him: And but delays his purport till thou send To do the battle with him, thy chief man Sir Lancelot whom he trusts to overthrow, Then wed, with glory: but she will not wed Save whom she loveth, or a holy life. Now therefore have I come for Lancelot.' Then Arthur mindful of Sir Gareth asked, 'Damsel, ye know this Order lives to crush All wrongers of the Realm. But say, these four, Who be they? What the fashion of the men?' 'They be of foolish fashion, O Sir King, The fashion of that old knight-errantry Who ride abroad, and do but what they will; Courteous or bestial from the moment, such As have nor law nor king; and three of these Proud in their fantasy call themselves the Day, Morning-Star, and Noon-Sun, and Evening-Star, Being strong fools; and never a whit more wise The fourth, who alway rideth armed in black, A huge man-beast of boundless savagery. He names himself the Night and oftener Death, And wears a helmet mounted with a skull, And bears a skeleton figured on his arms, To show that who may slay or scape the three, Slain by himself, shall enter endless night. And all these four be fools, but mighty men, And therefore am I come for Lancelot.' Hereat Sir Gareth called from where he rose, A head with kindling eyes above the throng, 'A boon, Sir King--this quest!' then--for he marked Kay near him groaning like a wounded bull-- 'Yea, King, thou knowest thy kitchen-knave am I, And mighty through thy meats and drinks am I, And I can topple over a hundred such. Thy promise, King,' and Arthur glancing at him, Brought down a momentary brow. 'Rough, sudden, And pardonable, worthy to be knight-- Go therefore,' and all hearers were amazed. But on the damsel's forehead shame, pride, wrath Slew the May-white: she lifted either arm, 'Fie on thee, King! I asked for thy chief knight, And thou hast given me but a kitchen-knave.' Then ere a man in hall could stay her, turned, Fled down the lane of access to the King, Took horse, descended the slope street, and past The weird white gate, and paused without, beside The field of tourney, murmuring 'kitchen-knave.' Now two great entries opened from the hall, At one end one, that gave upon a range Of level pavement where the King would pace At sunrise, gazing over plain and wood; And down from this a lordly stairway sloped Till lost in blowing trees and tops of towers; And out by this main doorway past the King. But one was counter to the hearth, and rose High that the highest-crested helm could ride Therethrough nor graze: and by this entry fled The damsel in her wrath, and on to this Sir Gareth strode, and saw without the door King Arthur's gift, the worth of half a town, A warhorse of the best, and near it stood The two that out of north had followed him: This bare a maiden shield, a casque; that held The horse, the spear; whereat Sir Gareth loosed A cloak that dropt from collar-bone to heel, A cloth of roughest web, and cast it down, And from it like a fuel-smothered fire, That lookt half-dead, brake bright, and flashed as those Dull-coated things, that making slide apart Their dusk wing-cases, all beneath there burns A jewelled harness, ere they pass and fly. So Gareth ere he parted flashed in arms. Then as he donned the helm, and took the shield And mounted horse and graspt a spear, of grain Storm-strengthened on a windy site, and tipt With trenchant steel, around him slowly prest The people, while from out of kitchen came The thralls in throng, and seeing who had worked Lustier than any, and whom they could but love, Mounted in arms, threw up their caps and cried, 'God bless the King, and all his fellowship!' And on through lanes of shouting Gareth rode Down the slope street, and past without the gate. So Gareth past with joy; but as the cur Pluckt from the cur he fights with, ere his cause Be cooled by fighting, follows, being named, His owner, but remembers all, and growls Remembering, so Sir Kay beside the door Muttered in scorn of Gareth whom he used To harry and hustle. 'Bound upon a quest With horse and arms--the King hath past his time-- My scullion knave! Thralls to your work again, For an your fire be low ye kindle mine! Will there be dawn in West and eve in East? Begone!--my knave!--belike and like enow Some old head-blow not heeded in his youth So shook his wits they wander in his prime-- Crazed! How the villain lifted up his voice, Nor shamed to bawl himself a kitchen-knave. Tut: he was tame and meek enow with me, Till peacocked up with Lancelot's noticing. Well--I will after my loud knave, and learn Whether he know me for his master yet. Out of the smoke he came, and so my lance Hold, by God's grace, he shall into the mire-- Thence, if the King awaken from his craze, Into the smoke again.' But Lancelot said, 'Kay, wherefore wilt thou go against the King, For that did never he whereon ye rail, But ever meekly served the King in thee? Abide: take counsel; for this lad is great And lusty, and knowing both of lance and sword.' 'Tut, tell not me,' said Kay, 'ye are overfine To mar stout knaves with foolish courtesies:' Then mounted, on through silent faces rode Down the slope city, and out beyond the gate. But by the field of tourney lingering yet Muttered the damsel, 'Wherefore did the King Scorn me? for, were Sir Lancelot lackt, at least He might have yielded to me one of those Who tilt for lady's love and glory here, Rather than--O sweet heaven! O fie upon him-- His kitchen-knave.' To whom Sir Gareth drew (And there were none but few goodlier than he) Shining in arms, 'Damsel, the quest is mine. Lead, and I follow.' She thereat, as one That smells a foul-fleshed agaric in the holt, And deems it carrion of some woodland thing, Or shrew, or weasel, nipt her slender nose With petulant thumb and finger, shrilling, 'Hence! Avoid, thou smellest all of kitchen-grease. And look who comes behind,' for there was Kay. 'Knowest thou not me? thy master? I am Kay. We lack thee by the hearth.' And Gareth to him, 'Master no more! too well I know thee, ay-- The most ungentle knight in Arthur's hall.' 'Have at thee then,' said Kay: they shocked, and Kay Fell shoulder-slipt, and Gareth cried again, 'Lead, and I follow,' and fast away she fled. But after sod and shingle ceased to fly Behind her, and the heart of her good horse Was nigh to burst with violence of the beat, Perforce she stayed, and overtaken spoke. 'What doest thou, scullion, in my fellowship? Deem'st thou that I accept thee aught the more Or love thee better, that by some device Full cowardly, or by mere unhappiness, Thou hast overthrown and slain thy master--thou!-- Dish-washer and broach-turner, loon!--to me Thou smellest all of kitchen as before.' 'Damsel,' Sir Gareth answered gently, 'say Whate'er ye will, but whatsoe'er ye say, I leave not till I finish this fair quest, Or die therefore.' 'Ay, wilt thou finish it? Sweet lord, how like a noble knight he talks! The listening rogue hath caught the manner of it. But, knave, anon thou shalt be met with, knave, And then by such a one that thou for all The kitchen brewis that was ever supt Shalt not once dare to look him in the face.' 'I shall assay,' said Gareth with a smile That maddened her, and away she flashed again Down the long avenues of a boundless wood, And Gareth following was again beknaved. 'Sir Kitchen-knave, I have missed the only way Where Arthur's men are set along the wood; The wood is nigh as full of thieves as leaves: If both be slain, I am rid of thee; but yet, Sir Scullion, canst thou use that spit of thine? Fight, an thou canst: I have missed the only way.' So till the dusk that followed evensong Rode on the two, reviler and reviled; Then after one long slope was mounted, saw, Bowl-shaped, through tops of many thousand pines A gloomy-gladed hollow slowly sink To westward--in the deeps whereof a mere, Round as the red eye of an Eagle-owl, Under the half-dead sunset glared; and shouts Ascended, and there brake a servingman Flying from out of the black wood, and crying, 'They have bound my lord to cast him in the mere.' Then Gareth, 'Bound am I to right the wronged, But straitlier bound am I to bide with thee.' And when the damsel spake contemptuously, 'Lead, and I follow,' Gareth cried again, 'Follow, I lead!' so down among the pines He plunged; and there, blackshadowed nigh the mere, And mid-thigh-deep in bulrushes and reed, Saw six tall men haling a seventh along, A stone about his neck to drown him in it. Three with good blows he quieted, but three Fled through the pines; and Gareth loosed the stone From off his neck, then in the mere beside Tumbled it; oilily bubbled up the mere. Last, Gareth loosed his bonds and on free feet Set him, a stalwart Baron, Arthur's friend. 'Well that ye came, or else these caitiff rogues Had wreaked themselves on me; good cause is theirs To hate me, for my wont hath ever been To catch my thief, and then like vermin here Drown him, and with a stone about his neck; And under this wan water many of them Lie rotting, but at night let go the stone, And rise, and flickering in a grimly light Dance on the mere. Good now, ye have saved a life Worth somewhat as the cleanser of this wood. And fain would I reward thee worshipfully. What guerdon will ye?' Gareth sharply spake, 'None! for the deed's sake have I done the deed, In uttermost obedience to the King. But wilt thou yield this damsel harbourage?' Whereat the Baron saying, 'I well believe You be of Arthur's Table,' a light laugh Broke from Lynette, 'Ay, truly of a truth, And in a sort, being Arthur's kitchen-knave!-- But deem not I accept thee aught the more, Scullion, for running sharply with thy spit Down on a rout of craven foresters. A thresher with his flail had scattered them. Nay--for thou smellest of the kitchen still. But an this lord will yield us harbourage, Well.' So she spake. A league beyond the wood, All in a full-fair manor and a rich, His towers where that day a feast had been Held in high hall, and many a viand left, And many a costly cate, received the three. And there they placed a peacock in his pride Before the damsel, and the Baron set Gareth beside her, but at once she rose. 'Meseems, that here is much discourtesy, Setting this knave, Lord Baron, at my side. Hear me--this morn I stood in Arthur's hall, And prayed the King would grant me Lancelot To fight the brotherhood of Day and Night-- The last a monster unsubduable Of any save of him for whom I called-- Suddenly bawls this frontless kitchen-knave, "The quest is mine; thy kitchen-knave am I, And mighty through thy meats and drinks am I." Then Arthur all at once gone mad replies, "Go therefore," and so gives the quest to him-- Him--here--a villain fitter to stick swine Than ride abroad redressing women's wrong, Or sit beside a noble gentlewoman.' Then half-ashamed and part-amazed, the lord Now looked at one and now at other, left The damsel by the peacock in his pride, And, seating Gareth at another board, Sat down beside him, ate and then began. 'Friend, whether thou be kitchen-knave, or not, Or whether it be the maiden's fantasy, And whether she be mad, or else the King, Or both or neither, or thyself be mad, I ask not: but thou strikest a strong stroke, For strong thou art and goodly therewithal, And saver of my life; and therefore now, For here be mighty men to joust with, weigh Whether thou wilt not with thy damsel back To crave again Sir Lancelot of the King. Thy pardon; I but speak for thine avail, The saver of my life.' And Gareth said, 'Full pardon, but I follow up the quest, Despite of Day and Night and Death and Hell.' So when, next morn, the lord whose life he saved Had, some brief space, conveyed them on their way And left them with God-speed, Sir Gareth spake, 'Lead, and I follow.' Haughtily she replied. 'I fly no more: I allow thee for an hour. Lion and stout have isled together, knave, In time of flood. Nay, furthermore, methinks Some ruth is mine for thee. Back wilt thou, fool? For hard by here is one will overthrow And slay thee: then will I to court again, And shame the King for only yielding me My champion from the ashes of his hearth.' To whom Sir Gareth answered courteously, 'Say thou thy say, and I will do my deed. Allow me for mine hour, and thou wilt find My fortunes all as fair as hers who lay Among the ashes and wedded the King's son.' Then to the shore of one of those long loops Wherethrough the serpent river coiled, they came. Rough-thicketed were the banks and steep; the stream Full, narrow; this a bridge of single arc Took at a leap; and on the further side Arose a silk pavilion, gay with gold In streaks and rays, and all Lent-lily in hue, Save that the dome was purple, and above, Crimson, a slender banneret fluttering. And therebefore the lawless warrior paced Unarmed, and calling, 'Damsel, is this he, The champion thou hast brought from Arthur's hall? For whom we let thee pass.' 'Nay, nay,' she said, 'Sir Morning-Star. The King in utter scorn Of thee and thy much folly hath sent thee here His kitchen-knave: and look thou to thyself: See that he fall not on thee suddenly, And slay thee unarmed: he is not knight but knave.' Then at his call, 'O daughters of the Dawn, And servants of the Morning-Star, approach, Arm me,' from out the silken curtain-folds Bare-footed and bare-headed three fair girls In gilt and rosy raiment came: their feet In dewy grasses glistened; and the hair All over glanced with dewdrop or with gem Like sparkles in the stone Avanturine. These armed him in blue arms, and gave a shield Blue also, and thereon the morning star. And Gareth silent gazed upon the knight, Who stood a moment, ere his horse was brought, Glorying; and in the stream beneath him, shone Immingled with Heaven's azure waveringly, The gay pavilion and the naked feet, His arms, the rosy raiment, and the star. Then she that watched him, 'Wherefore stare ye so? Thou shakest in thy fear: there yet is time: Flee down the valley before he get to horse. Who will cry shame? Thou art not knight but knave.' Said Gareth, 'Damsel, whether knave or knight, Far liefer had I fight a score of times Than hear thee so missay me and revile. Fair words were best for him who fights for thee; But truly foul are better, for they send That strength of anger through mine arms, I know That I shall overthrow him.' And he that bore The star, when mounted, cried from o'er the bridge, 'A kitchen-knave, and sent in scorn of me! Such fight not I, but answer scorn with scorn. For this were shame to do him further wrong Than set him on his feet, and take his horse And arms, and so return him to the King. Come, therefore, leave thy lady lightly, knave. Avoid: for it beseemeth not a knave To ride with such a lady.' 'Dog, thou liest. I spring from loftier lineage than thine own.' He spake; and all at fiery speed the two Shocked on the central bridge, and either spear Bent but not brake, and either knight at once, Hurled as a stone from out of a catapult Beyond his horse's crupper and the bridge, Fell, as if dead; but quickly rose and drew, And Gareth lashed so fiercely with his brand He drave his enemy backward down the bridge, The damsel crying, 'Well-stricken, kitchen-knave!' Till Gareth's shield was cloven; but one stroke Laid him that clove it grovelling on the ground. Then cried the fallen, 'Take not my life: I yield.' And Gareth, 'So this damsel ask it of me Good--I accord it easily as a grace.' She reddening, 'Insolent scullion: I of thee? I bound to thee for any favour asked!' 'Then he shall die.' And Gareth there unlaced His helmet as to slay him, but she shrieked, 'Be not so hardy, scullion, as to slay One nobler than thyself.' 'Damsel, thy charge Is an abounding pleasure to me. Knight, Thy life is thine at her command. Arise And quickly pass to Arthur's hall, and say His kitchen-knave hath sent thee. See thou crave His pardon for thy breaking of his laws. Myself, when I return, will plead for thee. Thy shield is mine--farewell; and, damsel, thou, Lead, and I follow.' And fast away she fled. Then when he came upon her, spake, 'Methought, Knave, when I watched thee striking on the bridge The savour of thy kitchen came upon me A little faintlier: but the wind hath changed: I scent it twenty-fold.' And then she sang, '"O morning star" (not that tall felon there Whom thou by sorcery or unhappiness Or some device, hast foully overthrown), "O morning star that smilest in the blue, O star, my morning dream hath proven true, Smile sweetly, thou! my love hath smiled on me." 'But thou begone, take counsel, and away, For hard by here is one that guards a ford-- The second brother in their fool's parable-- Will pay thee all thy wages, and to boot. Care not for shame: thou art not knight but knave.' To whom Sir Gareth answered, laughingly, 'Parables? Hear a parable of the knave. When I was kitchen-knave among the rest Fierce was the hearth, and one of my co-mates Owned a rough dog, to whom he cast his coat, "Guard it," and there was none to meddle with it. And such a coat art thou, and thee the King Gave me to guard, and such a dog am I, To worry, and not to flee--and--knight or knave-- The knave that doth thee service as full knight Is all as good, meseems, as any knight Toward thy sister's freeing.' 'Ay, Sir Knave! Ay, knave, because thou strikest as a knight, Being but knave, I hate thee all the more.' 'Fair damsel, you should worship me the more, That, being but knave, I throw thine enemies.' 'Ay, ay,' she said, 'but thou shalt meet thy match.' So when they touched the second river-loop, Huge on a huge red horse, and all in mail Burnished to blinding, shone the Noonday Sun Beyond a raging shallow. As if the flower, That blows a globe of after arrowlets, Ten thousand-fold had grown, flashed the fierce shield, All sun; and Gareth's eyes had flying blots Before them when he turned from watching him. He from beyond the roaring shallow roared, 'What doest thou, brother, in my marches here?' And she athwart the shallow shrilled again, 'Here is a kitchen-knave from Arthur's hall Hath overthrown thy brother, and hath his arms.' 'Ugh!' cried the Sun, and vizoring up a red And cipher face of rounded foolishness, Pushed horse across the foamings of the ford, Whom Gareth met midstream: no room was there For lance or tourney-skill: four strokes they struck With sword, and these were mighty; the new knight Had fear he might be shamed; but as the Sun Heaved up a ponderous arm to strike the fifth, The hoof of his horse slipt in the stream, the stream Descended, and the Sun was washed away. Then Gareth laid his lance athwart the ford; So drew him home; but he that fought no more, As being all bone-battered on the rock, Yielded; and Gareth sent him to the King, 'Myself when I return will plead for thee.' 'Lead, and I follow.' Quietly she led. 'Hath not the good wind, damsel, changed again?' 'Nay, not a point: nor art thou victor here. There lies a ridge of slate across the ford; His horse thereon stumbled--ay, for I saw it. '"O Sun" (not this strong fool whom thou, Sir Knave, Hast overthrown through mere unhappiness), "O Sun, that wakenest all to bliss or pain, O moon, that layest all to sleep again, Shine sweetly: twice my love hath smiled on me." What knowest thou of lovesong or of love? Nay, nay, God wot, so thou wert nobly born, Thou hast a pleasant presence. Yea, perchance,-- '"O dewy flowers that open to the sun, O dewy flowers that close when day is done, Blow sweetly: twice my love hath smiled on me." 'What knowest thou of flowers, except, belike, To garnish meats with? hath not our good King Who lent me thee, the flower of kitchendom, A foolish love for flowers? what stick ye round The pasty? wherewithal deck the boar's head? Flowers? nay, the boar hath rosemaries and bay. '"O birds, that warble to the morning sky, O birds that warble as the day goes by, Sing sweetly: twice my love hath smiled on me." 'What knowest thou of birds, lark, mavis, merle, Linnet? what dream ye when they utter forth May-music growing with the growing light, Their sweet sun-worship? these be for the snare (So runs thy fancy) these be for the spit, Larding and basting. See thou have not now Larded thy last, except thou turn and fly. There stands the third fool of their allegory.' For there beyond a bridge of treble bow, All in a rose-red from the west, and all Naked it seemed, and glowing in the broad Deep-dimpled current underneath, the knight, That named himself the Star of Evening, stood. And Gareth, 'Wherefore waits the madman there Naked in open dayshine?' 'Nay,' she cried, 'Not naked, only wrapt in hardened skins That fit him like his own; and so ye cleave His armour off him, these will turn the blade.' Then the third brother shouted o'er the bridge, 'O brother-star, why shine ye here so low? Thy ward is higher up: but have ye slain The damsel's champion?' and the damsel cried, 'No star of thine, but shot from Arthur's heaven With all disaster unto thine and thee! For both thy younger brethren have gone down Before this youth; and so wilt thou, Sir Star; Art thou not old?' 'Old, damsel, old and hard, Old, with the might and breath of twenty boys.' Said Gareth, 'Old, and over-bold in brag! But that same strength which threw the Morning Star Can throw the Evening.' Then that other blew A hard and deadly note upon the horn. 'Approach and arm me!' With slow steps from out An old storm-beaten, russet, many-stained Pavilion, forth a grizzled damsel came, And armed him in old arms, and brought a helm With but a drying evergreen for crest, And gave a shield whereon the Star of Even Half-tarnished and half-bright, his emblem, shone. But when it glittered o'er the saddle-bow, They madly hurled together on the bridge; And Gareth overthrew him, lighted, drew, There met him drawn, and overthrew him again, But up like fire he started: and as oft As Gareth brought him grovelling on his knees, So many a time he vaulted up again; Till Gareth panted hard, and his great heart, Foredooming all his trouble was in vain, Laboured within him, for he seemed as one That all in later, sadder age begins To war against ill uses of a life, But these from all his life arise, and cry, 'Thou hast made us lords, and canst not put us down!' He half despairs; so Gareth seemed to strike Vainly, the damsel clamouring all the while, 'Well done, knave-knight, well-stricken, O good knight-knave-- O knave, as noble as any of all the knights-- Shame me not, shame me not. I have prophesied-- Strike, thou art worthy of the Table Round-- His arms are old, he trusts the hardened skin-- Strike--strike--the wind will never change again.' And Gareth hearing ever stronglier smote, And hewed great pieces of his armour off him, But lashed in vain against the hardened skin, And could not wholly bring him under, more Than loud Southwesterns, rolling ridge on ridge, The buoy that rides at sea, and dips and springs For ever; till at length Sir Gareth's brand Clashed his, and brake it utterly to the hilt. 'I have thee now;' but forth that other sprang, And, all unknightlike, writhed his wiry arms Around him, till he felt, despite his mail, Strangled, but straining even his uttermost Cast, and so hurled him headlong o'er the bridge Down to the river, sink or swim, and cried, 'Lead, and I follow.' But the damsel said, 'I lead no longer; ride thou at my side; Thou art the kingliest of all kitchen-knaves. '"O trefoil, sparkling on the rainy plain, O rainbow with three colours after rain, Shine sweetly: thrice my love hath smiled on me." 'Sir,--and, good faith, I fain had added--Knight, But that I heard thee call thyself a knave,-- Shamed am I that I so rebuked, reviled, Missaid thee; noble I am; and thought the King Scorned me and mine; and now thy pardon, friend, For thou hast ever answered courteously, And wholly bold thou art, and meek withal As any of Arthur's best, but, being knave, Hast mazed my wit: I marvel what thou art.' 'Damsel,' he said, 'you be not all to blame, Saving that you mistrusted our good King Would handle scorn, or yield you, asking, one Not fit to cope your quest. You said your say; Mine answer was my deed. Good sooth! I hold He scarce is knight, yea but half-man, nor meet To fight for gentle damsel, he, who lets His heart be stirred with any foolish heat At any gentle damsel's waywardness. Shamed? care not! thy foul sayings fought for me: And seeing now thy words are fair, methinks There rides no knight, not Lancelot, his great self, Hath force to quell me.' Nigh upon that hour When the lone hern forgets his melancholy, Lets down his other leg, and stretching, dreams Of goodly supper in the distant pool, Then turned the noble damsel smiling at him, And told him of a cavern hard at hand, Where bread and baken meats and good red wine Of Southland, which the Lady Lyonors Had sent her coming champion, waited him. Anon they past a narrow comb wherein Where slabs of rock with figures, knights on horse Sculptured, and deckt in slowly-waning hues. 'Sir Knave, my knight, a hermit once was here, Whose holy hand hath fashioned on the rock The war of Time against the soul of man. And yon four fools have sucked their allegory From these damp walls, and taken but the form. Know ye not these?' and Gareth lookt and read-- In letters like to those the vexillary Hath left crag-carven o'er the streaming Gelt-- 'PHOSPHORUS,' then 'MERIDIES'--'HESPERUS'-- 'NOX'--'MORS,' beneath five figures, armed men, Slab after slab, their faces forward all, And running down the Soul, a Shape that fled With broken wings, torn raiment and loose hair, For help and shelter to the hermit's cave. 'Follow the faces, and we find it. Look, Who comes behind?' For one--delayed at first Through helping back the dislocated Kay To Camelot, then by what thereafter chanced, The damsel's headlong error through the wood-- Sir Lancelot, having swum the river-loops-- His blue shield-lions covered--softly drew Behind the twain, and when he saw the star Gleam, on Sir Gareth's turning to him, cried, 'Stay, felon knight, I avenge me for my friend.' And Gareth crying pricked against the cry; But when they closed--in a moment--at one touch Of that skilled spear, the wonder of the world-- Went sliding down so easily, and fell, That when he found the grass within his hands He laughed; the laughter jarred upon Lynette: Harshly she asked him, 'Shamed and overthrown, And tumbled back into the kitchen-knave, Why laugh ye? that ye blew your boast in vain?' 'Nay, noble damsel, but that I, the son Of old King Lot and good Queen Bellicent, And victor of the bridges and the ford, And knight of Arthur, here lie thrown by whom I know not, all through mere unhappiness-- Device and sorcery and unhappiness-- Out, sword; we are thrown!' And Lancelot answered, 'Prince, O Gareth--through the mere unhappiness Of one who came to help thee, not to harm, Lancelot, and all as glad to find thee whole, As on the day when Arthur knighted him.' Then Gareth, 'Thou--Lancelot!--thine the hand That threw me? An some chance to mar the boast Thy brethren of thee make--which could not chance-- Had sent thee down before a lesser spear, Shamed had I been, and sad--O Lancelot--thou!' Whereat the maiden, petulant, 'Lancelot, Why came ye not, when called? and wherefore now Come ye, not called? I gloried in my knave, Who being still rebuked, would answer still Courteous as any knight--but now, if knight, The marvel dies, and leaves me fooled and tricked, And only wondering wherefore played upon: And doubtful whether I and mine be scorned. Where should be truth if not in Arthur's hall, In Arthur's presence? Knight, knave, prince and fool, I hate thee and for ever.' And Lancelot said, 'Blessed be thou, Sir Gareth! knight art thou To the King's best wish. O damsel, be you wise To call him shamed, who is but overthrown? Thrown have I been, nor once, but many a time. Victor from vanquished issues at the last, And overthrower from being overthrown. With sword we have not striven; and thy good horse And thou are weary; yet not less I felt Thy manhood through that wearied lance of thine. Well hast thou done; for all the stream is freed, And thou hast wreaked his justice on his foes, And when reviled, hast answered graciously, And makest merry when overthrown. Prince, Knight Hail, Knight and Prince, and of our Table Round!' And then when turning to Lynette he told The tale of Gareth, petulantly she said, 'Ay well--ay well--for worse than being fooled Of others, is to fool one's self. A cave, Sir Lancelot, is hard by, with meats and drinks And forage for the horse, and flint for fire. But all about it flies a honeysuckle. Seek, till we find.' And when they sought and found, Sir Gareth drank and ate, and all his life Past into sleep; on whom the maiden gazed. 'Sound sleep be thine! sound cause to sleep hast thou. Wake lusty! Seem I not as tender to him As any mother? Ay, but such a one As all day long hath rated at her child, And vext his day, but blesses him asleep-- Good lord, how sweetly smells the honeysuckle In the hushed night, as if the world were one Of utter peace, and love, and gentleness! O Lancelot, Lancelot'--and she clapt her hands-- 'Full merry am I to find my goodly knave Is knight and noble. See now, sworn have I, Else yon black felon had not let me pass, To bring thee back to do the battle with him. Thus an thou goest, he will fight thee first; Who doubts thee victor? so will my knight-knave Miss the full flower of this accomplishment.' Said Lancelot, 'Peradventure he, you name, May know my shield. Let Gareth, an he will, Change his for mine, and take my charger, fresh, Not to be spurred, loving the battle as well As he that rides him.' 'Lancelot-like,' she said, 'Courteous in this, Lord Lancelot, as in all.' And Gareth, wakening, fiercely clutched the shield; 'Ramp ye lance-splintering lions, on whom all spears Are rotten sticks! ye seem agape to roar! Yea, ramp and roar at leaving of your lord!-- Care not, good beasts, so well I care for you. O noble Lancelot, from my hold on these Streams virtue--fire--through one that will not shame Even the shadow of Lancelot under shield. Hence: let us go.' Silent the silent field They traversed. Arthur's harp though summer-wan, In counter motion to the clouds, allured The glance of Gareth dreaming on his liege. A star shot: 'Lo,' said Gareth, 'the foe falls!' An owl whoopt: 'Hark the victor pealing there!' Suddenly she that rode upon his left Clung to the shield that Lancelot lent him, crying, 'Yield, yield him this again: 'tis he must fight: I curse the tongue that all through yesterday Reviled thee, and hath wrought on Lancelot now To lend thee horse and shield: wonders ye have done; Miracles ye cannot: here is glory enow In having flung the three: I see thee maimed, Mangled: I swear thou canst not fling the fourth.' 'And wherefore, damsel? tell me all ye know. You cannot scare me; nor rough face, or voice, Brute bulk of limb, or boundless savagery Appal me from the quest.' 'Nay, Prince,' she cried, 'God wot, I never looked upon the face, Seeing he never rides abroad by day; But watched him have I like a phantom pass Chilling the night: nor have I heard the voice. Always he made his mouthpiece of a page Who came and went, and still reported him As closing in himself the strength of ten, And when his anger tare him, massacring Man, woman, lad and girl--yea, the soft babe! Some hold that he hath swallowed infant flesh, Monster! O Prince, I went for Lancelot first, The quest is Lancelot's: give him back the shield.' Said Gareth laughing, 'An he fight for this, Belike he wins it as the better man: Thus--and not else!' But Lancelot on him urged All the devisings of their chivalry When one might meet a mightier than himself; How best to manage horse, lance, sword and shield, And so fill up the gap where force might fail With skill and fineness. Instant were his words. Then Gareth, 'Here be rules. I know but one-- To dash against mine enemy and win. Yet have I seen thee victor in the joust, And seen thy way.' 'Heaven help thee,' sighed Lynette. Then for a space, and under cloud that grew To thunder-gloom palling all stars, they rode In converse till she made her palfrey halt, Lifted an arm, and softly whispered, 'There.' And all the three were silent seeing, pitched Beside the Castle Perilous on flat field, A huge pavilion like a mountain peak Sunder the glooming crimson on the marge, Black, with black banner, and a long black horn Beside it hanging; which Sir Gareth graspt, And so, before the two could hinder him, Sent all his heart and breath through all the horn. Echoed the walls; a light twinkled; anon Came lights and lights, and once again he blew; Whereon were hollow tramplings up and down And muffled voices heard, and shadows past; Till high above him, circled with her maids, The Lady Lyonors at a window stood, Beautiful among lights, and waving to him White hands, and courtesy; but when the Prince Three times had blown--after long hush--at last-- The huge pavilion slowly yielded up, Through those black foldings, that which housed therein. High on a nightblack horse, in nightblack arms, With white breast-bone, and barren ribs of Death, And crowned with fleshless laughter--some ten steps-- In the half-light--through the dim dawn--advanced The monster, and then paused, and spake no word. But Gareth spake and all indignantly, 'Fool, for thou hast, men say, the strength of ten, Canst thou not trust the limbs thy God hath given, But must, to make the terror of thee more, Trick thyself out in ghastly imageries Of that which Life hath done with, and the clod, Less dull than thou, will hide with mantling flowers As if for pity?' But he spake no word; Which set the horror higher: a maiden swooned; The Lady Lyonors wrung her hands and wept, As doomed to be the bride of Night and Death; Sir Gareth's head prickled beneath his helm; And even Sir Lancelot through his warm blood felt Ice strike, and all that marked him were aghast. At once Sir Lancelot's charger fiercely neighed, And Death's dark war-horse bounded forward with him. Then those that did not blink the terror, saw That Death was cast to ground, and slowly rose. But with one stroke Sir Gareth split the skull. Half fell to right and half to left and lay. Then with a stronger buffet he clove the helm As throughly as the skull; and out from this Issued the bright face of a blooming boy Fresh as a flower new-born, and crying, 'Knight, Slay me not: my three brethren bad me do it, To make a horror all about the house, And stay the world from Lady Lyonors. They never dreamed the passes would be past.' Answered Sir Gareth graciously to one Not many a moon his younger, 'My fair child, What madness made thee challenge the chief knight Of Arthur's hall?' 'Fair Sir, they bad me do it. They hate the King, and Lancelot, the King's friend, They hoped to slay him somewhere on the stream, They never dreamed the passes could be past.' Then sprang the happier day from underground; And Lady Lyonors and her house, with dance And revel and song, made merry over Death, As being after all their foolish fears And horrors only proven a blooming boy. So large mirth lived and Gareth won the quest. And he that told the tale in older times Says that Sir Gareth wedded Lyonors, But he, that told it later, says Lynette. The Marriage of Geraint The brave Geraint, a knight of Arthur's court, A tributary prince of Devon, one Of that great Order of the Table Round, Had married Enid, Yniol's only child, And loved her, as he loved the light of Heaven. And as the light of Heaven varies, now At sunrise, now at sunset, now by night With moon and trembling stars, so loved Geraint To make her beauty vary day by day, In crimsons and in purples and in gems. And Enid, but to please her husband's eye, Who first had found and loved her in a state Of broken fortunes, daily fronted him In some fresh splendour; and the Queen herself, Grateful to Prince Geraint for service done, Loved her, and often with her own white hands Arrayed and decked her, as the loveliest, Next after her own self, in all the court. And Enid loved the Queen, and with true heart Adored her, as the stateliest and the best And loveliest of all women upon earth. And seeing them so tender and so close, Long in their common love rejoiced Geraint. But when a rumour rose about the Queen, Touching her guilty love for Lancelot, Though yet there lived no proof, nor yet was heard The world's loud whisper breaking into storm, Not less Geraint believed it; and there fell A horror on him, lest his gentle wife, Through that great tenderness for Guinevere, Had suffered, or should suffer any taint In nature: wherefore going to the King, He made this pretext, that his princedom lay Close on the borders of a territory, Wherein were bandit earls, and caitiff knights, Assassins, and all flyers from the hand Of Justice, and whatever loathes a law: And therefore, till the King himself should please To cleanse this common sewer of all his realm, He craved a fair permission to depart, And there defend his marches; and the King Mused for a little on his plea, but, last, Allowing it, the Prince and Enid rode, And fifty knights rode with them, to the shores Of Severn, and they past to their own land; Where, thinking, that if ever yet was wife True to her lord, mine shall be so to me, He compassed her with sweet observances And worship, never leaving her, and grew Forgetful of his promise to the King, Forgetful of the falcon and the hunt, Forgetful of the tilt and tournament, Forgetful of his glory and his name, Forgetful of his princedom and its cares. And this forgetfulness was hateful to her. And by and by the people, when they met In twos and threes, or fuller companies, Began to scoff and jeer and babble of him As of a prince whose manhood was all gone, And molten down in mere uxoriousness. And this she gathered from the people's eyes: This too the women who attired her head, To please her, dwelling on his boundless love, Told Enid, and they saddened her the more: And day by day she thought to tell Geraint, But could not out of bashful delicacy; While he that watched her sadden, was the more Suspicious that her nature had a taint. At last, it chanced that on a summer morn (They sleeping each by either) the new sun Beat through 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 darkened from the high light in his eyes, Than that my lord through me should suffer shame. Am I so bold, and could I so stand by, And see my dear lord wounded in the strife, And 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 feared 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 though he loved and reverenced her too much To dream she could be guilty of foul act, Right through 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 hurled 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 though it seems my spurs are yet to win, I have not fallen so low as some would wish. And thou, put on thy worst and meanest dress And ride with me.' And Enid asked, amazed, 'If Enid errs, let Enid learn her fault.' But he, 'I charge thee, ask not, but obey.' Then she bethought her of a faded silk, A faded mantle and a faded veil, And moving toward a cedarn cabinet, Wherein she kept them folded reverently With sprigs of summer laid between the folds, She took them, and arrayed herself therein, Remembering when first he came on her Drest in that dress, and how he loved her in it, And all her foolish fears about the dress, And all his journey to her, as himself Had told her, and their coming to the court. For Arthur on the Whitsuntide before Held court at old Caerleon upon Usk. There on a day, he sitting high in hall, Before him came a forester of Dean, Wet from the woods, with notice of a hart Taller than all his fellows, milky-white, First seen that day: these things he told the King. Then the good King gave order to let blow His horns for hunting on the morrow morn. And when the King petitioned for his leave To see the hunt, allowed it easily. So with the morning all the court were gone. But Guinevere lay late into the morn, Lost in sweet dreams, and dreaming of her love For Lancelot, and forgetful of the hunt; But rose at last, a single maiden with her, Took horse, and forded Usk, and gained the wood; There, on a little knoll beside it, stayed Waiting to hear the hounds; but heard instead A sudden sound of hoofs, for Prince Geraint, Late also, wearing neither hunting-dress Nor weapon, save a golden-hilted brand, Came quickly flashing through the shallow ford Behind them, and so galloped up the knoll. A purple scarf, at either end whereof There swung an apple of the purest gold, Swayed round about him, as he galloped up To join them, glancing like a dragon-fly In summer suit and silks of holiday. Low bowed the tributary Prince, and she, Sweet and statelily, and with all grace Of womanhood and queenhood, answered him: 'Late, late, Sir Prince,' she said, 'later than we!' 'Yea, noble Queen,' he answered, 'and so late That I but come like you to see the hunt, Not join it.' 'Therefore wait with me,' she said; 'For on this little knoll, if anywhere, There is good chance that we shall hear the hounds: Here often they break covert at our feet.' And while they listened for the distant hunt, And chiefly for the baying of Cavall, King Arthur's hound of deepest mouth, there rode Full slowly by a knight, lady, and dwarf; Whereof the dwarf lagged latest, and the knight Had vizor up, and showed a youthful face, Imperious, and of haughtiest lineaments. And Guinevere, not mindful of his face In the King's hall, desired his name, and sent Her maiden to demand it of the dwarf; Who being vicious, old and irritable, And doubling all his master's vice of pride, Made answer sharply that she should not know. 'Then will I ask it of himself,' she said. 'Nay, by my faith, thou shalt not,' cried the dwarf; 'Thou art not worthy even to speak of him;' And when she put her horse toward the knight, Struck at her with his whip, and she returned Indignant to the Queen; whereat Geraint Exclaiming, 'Surely I will learn the name,' Made sharply to the dwarf, and asked it of him, Who answered as before; and when the Prince Had put his horse in motion toward the knight, Struck at him with his whip, and cut his cheek. The Prince's blood spirted upon the scarf, Dyeing it; and his quick, instinctive hand Caught at the hilt, as to abolish him: But he, from his exceeding manfulness And pure nobility of temperament, Wroth to be wroth at such a worm, refrained From even a word, and so returning said: 'I will avenge this insult, noble Queen, Done in your maiden's person to yourself: And I will track this vermin to their earths: For though I ride unarmed, I do not doubt To find, at some place I shall come at, arms On loan, or else for pledge; and, being found, Then will I fight him, and will break his pride, And on the third day will again be here, So that I be not fallen in fight. Farewell.' 'Farewell, fair Prince,' answered the stately Queen. 'Be prosperous in this journey, as in all; And may you light on all things that you love, And live to wed with her whom first you love: But ere you wed with any, bring your bride, And I, were she the daughter of a king, Yea, though she were a beggar from the hedge, Will clothe her for her bridals like the sun.' And Prince Geraint, now thinking that he heard The noble hart at bay, now the far horn, A little vext at losing of the hunt, A little at the vile occasion, rode, By ups and downs, through many a grassy glade And valley, with fixt eye following the three. At last they issued from the world of wood, And climbed upon a fair and even ridge, And showed themselves against the sky, and sank. And thither there came Geraint, and underneath Beheld the long street of a little town In a long valley, on one side whereof, White from the mason's hand, a fortress rose; And on one side a castle in decay, Beyond a bridge that spanned a dry ravine: And out of town and valley came a noise As of a broad brook o'er a shingly bed Brawling, or like a clamour of the rooks At distance, ere they settle for the night. And onward to the fortress rode the three, And entered, and were lost behind the walls. 'So,' thought Geraint, 'I have tracked him to his earth.' And down the long street riding wearily, Found every hostel full, and everywhere Was hammer laid to hoof, and the hot hiss And bustling whistle of the youth who scoured His master's armour; and of such a one He asked, 'What means the tumult in the town?' Who told him, scouring still, 'The sparrow-hawk!' Then riding close behind an ancient churl, Who, smitten by the dusty sloping beam, Went sweating underneath a sack of corn, Asked yet once more what meant the hubbub here? Who answered gruffly, 'Ugh! the sparrow-hawk.' Then riding further past an armourer's, Who, with back turned, and bowed above his work, Sat riveting a helmet on his knee, He put the self-same query, but the man Not turning round, nor looking at him, said: 'Friend, he that labours for the sparrow-hawk Has little time for idle questioners.' Whereat Geraint flashed into sudden spleen: 'A thousand pips eat up your sparrow-hawk! Tits, wrens, and all winged nothings peck him dead! Ye think the rustic cackle of your bourg The murmur of the world! What is it to me? O wretched set of sparrows, one and all, Who pipe of nothing but of sparrow-hawks! Speak, if ye be not like the rest, hawk-mad, Where can I get me harbourage for the night? And arms, arms, arms to fight my enemy? Speak!' Whereat the armourer turning all amazed And seeing one so gay in purple silks, Came forward with the helmet yet in hand And answered, 'Pardon me, O stranger knight; We hold a tourney here tomorrow morn, And there is scantly time for half the work. Arms? truth! I know not: all are wanted here. Harbourage? truth, good truth, I know not, save, It may be, at Earl Yniol's, o'er the bridge Yonder.' He spoke and fell to work again. Then rode Geraint, a little spleenful yet, Across the bridge that spanned the dry ravine. There musing sat the hoary-headed Earl, (His dress a suit of frayed magnificence, Once fit for feasts of ceremony) and said: 'Whither, fair son?' to whom Geraint replied, 'O friend, I seek a harbourage for the night.' Then Yniol, 'Enter therefore and partake The slender entertainment of a house Once rich, now poor, but ever open-doored.' 'Thanks, venerable friend,' replied Geraint; 'So that ye do not serve me sparrow-hawks For supper, I will enter, I will eat With all the passion of a twelve hours' fast.' Then sighed and smiled the hoary-headed Earl, And answered, 'Graver cause than yours is mine To curse this hedgerow thief, the sparrow-hawk: But in, go in; for save yourself desire it, We will not touch upon him even in jest.' Then rode Geraint into the castle court, His charger trampling many a prickly star Of sprouted thistle on the broken stones. He looked and saw that all was ruinous. Here stood a shattered archway plumed with fern; And here had fallen a great part of a tower, Whole, like a crag that tumbles from the cliff, And like a crag was gay with wilding flowers: And high above a piece of turret stair, Worn by the feet that now were silent, wound Bare to the sun, and monstrous ivy-stems Claspt the gray walls with hairy-fibred arms, And sucked the joining of the stones, and looked A knot, beneath, of snakes, aloft, a grove. And while he waited in the castle court, The voice of Enid, Yniol's daughter, rang Clear through 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 gemmed 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.' It chanced the song that Enid sang was one Of Fortune and her wheel, and Enid sang: 'Turn, Fortune, turn thy wheel and lower the proud; Turn thy wild wheel through sunshine, storm, and cloud; Thy wheel and thee we neither love nor hate. 'Turn, Fortune, turn thy wheel with smile or frown; With that wild wheel we go not up or down; Our hoard is little, but our hearts are great. 'Smile and we smile, the lords of many lands; Frown and we smile, the lords of our own hands; For man is man and master of his fate. 'Turn, turn thy wheel above the staring crowd; Thy wheel and thou are shadows in the cloud; Thy wheel and thee we neither love nor hate.' 'Hark, by the bird's song ye may learn the nest,' Said Yniol; 'enter quickly.' Entering then, Right o'er a mount of newly-fallen stones, The dusky-raftered many-cobwebbed hall, He found an ancient dame in dim brocade; And near her, like a blossom vermeil-white, That lightly breaks a faded flower-sheath, Moved the fair Enid, all in faded silk, Her daughter. In a moment thought Geraint, 'Here by God's rood is the one maid for me.' But none spake word except the hoary Earl: 'Enid, the good knight's horse stands in the court; Take him to stall, and give him corn, and then Go to the town and buy us flesh and wine; And we will make us merry as we may. Our hoard is little, but our hearts are great.' He spake: the Prince, as Enid past him, fain To follow, strode a stride, but Yniol caught His purple scarf, and held, and said, 'Forbear! Rest! the good house, though ruined, O my son, Endures not that her guest should serve himself.' And reverencing the custom of the house Geraint, from utter courtesy, forbore. So Enid took his charger to the stall; And after went her way across the bridge, And reached the town, and while the Prince and Earl Yet spoke together, came again with one, A youth, that following with a costrel bore The means of goodly welcome, flesh and wine. And Enid brought sweet cakes to make them cheer, And in her veil enfolded, manchet bread. And then, because their hall must also serve For kitchen, boiled the flesh, and spread the board, And stood behind, and waited on the three. And seeing her so sweet and serviceable, Geraint had longing in him evermore To stoop and kiss the tender little thumb, That crost the trencher as she laid it down: But after all had eaten, then Geraint, For now the wine made summer in his veins, Let his eye rove in following, or rest On Enid at her lowly handmaid-work, Now here, now there, about the dusky hall; Then suddenly addrest the hoary Earl: 'Fair Host and Earl, I pray your courtesy; This sparrow-hawk, what is he? tell me of him. His name? but no, good faith, I will not have it: For if he be the knight whom late I saw Ride into that new fortress by your town, White from the mason's hand, then have I sworn From his own lips to have it--I am Geraint Of Devon--for this morning when the Queen Sent her own maiden to demand the name, His dwarf, a vicious under-shapen thing, Struck at her with his whip, and she returned Indignant to the Queen; and then I swore That I would track this caitiff to his hold, And fight and break his pride, and have it of him. And all unarmed I rode, and thought to find Arms in your town, where all the men are mad; They take the rustic murmur of their bourg For the great wave that echoes round the world; They would not hear me speak: but if ye know Where I can light on arms, or if yourself Should have them, tell me, seeing I have sworn That I will break his pride and learn his name, Avenging this great insult done the Queen.' Then cried Earl Yniol, 'Art thou he indeed, Geraint, a name far-sounded among men For noble deeds? and truly I, when first I saw you moving by me on the bridge, Felt ye were somewhat, yea, and by your state And presence might have guessed you one of those That eat in Arthur's hall in Camelot. Nor speak I now from foolish flattery; For this dear child hath often heard me praise Your feats of arms, and often when I paused Hath asked again, and ever loved to hear; So grateful is the noise of noble deeds To noble hearts who see but acts of wrong: O never yet had woman such a pair Of suitors as this maiden: first Limours, A creature wholly given to brawls and wine, Drunk even when he wooed; and be he dead I know not, but he past to the wild land. The second was your foe, the sparrow-hawk, My curse, my nephew--I will not let his name Slip from my lips if I can help it--he, When that I knew him fierce and turbulent Refused her to him, then his pride awoke; And since the proud man often is the mean, He sowed a slander in the common ear, Affirming that his father left him gold, And in my charge, which was not rendered to him; Bribed with large promises the men who served About my person, the more easily Because my means were somewhat broken into Through open doors and hospitality; Raised my own town against me in the night Before my Enid's birthday, sacked my house; From mine own earldom foully ousted me; Built that new fort to overawe my friends, For truly there are those who love me yet; And keeps me in this ruinous castle here, Where doubtless he would put me soon to death, But that his pride too much despises me: And I myself sometimes despise myself; For I have let men be, and have their way; Am much too gentle, have not used my power: Nor know I whether I be very base Or very manful, whether very wise Or very foolish; only this I know, That whatsoever evil happen to me, I seem to suffer nothing heart or limb, But can endure it all most patiently.' 'Well said, true heart,' replied Geraint, 'but arms, That if the sparrow-hawk, this nephew, fight In next day's tourney I may break his pride.' And Yniol answered, 'Arms, indeed, but old And rusty, old and rusty, Prince Geraint, Are mine, and therefore at thy asking, thine. But in this tournament can no man tilt, Except the lady he loves best be there. Two forks are fixt into the meadow ground, And over these is placed a silver wand, And over that a golden sparrow-hawk, The prize of beauty for the fairest there. And this, what knight soever be in field Lays claim to for the lady at his side, And tilts with my good nephew thereupon, Who being apt at arms and big of bone Has ever won it for the lady with him, And toppling over all antagonism Has earned himself the name of sparrow-hawk.' But thou, that hast no lady, canst not fight.' To whom Geraint with eyes all bright replied, Leaning a little toward him, 'Thy leave! Let me lay lance in rest, O noble host, For this dear child, because I never saw, Though having seen all beauties of our time, Nor can see elsewhere, anything so fair. And if I fall her name will yet remain Untarnished as before; but if I live, So aid me Heaven when at mine uttermost, As I will make her truly my true wife.' Then, howsoever patient, Yniol's heart Danced in his bosom, seeing better days, And looking round he saw not Enid there, (Who hearing her own name had stolen away) But that old dame, to whom full tenderly And folding all her hand in his he said, 'Mother, a maiden is a tender thing, And best by her that bore her understood. Go thou to rest, but ere thou go to rest Tell her, and prove her heart toward the Prince.' So spake the kindly-hearted Earl, and she With frequent smile and nod departing found, Half disarrayed as to her rest, the girl; Whom first she kissed on either cheek, and then On either shining shoulder laid a hand, And kept her off and gazed upon her face, And told them all their converse in the hall, Proving her heart: but never light and shade Coursed one another more on open ground Beneath a troubled heaven, than red and pale Across the face of Enid hearing her; While slowly falling as a scale that falls, When weight is added only grain by grain, Sank her sweet head upon her gentle breast; Nor did she lift an eye nor speak a word, Rapt in the fear and in the wonder of it; So moving without answer to her rest She found no rest, and ever failed to draw The quiet night into her blood, but lay Contemplating her own unworthiness; And when the pale and bloodless east began To quicken to the sun, arose, and raised Her mother too, and hand in hand they moved Down to the meadow where the jousts were held, And waited there for Yniol and Geraint. And thither came the twain, and when Geraint Beheld her first in field, awaiting him, He felt, were she the prize of bodily force, Himself beyond the rest pushing could move The chair of Idris. Yniol's rusted arms Were on his princely person, but through these Princelike his bearing shone; and errant knights And ladies came, and by and by the town Flowed in, and settling circled all the lists. And there they fixt the forks into the ground, And over these they placed the silver wand, And over that the golden sparrow-hawk. Then Yniol's nephew, after trumpet blown, Spake to the lady with him and proclaimed, 'Advance and take, as fairest of the fair, What I these two years past have won for thee, The prize of beauty.' Loudly spake the Prince, 'Forbear: there is a worthier,' and the knight With some surprise and thrice as much disdain Turned, and beheld the four, and all his face Glowed like the heart of a great fire at Yule, So burnt he was with passion, crying out, 'Do battle for it then,' no more; and thrice They clashed together, and thrice they brake their spears. Then each, dishorsed and drawing, lashed at each So often and with such blows, that all the crowd Wondered, and now and then from distant walls There came a clapping as of phantom hands. So twice they fought, and twice they breathed, and still The dew of their great labour, and the blood Of their strong bodies, flowing, drained their force. But either's force was matched till Yniol's cry, 'Remember that great insult done the Queen,' Increased Geraint's, who heaved his blade aloft, And cracked the helmet through, and bit the bone, And felled him, and set foot upon his breast, And said, 'Thy name?' To whom the fallen man Made answer, groaning, 'Edyrn, son of Nudd! Ashamed am I that I should tell it thee. My pride is broken: men have seen my fall.' 'Then, Edyrn, son of Nudd,' replied Geraint, 'These two things shalt thou do, or else thou diest. First, thou thyself, with damsel and with dwarf, Shalt ride to Arthur's court, and coming there, Crave pardon for that insult done the Queen, And shalt abide her judgment on it; next, Thou shalt give back their earldom to thy kin. These two things shalt thou do, or thou shalt die.' And Edyrn answered, 'These things will I do, For I have never yet been overthrown, And thou hast overthrown me, and my pride Is broken down, for Enid sees my fall!' And rising up, he rode to Arthur's court, And there the Queen forgave him easily. And being young, he changed and came to loathe His crime of traitor, slowly drew himself Bright from his old dark life, and fell at last In the great battle fighting for the King. But when the third day from the hunting-morn Made a low splendour in the world, and wings Moved in her ivy, Enid, for she lay With her fair head in the dim-yellow light, Among the dancing shadows of the birds, Woke and bethought her of her promise given No later than last eve to Prince Geraint-- So bent he seemed on going the third day, He would not leave her, till her promise given-- To ride with him this morning to the court, And there be made known to the stately Queen, And there be wedded with all ceremony. At this she cast her eyes upon her dress, And thought it never yet had looked so mean. For as a leaf in mid-November is To what it is in mid-October, seemed The dress that now she looked on to the dress She looked on ere the coming of Geraint. And still she looked, and still the terror grew Of that strange bright and dreadful thing, a court, All staring at her in her faded silk: And softly to her own sweet heart she said: 'This noble prince who won our earldom back, So splendid in his acts and his attire, Sweet heaven, how much I shall discredit him! Would he could tarry with us here awhile, But being so beholden to the Prince, It were but little grace in any of us, Bent as he seemed on going this third day, To seek a second favour at his hands. Yet if he could but tarry a day or two, Myself would work eye dim, and finger lame, Far liefer than so much discredit him.' And Enid fell in longing for a dress All branched and flowered with gold, a costly gift Of her good mother, given her on the night Before her birthday, three sad years ago, That night of fire, when Edyrn sacked their house, And scattered all they had to all the winds: For while the mother showed it, and the two Were turning and admiring it, the work To both appeared so costly, rose a cry That Edyrn's men were on them, and they fled With little save the jewels they had on, Which being sold and sold had bought them bread: And Edyrn's men had caught them in their flight, And placed them in this ruin; and she wished The Prince had found her in her ancient home; Then let her fancy flit across the past, And roam the goodly places that she knew; And last bethought her how she used to watch, Near that old home, a pool of golden carp; And one was patched and blurred and lustreless Among his burnished brethren of the pool; And half asleep she made comparison Of that and these to her own faded self And the gay court, and fell asleep again; And dreamt herself was such a faded form Among her burnished sisters of the pool; But this was in the garden of a king; And though she lay dark in the pool, she knew That all was bright; that all about were birds Of sunny plume in gilded trellis-work; That all the turf was rich in plots that looked Each like a garnet or a turkis in it; And lords and ladies of the high court went In silver tissue talking things of state; And children of the King in cloth of gold Glanced at the doors or gamboled down the walks; And while she thought 'They will not see me,' came A stately queen whose name was Guinevere, And all the children in their cloth of gold Ran to her, crying, 'If we have fish at all Let them be gold; and charge the gardeners now To pick the faded creature from the pool, And cast it on the mixen that it die.' And therewithal one came and seized on her, And Enid started waking, with her heart All overshadowed by the foolish dream, And lo! it was her mother grasping her To get her well awake; and in her hand A suit of bright apparel, which she laid Flat on the couch, and spoke exultingly: 'See here, my child, how fresh the colours look, How fast they hold like colours of a shell That keeps the wear and polish of the wave. Why not? It never yet was worn, I trow: Look on it, child, and tell me if ye know it.' And Enid looked, but all confused at first, Could scarce divide it from her foolish dream: Then suddenly she knew it and rejoiced, And answered, 'Yea, I know it; your good gift, So sadly lost on that unhappy night; Your own good gift!' 'Yea, surely,' said the dame, 'And gladly given again this happy morn. For when the jousts were ended yesterday, Went Yniol through the town, and everywhere He found the sack and plunder of our house All scattered through the houses of the town; And gave command that all which once was ours Should now be ours again: and yester-eve, While ye were talking sweetly with your Prince, Came one with this and laid it in my hand, For love or fear, or seeking favour of us, Because we have our earldom back again. And yester-eve I would not tell you of it, But kept it for a sweet surprise at morn. Yea, truly is it not a sweet surprise? For I myself unwillingly have worn My faded suit, as you, my child, have yours, And howsoever patient, Yniol his. Ah, dear, he took me from a goodly house, With store of rich apparel, sumptuous fare, And page, and maid, and squire, and seneschal, And pastime both of hawk and hound, and all That appertains to noble maintenance. Yea, and he brought me to a goodly house; But since our fortune swerved from sun to shade, And all through that young traitor, cruel need Constrained us, but a better time has come; So clothe yourself in this, that better fits Our mended fortunes and a Prince's bride: For though ye won the prize of fairest fair, And though I heard him call you fairest fair, Let never maiden think, however fair, She is not fairer in new clothes than old. And should some great court-lady say, the Prince Hath picked a ragged-robin from the hedge, And like a madman brought her to the court, Then were ye shamed, and, worse, might shame the Prince To whom we are beholden; but I know, That when my dear child is set forth at her best, That neither court nor country, though they sought Through all the provinces like those of old That lighted on Queen Esther, has her match.' Here ceased the kindly mother out of breath; And Enid listened brightening as she lay; Then, as the white and glittering star of morn Parts from a bank of snow, and by and by Slips into golden cloud, the maiden rose, And left her maiden couch, and robed herself, Helped by the mother's careful hand and eye, Without a mirror, in the gorgeous gown; Who, after, turned her daughter round, and said, She never yet had seen her half so fair; And called her like that maiden in the tale, Whom Gwydion made by glamour out of flowers And sweeter than the bride of Cassivelaun, Flur, for whose love the Roman Caesar first Invaded Britain, 'But we beat him back, As this great Prince invaded us, and we, Not beat him back, but welcomed him with joy And I can scarcely ride with you to court, For old am I, and rough the ways and wild; But Yniol goes, and I full oft shall dream I see my princess as I see her now, Clothed with my gift, and gay among the gay.' But while the women thus rejoiced, Geraint Woke where he slept in the high hall, and called For Enid, and when Yniol made report Of that good mother making Enid gay In such apparel as might well beseem His princess, or indeed the stately Queen, He answered: 'Earl, entreat her by my love, Albeit I give no reason but my wish, That she ride with me in her faded silk.' Yniol with that hard message went; it fell Like flaws in summer laying lusty corn: For Enid, all abashed she knew not why, Dared not to glance at her good mother's face, But silently, in all obedience, Her mother silent too, nor helping her, Laid from her limbs the costly-broidered gift, And robed them in her ancient suit again, And so descended. Never man rejoiced More than Geraint to greet her thus attired; And glancing all at once as keenly at her As careful robins eye the delver's toil, Made her cheek burn and either eyelid fall, But rested with her sweet face satisfied; Then seeing cloud upon the mother's brow, Her by both hands she caught, and sweetly said, 'O my new mother, be not wroth or grieved At thy new son, for my petition to her. When late I left Caerleon, our great Queen, In words whose echo lasts, they were so sweet, Made promise, that whatever bride I brought, Herself would clothe her like the sun in Heaven. Thereafter, when I reached this ruined hall, Beholding one so bright in dark estate, I vowed that could I gain her, our fair Queen, No hand but hers, should make your Enid burst Sunlike from cloud--and likewise thought perhaps, That service done so graciously would bind The two together; fain I would the two Should love each other: how can Enid find A nobler friend? Another thought was mine; I came among you here so suddenly, That though her gentle presence at the lists Might well have served for proof that I was loved, I doubted whether daughter's tenderness, Or easy nature, might not let itself Be moulded by your wishes for her weal; Or whether some false sense in her own self Of my contrasting brightness, overbore Her fancy dwelling in this dusky hall; And such a sense might make her long for court And all its perilous glories: and I thought, That could I someway prove such force in her Linked with such love for me, that at a word (No reason given her) she could cast aside A splendour dear to women, new to her, And therefore dearer; or if not so new, Yet therefore tenfold dearer by the power Of intermitted usage; then I felt That I could rest, a rock in ebbs and flows, Fixt on her faith. Now, therefore, I do rest, A prophet certain of my prophecy, That never shadow of mistrust can cross Between us. Grant me pardon for my thoughts: And for my strange petition I will make Amends hereafter by some gaudy-day, When your fair child shall wear your costly gift Beside your own warm hearth, with, on her knees, Who knows? another gift of the high God, Which, maybe, shall have learned to lisp you thanks.' He spoke: the mother smiled, but half in tears, Then brought a mantle down and wrapt her in it, And claspt and kissed her, and they rode away. Now thrice that morning Guinevere had climbed The giant tower, from whose high crest, they say, Men saw the goodly hills of Somerset, And white sails flying on the yellow sea; But not to goodly hill or yellow sea Looked the fair Queen, but up the vale of Usk, By the flat meadow, till she saw them come; And then descending met them at the gates, Embraced her with all welcome as a friend, And did her honour as the Prince's bride, And clothed her for her bridals like the sun; And all that week was old Caerleon gay, For by the hands of Dubric, the high saint, They twain were wedded with all ceremony. And this was on the last year's Whitsuntide. But Enid ever kept the faded silk, Remembering how first he came on her, Drest in that dress, and how he loved her in it, And all her foolish fears about the dress, And all his journey toward her, as himself Had told her, and their coming to the court. And now this morning when he said to her, 'Put on your worst and meanest dress,' she found And took it, and arrayed herself therein. Geraint and Enid O purblind race of miserable men, How many among us at this very hour Do forge a life-long trouble for ourselves, By taking true for false, or false for true; Here, through the feeble twilight of this world Groping, how many, until we pass and reach That other, where we see as we are seen! So fared it with Geraint, who issuing forth That morning, when they both had got to horse, Perhaps because he loved her passionately, And felt that tempest brooding round his heart, Which, if he spoke at all, would break perforce Upon a head so dear in thunder, said: 'Not at my side. I charge thee ride before, Ever a good way on before; and this I charge thee, on thy duty as a wife, Whatever happens, not to speak to me, No, not a word!' and Enid was aghast; And forth they rode, but scarce three paces on, When crying out, 'Effeminate as I am, I will not fight my way with gilded arms, All shall be iron;' he loosed a mighty purse, Hung at his belt, and hurled it toward the squire. So the last sight that Enid had of home Was all the marble threshold flashing, strown With gold and scattered coinage, and the squire Chafing his shoulder: then he cried again, 'To the wilds!' and Enid leading down the tracks Through which he bad her lead him on, they past The marches, and by bandit-haunted holds, Gray swamps and pools, waste places of the hern, And wildernesses, perilous paths, they rode: Round was their pace at first, but slackened soon: A stranger meeting them had surely thought They rode so slowly and they looked so pale, That each had suffered some exceeding wrong. For he was ever saying to himself, 'O I that wasted time to tend upon her, To compass her with sweet observances, To dress her beautifully and keep her true'-- And there he broke the sentence in his heart Abruptly, as a man upon his tongue May break it, when his passion masters him. And she was ever praying the sweet heavens To save her dear lord whole from any wound. And ever in her mind she cast about For that unnoticed failing in herself, Which made him look so cloudy and so cold; Till the great plover's human whistle amazed Her heart, and glancing round the waste she feared In every wavering brake an ambuscade. Then thought again, 'If there be such in me, I might amend it by the grace of Heaven, If he would only speak and tell me of it.' But when the fourth part of the day was gone, Then Enid was aware of three tall knights On horseback, wholly armed, behind a rock In shadow, waiting for them, caitiffs all; And heard one crying to his fellow, 'Look, Here comes a laggard hanging down his head, Who seems no bolder than a beaten hound; Come, we will slay him and will have his horse And armour, and his damsel shall be ours.' Then Enid pondered in her heart, and said: 'I will go back a little to my lord, And I will tell him all their caitiff talk; For, be he wroth even to slaying me, Far liefer by his dear hand had I die, Than that my lord should suffer loss or shame.' Then she went back some paces of return, Met his full frown timidly firm, and said; 'My lord, I saw three bandits by the rock Waiting to fall on you, and heard them boast That they would slay you, and possess your horse And armour, and your damsel should be theirs.' He made a wrathful answer: 'Did I wish Your warning or your silence? one command I laid upon you, not to speak to me, And thus ye keep it! Well then, look--for now, Whether ye wish me victory or defeat, Long for my life, or hunger for my death, Yourself shall see my vigour is not lost.' Then Enid waited pale and sorrowful, And down upon him bare the bandit three. And at the midmost charging, Prince Geraint Drave the long spear a cubit through his breast And out beyond; and then against his brace Of comrades, each of whom had broken on him A lance that splintered like an icicle, Swung from his brand a windy buffet out Once, twice, to right, to left, and stunned the twain Or slew them, and dismounting like a man That skins the wild beast after slaying him, Stript from the three dead wolves of woman born The three gay suits of armour which they wore, And let the bodies lie, but bound the suits Of armour on their horses, each on each, And tied the bridle-reins of all the three Together, and said to her, 'Drive them on Before you;' and she drove them through the waste. He followed nearer; ruth began to work Against his anger in him, while he watched The being he loved best in all the world, With difficulty in mild obedience Driving them on: he fain had spoken to her, And loosed in words of sudden fire the wrath And smouldered wrong that burnt him all within; But evermore it seemed an easier thing At once without remorse to strike her dead, Than to cry 'Halt,' and to her own bright face Accuse her of the least immodesty: And thus tongue-tied, it made him wroth the more That she could speak whom his own ear had heard Call herself false: and suffering thus he made Minutes an age: but in scarce longer time Than at Caerleon the full-tided Usk, Before he turn to fall seaward again, Pauses, did Enid, keeping watch, behold In the first shallow shade of a deep wood, Before a gloom of stubborn-shafted oaks, Three other horsemen waiting, wholly armed, Whereof one seemed far larger than her lord, And shook her pulses, crying, 'Look, a prize! Three horses and three goodly suits of arms, And all in charge of whom? a girl: set on.' 'Nay,' said the second, 'yonder comes a knight.' The third, 'A craven; how he hangs his head.' The giant answered merrily, 'Yea, but one? Wait here, and when he passes fall upon him.' And Enid pondered in her heart and said, 'I will abide the coming of my lord, And I will tell him all their villainy. My lord is weary with the fight before, And they will fall upon him unawares. I needs must disobey him for his good; How should I dare obey him to his harm? Needs must I speak, and though he kill me for it, I save a life dearer to me than mine.' And she abode his coming, and said to him With timid firmness, 'Have I leave to speak?' He said, 'Ye take it, speaking,' and she spoke. 'There lurk three villains yonder in the wood, And each of them is wholly armed, and one Is larger-limbed than you are, and they say That they will fall upon you while ye pass.' To which he flung a wrathful answer back: 'And if there were an hundred in the wood, And every man were larger-limbed than I, And all at once should sally out upon me, I swear it would not ruffle me so much As you that not obey me. Stand aside, And if I fall, cleave to the better man.' And Enid stood aside to wait the event, Not dare to watch the combat, only breathe Short fits of prayer, at every stroke a breath. And he, she dreaded most, bare down upon him. Aimed at the helm, his lance erred; but Geraint's, A little in the late encounter strained, Struck through the bulky bandit's corselet home, And then brake short, and down his enemy rolled, And there lay still; as he that tells the tale Saw once a great piece of a promontory, That had a sapling growing on it, slide From the long shore-cliff's windy walls to the beach, And there lie still, and yet the sapling grew: So lay the man transfixt. His craven pair Of comrades making slowlier at the Prince, When now they saw their bulwark fallen, stood; On whom the victor, to confound them more, Spurred with his terrible war-cry; for as one, That listens near a torrent mountain-brook, All through the crash of the near cataract hears The drumming thunder of the huger fall At distance, were the soldiers wont to hear His voice in battle, and be kindled by it, And foemen scared, like that false pair who turned Flying, but, overtaken, died the death Themselves had wrought on many an innocent. Thereon Geraint, dismounting, picked the lance That pleased him best, and drew from those dead wolves Their three gay suits of armour, each from each, And bound them on their horses, each on each, And tied the bridle-reins of all the three Together, and said to her, 'Drive them on Before you,' and she drove them through the wood. He followed nearer still: the pain she had To keep them in the wild ways of the wood, Two sets of three laden with jingling arms, Together, served a little to disedge The sharpness of that pain about her heart: And they themselves, like creatures gently born But into bad hands fallen, and now so long By bandits groomed, pricked their light ears, and felt Her low firm voice and tender government. So through the green gloom of the wood they past, And issuing under open heavens beheld A little town with towers, upon a rock, And close beneath, a meadow gemlike chased In the brown wild, and mowers mowing in it: And down a rocky pathway from the place There came a fair-haired youth, that in his hand Bare victual for the mowers: and Geraint Had ruth again on Enid looking pale: Then, moving downward to the meadow ground, He, when the fair-haired youth came by him, said, 'Friend, let her eat; the damsel is so faint.' 'Yea, willingly,' replied the youth; 'and thou, My lord, eat also, though the fare is coarse, And only meet for mowers;' then set down His basket, and dismounting on the sward They let the horses graze, and ate themselves. And Enid took a little delicately, Less having stomach for it than desire To close with her lord's pleasure; but Geraint Ate all the mowers' victual unawares, And when he found all empty, was amazed; And 'Boy,' said he, 'I have eaten all, but take A horse and arms for guerdon; choose the best.' He, reddening in extremity of delight, 'My lord, you overpay me fifty-fold.' 'Ye will be all the wealthier,' cried the Prince. 'I take it as free gift, then,' said the boy, 'Not guerdon; for myself can easily, While your good damsel rests, return, and fetch Fresh victual for these mowers of our Earl; For these are his, and all the field is his, And I myself am his; and I will tell him How great a man thou art: he loves to know When men of mark are in his territory: And he will have thee to his palace here, And serve thee costlier than with mowers' fare.' Then said Geraint, 'I wish no better fare: I never ate with angrier appetite Than when I left your mowers dinnerless. And into no Earl's palace will I go. I know, God knows, too much of palaces! And if he want me, let him come to me. But hire us some fair chamber for the night, And stalling for the horses, and return With victual for these men, and let us know.' 'Yea, my kind lord,' said the glad youth, and went, Held his head high, and thought himself a knight, And up the rocky pathway disappeared, Leading the horse, and they were left alone. But when the Prince had brought his errant eyes Home from the rock, sideways he let them glance At Enid, where she droopt: his own false doom, That shadow of mistrust should never cross Betwixt them, came upon him, and he sighed; Then with another humorous ruth remarked The lusty mowers labouring dinnerless, And watched the sun blaze on the turning scythe, And after nodded sleepily in the heat. But she, remembering her old ruined hall, And all the windy clamour of the daws About her hollow turret, plucked the grass There growing longest by the meadow's edge, And into many a listless annulet, Now over, now beneath her marriage ring, Wove and unwove it, till the boy returned And told them of a chamber, and they went; Where, after saying to her, 'If ye will, Call for the woman of the house,' to which She answered, 'Thanks, my lord;' the two remained Apart by all the chamber's width, and mute As two creatures voiceless through the fault of birth, Or two wild men supporters of a shield, Painted, who stare at open space, nor glance The one at other, parted by the shield. On a sudden, many a voice along the street, And heel against the pavement echoing, burst Their drowse; and either started while the door, Pushed from without, drave backward to the wall, And midmost of a rout of roisterers, Femininely fair and dissolutely pale, Her suitor in old years before Geraint, Entered, the wild lord of the place, Limours. He moving up with pliant courtliness, Greeted Geraint full face, but stealthily, In the mid-warmth of welcome and graspt hand, Found Enid with the corner of his eye, And knew her sitting sad and solitary. Then cried Geraint for wine and goodly cheer To feed the sudden guest, and sumptuously According to his fashion, bad the host Call in what men soever were his friends, And feast with these in honour of their Earl; 'And care not for the cost; the cost is mine.' And wine and food were brought, and Earl Limours Drank till he jested with all ease, and told Free tales, and took the word and played upon it, And made it of two colours; for his talk, When wine and free companions kindled him, Was wont to glance and sparkle like a gem Of fifty facets; thus he moved the Prince To laughter and his comrades to applause. Then, when the Prince was merry, asked Limours, 'Your leave, my lord, to cross the room, and speak To your good damsel there who sits apart, And seems so lonely?' 'My free leave,' he said; 'Get her to speak: she doth not speak to me.' Then rose Limours, and looking at his feet, Like him who tries the bridge he fears may fail, Crost and came near, lifted adoring eyes, Bowed at her side and uttered whisperingly: 'Enid, the pilot star of my lone life, Enid, my early and my only love, Enid, the loss of whom hath turned me wild-- What chance is this? how is it I see you here? Ye are in my power at last, are in my power. Yet fear me not: I call mine own self wild, But keep a touch of sweet civility Here in the heart of waste and wilderness. I thought, but that your father came between, In former days you saw me favourably. And if it were so do not keep it back: Make me a little happier: let me know it: Owe you me nothing for a life half-lost? Yea, yea, the whole dear debt of all you are. And, Enid, you and he, I see with joy, Ye sit apart, you do not speak to him, You come with no attendance, page or maid, To serve you--doth he love you as of old? For, call it lovers' quarrels, yet I know Though men may bicker with the things they love, They would not make them laughable in all eyes, Not while they loved them; and your wretched dress, A wretched insult on you, dumbly speaks Your story, that this man loves you no more. Your beauty is no beauty to him now: A common chance--right well I know it--palled-- For I know men: nor will ye win him back, For the man's love once gone never returns. But here is one who loves you as of old; With more exceeding passion than of old: Good, speak the word: my followers ring him round: He sits unarmed; I hold a finger up; They understand: nay; I do not mean blood: Nor need ye look so scared at what I say: My malice is no deeper than a moat, No stronger than a wall: there is the keep; He shall not cross us more; speak but the word: Or speak it not; but then by Him that made me The one true lover whom you ever owned, I will make use of all the power I have. O pardon me! the madness of that hour, When first I parted from thee, moves me yet.' At this the tender sound of his own voice And sweet self-pity, or the fancy of it, Made his eye moist; but Enid feared his eyes, Moist as they were, wine-heated from the feast; And answered with such craft as women use, Guilty or guiltless, to stave off a chance That breaks upon them perilously, and said: 'Earl, if you love me as in former years, And do not practise on me, come with morn, And snatch me from him as by violence; Leave me tonight: I am weary to the death.' Low at leave-taking, with his brandished plume Brushing his instep, bowed the all-amorous Earl, And the stout Prince bad him a loud good-night. He moving homeward babbled to his men, How Enid never loved a man but him, Nor cared a broken egg-shell for her lord. But Enid left alone with Prince Geraint, Debating his command of silence given, And that she now perforce must violate it, Held commune with herself, and while she held He fell asleep, and Enid had no heart To wake him, but hung o'er him, wholly pleased To find him yet unwounded after fight, And hear him breathing low and equally. Anon she rose, and stepping lightly, heaped The pieces of his armour in one place, All to be there against a sudden need; Then dozed awhile herself, but overtoiled By that day's grief and travel, evermore Seemed catching at a rootless thorn, and then Went slipping down horrible precipices, And strongly striking out her limbs awoke; Then thought she heard the wild Earl at the door, With all his rout of random followers, Sound on a dreadful trumpet, summoning her; Which was the red cock shouting to the light, As the gray dawn stole o'er the dewy world, And glimmered on his armour in the room. And once again she rose to look at it, But touched it unawares: jangling, the casque Fell, and he started up and stared at her. Then breaking his command of silence given, She told him all that Earl Limours had said, Except the passage that he loved her not; Nor left untold the craft herself had used; But ended with apology so sweet, Low-spoken, and of so few words, and seemed So justified by that necessity, That though he thought 'was it for him she wept In Devon?' he but gave a wrathful groan, Saying, 'Your sweet faces make good fellows fools And traitors. Call the host and bid him bring Charger and palfrey.' So she glided out Among the heavy breathings of the house, And like a household Spirit at the walls Beat, till she woke the sleepers, and returned: Then tending her rough lord, though all unasked, In silence, did him service as a squire; Till issuing armed he found the host and cried, 'Thy reckoning, friend?' and ere he learnt it, 'Take Five horses and their armours;' and the host Suddenly honest, answered in amaze, 'My lord, I scarce have spent the worth of one!' 'Ye will be all the wealthier,' said the Prince, And then to Enid, 'Forward! and today I charge you, Enid, more especially, What thing soever ye may hear, or see, Or fancy (though I count it of small use To charge you) that ye speak not but obey.' And Enid answered, 'Yea, my lord, I know Your wish, and would obey; but riding first, I hear the violent threats you do not hear, I see the danger which you cannot see: Then not to give you warning, that seems hard; Almost beyond me: yet I would obey.' 'Yea so,' said he, 'do it: be not too wise; Seeing that ye are wedded to a man, Not all mismated with a yawning clown, But one with arms to guard his head and yours, With eyes to find you out however far, And ears to hear you even in his dreams.' With that he turned and looked as keenly at her As careful robins eye the delver's toil; And that within her, which a wanton fool, Or hasty judger would have called her guilt, Made her cheek burn and either eyelid fall. And Geraint looked and was not satisfied. Then forward by a way which, beaten broad, Led from the territory of false Limours To the waste earldom of another earl, Doorm, whom his shaking vassals called the Bull, Went Enid with her sullen follower on. Once she looked back, and when she saw him ride More near by many a rood than yestermorn, It wellnigh made her cheerful; till Geraint Waving an angry hand as who should say 'Ye watch me,' saddened all her heart again. But while the sun yet beat a dewy blade, The sound of many a heavily-galloping hoof Smote on her ear, and turning round she saw Dust, and the points of lances bicker in it. Then not to disobey her lord's behest, And yet to give him warning, for he rode As if he heard not, moving back she held Her finger up, and pointed to the dust. At which the warrior in his obstinacy, Because she kept the letter of his word, Was in a manner pleased, and turning, stood. And in the moment after, wild Limours, Borne on a black horse, like a thunder-cloud Whose skirts are loosened by the breaking storm, Half ridden off with by the thing he rode, And all in passion uttering a dry shriek, Dashed down on Geraint, who closed with him, and bore Down by the length of lance and arm beyond The crupper, and so left him stunned or dead, And overthrew the next that followed him, And blindly rushed on all the rout behind. But at the flash and motion of the man They vanished panic-stricken, like a shoal Of darting fish, that on a summer morn Adown the crystal dykes at Camelot Come slipping o'er their shadows on the sand, But if a man who stands upon the brink But lift a shining hand against the sun, There is not left the twinkle of a fin Betwixt the cressy islets white in flower; So, scared but at the motion of the man, Fled all the boon companions of the Earl, And left him lying in the public way; So vanish friendships only made in wine. Then like a stormy sunlight smiled Geraint, Who saw the chargers of the two that fell Start from their fallen lords, and wildly fly, Mixt with the flyers. 'Horse and man,' he said, 'All of one mind and all right-honest friends! Not a hoof left: and I methinks till now Was honest--paid with horses and with arms; I cannot steal or plunder, no nor beg: And so what say ye, shall we strip him there Your lover? has your palfrey heart enough To bear his armour? shall we fast, or dine? No?--then do thou, being right honest, pray That we may meet the horsemen of Earl Doorm, I too would still be honest.' Thus he said: And sadly gazing on her bridle-reins, And answering not one word, she led the way. But as a man to whom a dreadful loss Falls in a far land and he knows it not, But coming back he learns it, and the loss So pains him that he sickens nigh to death; So fared it with Geraint, who being pricked In combat with the follower of Limours, Bled underneath his armour secretly, And so rode on, nor told his gentle wife What ailed him, hardly knowing it himself, Till his eye darkened and his helmet wagged; And at a sudden swerving of the road, Though happily down on a bank of grass, The Prince, without a word, from his horse fell. And Enid heard the clashing of his fall, Suddenly came, and at his side all pale Dismounting, loosed the fastenings of his arms, Nor let her true hand falter, nor blue eye Moisten, till she had lighted on his wound, And tearing off her veil of faded silk Had bared her forehead to the blistering sun, And swathed the hurt that drained her dear lord's life. Then after all was done that hand could do, She rested, and her desolation came Upon her, and she wept beside the way. And many past, but none regarded her, For in that realm of lawless turbulence, A woman weeping for her murdered mate Was cared as much for as a summer shower: One took him for a victim of Earl Doorm, Nor dared to waste a perilous pity on him: Another hurrying past, a man-at-arms, Rode on a mission to the bandit Earl; Half whistling and half singing a coarse song, He drove the dust against her veilless eyes: Another, flying from the wrath of Doorm Before an ever-fancied arrow, made The long way smoke beneath him in his fear; At which her palfrey whinnying lifted heel, And scoured into the coppices and was lost, While the great charger stood, grieved like a man. But at the point of noon the huge Earl Doorm, Broad-faced with under-fringe of russet beard, Bound on a foray, rolling eyes of prey, Came riding with a hundred lances up; But ere he came, like one that hails a ship, Cried out with a big voice, 'What, is he dead?' 'No, no, not dead!' she answered in all haste. 'Would some of your people take him up, And bear him hence out of this cruel sun? Most sure am I, quite sure, he is not dead.' Then said Earl Doorm: 'Well, if he be not dead, Why wail ye for him thus? ye seem a child. And be he dead, I count you for a fool; Your wailing will not quicken him: dead or not, Ye mar a comely face with idiot tears. Yet, since the face is comely--some of you, Here, take him up, and bear him to our hall: An if he live, we will have him of our band; And if he die, why earth has earth enough To hide him. See ye take the charger too, A noble one.' He spake, and past away, But left two brawny spearmen, who advanced, Each growling like a dog, when his good bone Seems to be plucked at by the village boys Who love to vex him eating, and he fears To lose his bone, and lays his foot upon it, Gnawing and growling: so the ruffians growled, Fearing to lose, and all for a dead man, Their chance of booty from the morning's raid, Yet raised and laid him on a litter-bier, Such as they brought upon their forays out For those that might be wounded; laid him on it All in the hollow of his shield, and took And bore him to the naked hall of Doorm, (His gentle charger following him unled) And cast him and the bier in which he lay Down on an oaken settle in the hall, And then departed, hot in haste to join Their luckier mates, but growling as before, And cursing their lost time, and the dead man, And their own Earl, and their own souls, and her. They might as well have blest her: she was deaf To blessing or to cursing save from one. So for long hours sat Enid by her lord, There in the naked hall, propping his head, And chafing his pale hands, and calling to him. Till at the last he wakened from his swoon, And found his own dear bride propping his head, And chafing his faint hands, and calling to him; And felt the warm tears falling on his face; And said to his own heart, 'She weeps for me:' And yet lay still, and feigned himself as dead, That he might prove her to the uttermost, And say to his own heart, 'She weeps for me.' But in the falling afternoon returned The huge Earl Doorm with plunder to the hall. His lusty spearmen followed him with noise: Each hurling down a heap of things that rang Against his pavement, cast his lance aside, And doffed his helm: and then there fluttered in, Half-bold, half-frighted, with dilated eyes, A tribe of women, dressed in many hues, And mingled with the spearmen: and Earl Doorm Struck with a knife's haft hard against the board, And called for flesh and wine to feed his spears. And men brought in whole hogs and quarter beeves, And all the hall was dim with steam of flesh: And none spake word, but all sat down at once, And ate with tumult in the naked hall, Feeding like horses when you hear them feed; Till Enid shrank far back into herself, To shun the wild ways of the lawless tribe. But when Earl Doorm had eaten all he would, He rolled his eyes about the hall, and found A damsel drooping in a corner of it. Then he remembered her, and how she wept; And out of her there came a power upon him; And rising on the sudden he said, 'Eat! I never yet beheld a thing so pale. God's curse, it makes me mad to see you weep. Eat! Look yourself. Good luck had your good man, For were I dead who is it would weep for me? Sweet lady, never since I first drew breath Have I beheld a lily like yourself. And so there lived some colour in your cheek, There is not one among my gentlewomen Were fit to wear your slipper for a glove. But listen to me, and by me be ruled, And I will do the thing I have not done, For ye shall share my earldom with me, girl, And we will live like two birds in one nest, And I will fetch you forage from all fields, For I compel all creatures to my will.' He spoke: the brawny spearman let his cheek Bulge with the unswallowed piece, and turning stared; While some, whose souls the old serpent long had drawn Down, as the worm draws in the withered leaf And makes it earth, hissed each at other's ear What shall not be recorded--women they, Women, or what had been those gracious things, But now desired the humbling of their best, Yea, would have helped him to it: and all at once They hated her, who took no thought of them, But answered in low voice, her meek head yet Drooping, 'I pray you of your courtesy, He being as he is, to let me be.' She spake so low he hardly heard her speak, But like a mighty patron, satisfied With what himself had done so graciously, Assumed that she had thanked him, adding, 'Yea, Eat and be glad, for I account you mine.' She answered meekly, 'How should I be glad Henceforth in all the world at anything, Until my lord arise and look upon me?' Here the huge Earl cried out upon her talk, As all but empty heart and weariness And sickly nothing; suddenly seized on her, And bare her by main violence to the board, And thrust the dish before her, crying, 'Eat.' 'No, no,' said Enid, vext, 'I will not eat Till yonder man upon the bier arise, And eat with me.' 'Drink, then,' he answered. 'Here!' (And filled a horn with wine and held it to her,) 'Lo! I, myself, when flushed with fight, or hot, God's curse, with anger--often I myself, Before I well have drunken, scarce can eat: Drink therefore and the wine will change thy will.' 'Not so,' she cried, 'by Heaven, I will not drink Till my dear lord arise and bid me do it, And drink with me; and if he rise no more, I will not look at wine until I die.' At this he turned all red and paced his hall, Now gnawed his under, now his upper lip, And coming up close to her, said at last: 'Girl, for I see ye scorn my courtesies, Take warning: yonder man is surely dead; And I compel all creatures to my will. Not eat nor drink? And wherefore wail for one, Who put your beauty to this flout and scorn By dressing it in rags? Amazed am I, Beholding how ye butt against my wish, That I forbear you thus: cross me no more. At least put off to please me this poor gown, This silken rag, this beggar-woman's weed: I love that beauty should go beautifully: For see ye not my gentlewomen here, How gay, how suited to the house of one Who loves that beauty should go beautifully? Rise therefore; robe yourself in this: obey.' He spoke, and one among his gentlewomen Displayed a splendid silk of foreign loom, Where like a shoaling sea the lovely blue Played into green, and thicker down the front With jewels than the sward with drops of dew, When all night long a cloud clings to the hill, And with the dawn ascending lets the day Strike where it clung: so thickly shone the gems. But Enid answered, harder to be moved Than hardest tyrants in their day of power, With life-long injuries burning unavenged, And now their hour has come; and Enid said: '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 arrayed me like the sun: In this poor gown he bad me clothe myself, When now we rode upon this fatal quest Of honour, where no honour can be gained: 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 through 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 through the swarthy neck, and like a ball The russet-bearded head rolled 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, though 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 prayed 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, Neighed with all gladness as they came, and stooped With a low whinny toward the pair: and she Kissed the white star upon his noble front, Glad also; then Geraint upon the horse Mounted, and reached a hand, and on his foot She set her own and climbed; he turned his face And kissed her climbing, and she cast her arms About him, and at once they rode away. And never yet, since high in Paradise O'er the four rivers the first roses blew, Came purer pleasure unto mortal kind Than lived through her, who in that perilous hour Put hand to hand beneath her husband's heart, And felt him hers again: she did not weep, But o'er her meek eyes came a happy mist Like that which kept the heart of Eden green Before the useful trouble of the rain: Yet not so misty were her meek blue eyes As not to see before them on the path, Right in the gateway of the bandit hold, A knight of Arthur's court, who laid his lance In rest, and made as if to fall upon him. Then, fearing for his hurt and loss of blood, She, with her mind all full of what had chanced, Shrieked to the stranger 'Slay not a dead man!' 'The voice of Enid,' said the knight; but she, Beholding it was Edyrn son of Nudd, Was moved so much the more, and shrieked again, 'O cousin, slay not him who gave you life.' And Edyrn moving frankly forward spake: 'My lord Geraint, I greet you with all love; I took you for a bandit knight of Doorm; And fear not, Enid, I should fall upon him, Who love you, Prince, with something of the love Wherewith we love the Heaven that chastens us. For once, when I was up so high in pride That I was halfway down the slope to Hell, By overthrowing me you threw me higher. Now, made a knight of Arthur's Table Round, And since I knew this Earl, when I myself Was half a bandit in my lawless hour, I come the mouthpiece of our King to Doorm (The King is close behind me) bidding him Disband himself, and scatter all his powers, Submit, and hear the judgment of the King.' 'He hears the judgment of the King of kings,' Cried the wan Prince; 'and lo, the powers of Doorm Are scattered,' and he pointed to the field, Where, huddled here and there on mound and knoll, Were men and women staring and aghast, While some yet fled; and then he plainlier told How the huge Earl lay slain within his hall. But when the knight besought him, 'Follow me, Prince, to the camp, and in the King's own ear Speak what has chanced; ye surely have endured Strange chances here alone;' that other flushed, And hung his head, and halted in reply, Fearing the mild face of the blameless King, And after madness acted question asked: Till Edyrn crying, 'If ye will not go To Arthur, then will Arthur come to you,' 'Enough,' he said, 'I follow,' and they went. But Enid in their going had two fears, One from the bandit scattered in the field, And one from Edyrn. Every now and then, When Edyrn reined his charger at her side, She shrank a little. In a hollow land, From which old fires have broken, men may fear Fresh fire and ruin. He, perceiving, said: 'Fair and dear cousin, you that most had cause To fear me, fear no longer, I am changed. Yourself were first the blameless cause to make My nature's prideful sparkle in the blood Break into furious flame; being repulsed By Yniol and yourself, I schemed and wrought Until I overturned him; then set up (With one main purpose ever at my heart) My haughty jousts, and took a paramour; Did her mock-honour as the fairest fair, And, toppling over all antagonism, So waxed in pride, that I believed myself Unconquerable, for I was wellnigh mad: And, but for my main purpose in these jousts, I should have slain your father, seized yourself. I lived in hope that sometime you would come To these my lists with him whom best you loved; And there, poor cousin, with your meek blue eyes The truest eyes that ever answered Heaven, Behold me overturn and trample on him. Then, had you cried, or knelt, or prayed to me, I should not less have killed him. And so you came,-- But once you came,--and with your own true eyes Beheld the man you loved (I speak as one Speaks of a service done him) overthrow My proud self, and my purpose three years old, And set his foot upon me, and give me life. There was I broken down; there was I saved: Though thence I rode all-shamed, hating the life He gave me, meaning to be rid of it. And all the penance the Queen laid upon me Was but to rest awhile within her court; Where first as sullen as a beast new-caged, And waiting to be treated like a wolf, Because I knew my deeds were known, I found, Instead of scornful pity or pure scorn, Such fine reserve and noble reticence, Manners so kind, yet stately, such a grace Of tenderest courtesy, that I began To glance behind me at my former life, And find that it had been the wolf's indeed: And oft I talked with Dubric, the high saint, Who, with mild heat of holy oratory, Subdued me somewhat to that gentleness, Which, when it weds with manhood, makes a man. And you were often there about the Queen, But saw me not, or marked not if you saw; Nor did I care or dare to speak with you, But kept myself aloof till I was changed; And fear not, cousin; I am changed indeed.' He spoke, and Enid easily believed, Like simple noble natures, credulous Of what they long for, good in friend or foe, There most in those who most have done them ill. And when they reached the camp the King himself Advanced to greet them, and beholding her Though pale, yet happy, asked her not a word, But went apart with Edyrn, whom he held In converse for a little, and returned, And, gravely smiling, lifted her from horse, And kissed her with all pureness, brother-like, And showed an empty tent allotted her, And glancing for a minute, till he saw her Pass into it, turned to the Prince, and said: 'Prince, when of late ye prayed me for my leave To move to your own land, and there defend Your marches, I was pricked with some reproof, As one that let foul wrong stagnate and be, By having looked too much through alien eyes, And wrought too long with delegated hands, Not used mine own: but now behold me come To cleanse this common sewer of all my realm, With Edyrn and with others: have ye looked At Edyrn? have ye seen how nobly changed? This work of his is great and wonderful. His very face with change of heart is changed. The world will not believe a man repents: And this wise world of ours is mainly right. Full seldom doth a man repent, or use Both grace and will to pick the vicious quitch Of blood and custom wholly out of him, And make all clean, and plant himself afresh. Edyrn has done it, weeding all his heart As I will weed this land before I go. I, therefore, made him of our Table Round, Not rashly, but have proved him everyway One of our noblest, our most valorous, Sanest and most obedient: and indeed This work of Edyrn wrought upon himself After a life of violence, seems to me A thousand-fold more great and wonderful Than if some knight of mine, risking his life, My subject with my subjects under him, Should make an onslaught single on a realm Of robbers, though he slew them one by one, And were himself nigh wounded to the death.' So spake the King; low bowed the Prince, and felt His work was neither great nor wonderful, And past to Enid's tent; and thither came The King's own leech to look into his hurt; And Enid tended on him there; and there Her constant motion round him, and the breath Of her sweet tendance hovering over him, Filled all the genial courses of his blood With deeper and with ever deeper love, As the south-west that blowing Bala lake Fills all the sacred Dee. So past the days. But while Geraint lay healing of his hurt, The blameless King went forth and cast his eyes On each of all whom Uther left in charge Long since, to guard the justice of the King: He looked and found them wanting; and as now Men weed the white horse on the Berkshire hills To keep him bright and clean as heretofore, He rooted out the slothful officer Or guilty, which for bribe had winked at wrong, And in their chairs set up a stronger race With hearts and hands, and sent a thousand men To till the wastes, and moving everywhere Cleared the dark places and let in the law, And broke the bandit holds and cleansed the land. Then, when Geraint was whole again, they past With Arthur to Caerleon upon Usk. There the great Queen once more embraced her friend, And clothed her in apparel like the day. And though Geraint could never take again That comfort from their converse which he took Before the Queen's fair name was breathed upon, He rested well content that all was well. Thence after tarrying for a space they rode, And fifty knights rode with them to the shores Of Severn, and they past to their own land. And there he kept the justice of the King So vigorously yet mildly, that all hearts Applauded, and the spiteful whisper died: And being ever foremost in the chase, And victor at the tilt and tournament, They called him the great Prince and man of men. But Enid, whom her ladies loved to call Enid the Fair, a grateful people named Enid the Good; and in their halls arose The cry of children, Enids and Geraints Of times to be; nor did he doubt her more, But rested in her fealty, till he crowned A happy life with a fair death, and fell Against the heathen of the Northern Sea In battle, fighting for the blameless King. Balin and Balan Pellam the King, who held and lost with Lot In that first war, and had his realm restored But rendered tributary, failed of late To send his tribute; wherefore Arthur called His treasurer, one of many years, and spake, 'Go thou with him and him and bring it to us, Lest we should set one truer on his throne. Man's word is God in man.' His Baron said 'We go but harken: there be two strange knights Who sit near Camelot at a fountain-side, A mile beneath the forest, challenging And overthrowing every knight who comes. Wilt thou I undertake them as we pass, And send them to thee?' Arthur laughed upon him. 'Old friend, too old to be so young, depart, Delay not thou for aught, but let them sit, Until they find a lustier than themselves.' So these departed. Early, one fair dawn, The light-winged spirit of his youth returned On Arthur's heart; he armed himself and went, So coming to the fountain-side beheld Balin and Balan sitting statuelike, Brethren, to right and left the spring, that down, From underneath a plume of lady-fern, Sang, and the sand danced at the bottom of it. And on the right of Balin Balin's horse Was fast beside an alder, on the left Of Balan Balan's near a poplartree. 'Fair Sirs,' said Arthur, 'wherefore sit ye here?' Balin and Balan answered 'For the sake Of glory; we be mightier men than all In Arthur's court; that also have we proved; For whatsoever knight against us came Or I or he have easily overthrown.' 'I too,' said Arthur, 'am of Arthur's hall, But rather proven in his Paynim wars Than famous jousts; but see, or proven or not, Whether me likewise ye can overthrow.' And Arthur lightly smote the brethren down, And lightly so returned, and no man knew. Then Balin rose, and Balan, and beside The carolling water set themselves again, And spake no word until the shadow turned; When from the fringe of coppice round them burst A spangled pursuivant, and crying 'Sirs, Rise, follow! ye be sent for by the King,' They followed; whom when Arthur seeing asked 'Tell me your names; why sat ye by the well?' Balin the stillness of a minute broke Saying 'An unmelodious name to thee, Balin, "the Savage"--that addition thine-- My brother and my better, this man here, Balan. I smote upon the naked skull A thrall of thine in open hall, my hand Was gauntleted, half slew him; for I heard He had spoken evil of me; thy just wrath Sent me a three-years' exile from thine eyes. I have not lived my life delightsomely: For I that did that violence to thy thrall, Had often wrought some fury on myself, Saving for Balan: those three kingless years Have past--were wormwood-bitter to me. King, Methought that if we sat beside the well, And hurled to ground what knight soever spurred Against us, thou would'st take me gladlier back, And make, as ten-times worthier to be thine Than twenty Balins, Balan knight. I have said. Not so--not all. A man of thine today Abashed us both, and brake my boast. Thy will?' Said Arthur 'Thou hast ever spoken truth; Thy too fierce manhood would not let thee lie. Rise, my true knight. As children learn, be thou Wiser for falling! walk with me, and move To music with thine Order and the King. Thy chair, a grief to all the brethren, stands Vacant, but thou retake it, mine again!' Thereafter, when Sir Balin entered hall, The Lost one Found was greeted as in Heaven With joy that blazed itself in woodland wealth Of leaf, and gayest garlandage of flowers, Along the walls and down the board; they sat, And cup clashed cup; they drank and some one sang, Sweet-voiced, a song of welcome, whereupon Their common shout in chorus, mounting, made Those banners of twelve battles overhead Stir, as they stirred of old, when Arthur's host Proclaimed him Victor, and the day was won. Then Balan added to their Order lived A wealthier life than heretofore with these And Balin, till their embassage returned. 'Sir King' they brought report 'we hardly found, So bushed about it is with gloom, the hall Of him to whom ye sent us, Pellam, once A Christless foe of thine as ever dashed Horse against horse; but seeing that thy realm Hath prospered in the name of Christ, the King Took, as in rival heat, to holy things; And finds himself descended from the Saint Arimathaean Joseph; him who first Brought the great faith to Britain over seas; He boasts his life as purer than thine own; Eats scarce enow to keep his pulse abeat; Hath pushed aside his faithful wife, nor lets Or dame or damsel enter at his gates Lest he should be polluted. This gray King Showed us a shrine wherein were wonders--yea-- Rich arks with priceless bones of martyrdom, Thorns of the crown and shivers of the cross, And therewithal (for thus he told us) brought By holy Joseph thither, that same spear Wherewith the Roman pierced the side of Christ. He much amazed us; after, when we sought The tribute, answered "I have quite foregone All matters of this world: Garlon, mine heir, Of him demand it," which this Garlon gave With much ado, railing at thine and thee. 'But when we left, in those deep woods we found A knight of thine spear-stricken from behind, Dead, whom we buried; more than one of us Cried out on Garlon, but a woodman there Reported of some demon in the woods Was once a man, who driven by evil tongues From all his fellows, lived alone, and came To learn black magic, and to hate his kind With such a hate, that when he died, his soul Became a Fiend, which, as the man in life Was wounded by blind tongues he saw not whence, Strikes from behind. This woodman showed the cave From which he sallies, and wherein he dwelt. We saw the hoof-print of a horse, no more.' Then Arthur, 'Let who goes before me, see He do not fall behind me: foully slain And villainously! who will hunt for me This demon of the woods?' Said Balan, 'I'! So claimed the quest and rode away, but first, Embracing Balin, 'Good my brother, hear! Let not thy moods prevail, when I am gone Who used to lay them! hold them outer fiends, Who leap at thee to tear thee; shake them aside, Dreams ruling when wit sleeps! yea, but to dream That any of these would wrong thee, wrongs thyself. Witness their flowery welcome. Bound are they To speak no evil. Truly save for fears, My fears for thee, so rich a fellowship Would make me wholly blest: thou one of them, Be one indeed: consider them, and all Their bearing in their common bond of love, No more of hatred than in Heaven itself, No more of jealousy than in Paradise.' So Balan warned, and went; Balin remained: Who--for but three brief moons had glanced away From being knighted till he smote the thrall, And faded from the presence into years Of exile--now would strictlier set himself To learn what Arthur meant by courtesy, Manhood, and knighthood; wherefore hovered round Lancelot, but when he marked his high sweet smile In passing, and a transitory word Make knight or churl or child or damsel seem From being smiled at happier in themselves-- Sighed, as a boy lame-born beneath a height, That glooms his valley, sighs to see the peak Sun-flushed, or touch at night the northern star; For one from out his village lately climed And brought report of azure lands and fair, Far seen to left and right; and he himself Hath hardly scaled with help a hundred feet Up from the base: so Balin marvelling oft How far beyond him Lancelot seemed to move, Groaned, and at times would mutter, 'These be gifts, Born with the blood, not learnable, divine, Beyond my reach. Well had I foughten--well-- In those fierce wars, struck hard--and had I crowned With my slain self the heaps of whom I slew-- So--better!--But this worship of the Queen, That honour too wherein she holds him--this, This was the sunshine that hath given the man A growth, a name that branches o'er the rest, And strength against all odds, and what the King So prizes--overprizes--gentleness. Her likewise would I worship an I might. I never can be close with her, as he That brought her hither. Shall I pray the King To let me bear some token of his Queen Whereon to gaze, remembering her--forget My heats and violences? live afresh? What, if the Queen disdained to grant it! nay Being so stately-gentle, would she make My darkness blackness? and with how sweet grace She greeted my return! Bold will I be-- Some goodly cognizance of Guinevere, In lieu of this rough beast upon my shield, Langued gules, and toothed with grinning savagery.' And Arthur, when Sir Balin sought him, said 'What wilt thou bear?' Balin was bold, and asked To bear her own crown-royal upon shield, Whereat she smiled and turned her to the King, Who answered 'Thou shalt put the crown to use. The crown is but the shadow of the King, And this a shadow's shadow, let him have it, So this will help him of his violences!' 'No shadow' said Sir Balin 'O my Queen, But light to me! no shadow, O my King, But golden earnest of a gentler life!' So Balin bare the crown, and all the knights Approved him, and the Queen, and all the world Made music, and he felt his being move In music with his Order, and the King. The nightingale, full-toned in middle May, Hath ever and anon a note so thin It seems another voice in other groves; Thus, after some quick burst of sudden wrath, The music in him seemed to change, and grow Faint and far-off. And once he saw the thrall His passion half had gauntleted to death, That causer of his banishment and shame, Smile at him, as he deemed, presumptuously: His arm half rose to strike again, but fell: The memory of that cognizance on shield Weighted it down, but in himself he moaned: 'Too high this mount of Camelot for me: These high-set courtesies are not for me. Shall I not rather prove the worse for these? Fierier and stormier from restraining, break Into some madness even before the Queen?' Thus, as a hearth lit in a mountain home, And glancing on the window, when the gloom Of twilight deepens round it, seems a flame That rages in the woodland far below, So when his moods were darkened, court and King And all the kindly warmth of Arthur's hall Shadowed an angry distance: yet he strove To learn the graces of their Table, fought Hard with himself, and seemed at length in peace. Then chanced, one morning, that Sir Balin sat Close-bowered in that garden nigh the hall. A walk of roses ran from door to door; A walk of lilies crost it to the bower: And down that range of roses the great Queen Came with slow steps, the morning on her face; And all in shadow from the counter door Sir Lancelot as to meet her, then at once, As if he saw not, glanced aside, and paced The long white walk of lilies toward the bower. Followed the Queen; Sir Balin heard her 'Prince, Art thou so little loyal to thy Queen, As pass without good morrow to thy Queen?' To whom Sir Lancelot with his eyes on earth, 'Fain would I still be loyal to the Queen.' 'Yea so' she said 'but so to pass me by-- So loyal scarce is loyal to thyself, Whom all men rate the king of courtesy. Let be: ye stand, fair lord, as in a dream.' Then Lancelot with his hand among the flowers 'Yea--for a dream. Last night methought I saw That maiden Saint who stands with lily in hand In yonder shrine. All round her prest the dark, And all the light upon her silver face Flowed from the spiritual lily that she held. Lo! these her emblems drew mine eyes--away: For see, how perfect-pure! As light a flush As hardly tints the blossom of the quince Would mar their charm of stainless maidenhood.' 'Sweeter to me' she said 'this garden rose Deep-hued and many-folded! sweeter still The wild-wood hyacinth and the bloom of May. Prince, we have ridden before among the flowers In those fair days--not all as cool as these, Though season-earlier. Art thou sad? or sick? Our noble King will send thee his own leech-- Sick? or for any matter angered at me?' Then Lancelot lifted his large eyes; they dwelt Deep-tranced on hers, and could not fall: her hue Changed at his gaze: so turning side by side They past, and Balin started from his bower. 'Queen? subject? but I see not what I see. Damsel and lover? hear not what I hear. My father hath begotten me in his wrath. I suffer from the things before me, know, Learn nothing; am not worthy to be knight; A churl, a clown!' and in him gloom on gloom Deepened: he sharply caught his lance and shield, Nor stayed to crave permission of the King, But, mad for strange adventure, dashed away. He took the selfsame track as Balan, saw The fountain where they sat together, sighed 'Was I not better there with him?' and rode The skyless woods, but under open blue Came on the hoarhead woodman at a bough Wearily hewing. 'Churl, thine axe!' he cried, Descended, and disjointed it at a blow: To whom the woodman uttered wonderingly 'Lord, thou couldst lay the Devil of these woods If arm of flesh could lay him.' Balin cried 'Him, or the viler devil who plays his part, To lay that devil would lay the Devil in me.' 'Nay' said the churl, 'our devil is a truth, I saw the flash of him but yestereven. And some do say that our Sir Garlon too Hath learned black magic, and to ride unseen. Look to the cave.' But Balin answered him 'Old fabler, these be fancies of the churl, Look to thy woodcraft,' and so leaving him, Now with slack rein and careless of himself, Now with dug spur and raving at himself, Now with droopt brow down the long glades he rode; So marked not on his right a cavern-chasm Yawn over darkness, where, nor far within, The whole day died, but, dying, gleamed on rocks Roof-pendent, sharp; and others from the floor, Tusklike, arising, made that mouth of night Whereout the Demon issued up from Hell. He marked not this, but blind and deaf to all Save that chained rage, which ever yelpt within, Past eastward from the falling sun. At once He felt the hollow-beaten mosses thud And tremble, and then the shadow of a spear, Shot from behind him, ran along the ground. Sideways he started from the path, and saw, With pointed lance as if to pierce, a shape, A light of armour by him flash, and pass And vanish in the woods; and followed this, But all so blind in rage that unawares He burst his lance against a forest bough, Dishorsed himself, and rose again, and fled Far, till the castle of a King, the hall Of Pellam, lichen-bearded, grayly draped With streaming grass, appeared, low-built but strong; The ruinous donjon as a knoll of moss, The battlement overtopt with ivytods, A home of bats, in every tower an owl. Then spake the men of Pellam crying 'Lord, Why wear ye this crown-royal upon shield?' Said Balin 'For the fairest and the best Of ladies living gave me this to bear.' So stalled his horse, and strode across the court, But found the greetings both of knight and King Faint in the low dark hall of banquet: leaves Laid their green faces flat against the panes, Sprays grated, and the cankered boughs without Whined in the wood; for all was hushed within, Till when at feast Sir Garlon likewise asked 'Why wear ye that crown-royal?' Balin said 'The Queen we worship, Lancelot, I, and all, As fairest, best and purest, granted me To bear it!' Such a sound (for Arthur's knights Were hated strangers in the hall) as makes The white swan-mother, sitting, when she hears A strange knee rustle through her secret reeds, Made Garlon, hissing; then he sourly smiled. 'Fairest I grant her: I have seen; but best, Best, purest? thou from Arthur's hall, and yet So simple! hast thou eyes, or if, are these So far besotted that they fail to see This fair wife-worship cloaks a secret shame? Truly, ye men of Arthur be but babes.' A goblet on the board by Balin, bossed With holy Joseph's legend, on his right Stood, all of massiest bronze: one side had sea And ship and sail and angels blowing on it: And one was rough with wattling, and the walls Of that low church he built at Glastonbury. This Balin graspt, but while in act to hurl, Through memory of that token on the shield Relaxed his hold: 'I will be gentle' he thought 'And passing gentle' caught his hand away, Then fiercely to Sir Garlon 'Eyes have I That saw today the shadow of a spear, Shot from behind me, run along the ground; Eyes too that long have watched how Lancelot draws From homage to the best and purest, might, Name, manhood, and a grace, but scantly thine, Who, sitting in thine own hall, canst endure To mouth so huge a foulness--to thy guest, Me, me of Arthur's Table. Felon talk! Let be! no more!' But not the less by night The scorn of Garlon, poisoning all his rest, Stung him in dreams. At length, and dim through leaves Blinkt the white morn, sprays grated, and old boughs Whined in the wood. He rose, descended, met The scorner in the castle court, and fain, For hate and loathing, would have past him by; But when Sir Garlon uttered mocking-wise; 'What, wear ye still that same crown-scandalous?' His countenance blackened, and his forehead veins Bloated, and branched; and tearing out of sheath The brand, Sir Balin with a fiery 'Ha! So thou be shadow, here I make thee ghost,' Hard upon helm smote him, and the blade flew Splintering in six, and clinkt upon the stones. Then Garlon, reeling slowly backward, fell, And Balin by the banneret of his helm Dragged him, and struck, but from the castle a cry Sounded across the court, and--men-at-arms, A score with pointed lances, making at him-- He dashed the pummel at the foremost face, Beneath a low door dipt, and made his feet Wings through a glimmering gallery, till he marked The portal of King Pellam's chapel wide And inward to the wall; he stept behind; Thence in a moment heard them pass like wolves Howling; but while he stared about the shrine, In which he scarce could spy the Christ for Saints, Beheld before a golden altar lie The longest lance his eyes had ever seen, Point-painted red; and seizing thereupon Pushed through an open casement down, leaned on it, Leapt in a semicircle, and lit on earth; Then hand at ear, and harkening from what side The blindfold rummage buried in the walls Might echo, ran the counter path, and found His charger, mounted on him and away. An arrow whizzed to the right, one to the left, One overhead; and Pellam's feeble cry 'Stay, stay him! he defileth heavenly things With earthly uses'--made him quickly dive Beneath the boughs, and race through many a mile Of dense and open, till his goodly horse, Arising wearily at a fallen oak, Stumbled headlong, and cast him face to ground. Half-wroth he had not ended, but all glad, Knightlike, to find his charger yet unlamed, Sir Balin drew the shield from off his neck, Stared at the priceless cognizance, and thought 'I have shamed thee so that now thou shamest me, Thee will I bear no more,' high on a branch Hung it, and turned aside into the woods, And there in gloom cast himself all along, Moaning 'My violences, my violences!' But now the wholesome music of the wood Was dumbed by one from out the hall of Mark, A damsel-errant, warbling, as she rode The woodland alleys, Vivien, with her Squire. 'The fire of Heaven has killed the barren cold, And kindled all the plain and all the wold. The new leaf ever pushes off the old. The fire of Heaven is not the flame of Hell. 'Old priest, who mumble worship in your quire-- Old monk and nun, ye scorn the world's desire, Yet in your frosty cells ye feel the fire! The fire of Heaven is not the flame of Hell. 'The fire of Heaven is on the dusty ways. The wayside blossoms open to the blaze. The whole wood-world is one full peal of praise. The fire of Heaven is not the flame of Hell. 'The fire of Heaven is lord of all things good, And starve not thou this fire within thy blood, But follow Vivien through the fiery flood! The fire of Heaven is not the flame of Hell!' Then turning to her Squire 'This fire of Heaven, This old sun-worship, boy, will rise again, And beat the cross to earth, and break the King And all his Table.' Then they reached a glade, Where under one long lane of cloudless air Before another wood, the royal crown Sparkled, and swaying upon a restless elm Drew the vague glance of Vivien, and her Squire; Amazed were these; 'Lo there' she cried--'a crown-- Borne by some high lord-prince of Arthur's hall, And there a horse! the rider? where is he? See, yonder lies one dead within the wood. Not dead; he stirs!--but sleeping. I will speak. Hail, royal knight, we break on thy sweet rest, Not, doubtless, all unearned by noble deeds. But bounden art thou, if from Arthur's hall, To help the weak. Behold, I fly from shame, A lustful King, who sought to win my love Through evil ways: the knight, with whom I rode, Hath suffered misadventure, and my squire Hath in him small defence; but thou, Sir Prince, Wilt surely guide me to the warrior King, Arthur the blameless, pure as any maid, To get me shelter for my maidenhood. I charge thee by that crown upon thy shield, And by the great Queen's name, arise and hence.' And Balin rose, 'Thither no more! nor Prince Nor knight am I, but one that hath defamed The cognizance she gave me: here I dwell Savage among the savage woods, here die-- Die: let the wolves' black maws ensepulchre Their brother beast, whose anger was his lord. O me, that such a name as Guinevere's, Which our high Lancelot hath so lifted up, And been thereby uplifted, should through me, My violence, and my villainy, come to shame.' Thereat she suddenly laughed and shrill, anon Sighed all as suddenly. Said Balin to her 'Is this thy courtesy--to mock me, ha? Hence, for I will not with thee.' Again she sighed 'Pardon, sweet lord! we maidens often laugh When sick at heart, when rather we should weep. I knew thee wronged. I brake upon thy rest, And now full loth am I to break thy dream, But thou art man, and canst abide a truth, Though bitter. Hither, boy--and mark me well. Dost thou remember at Caerleon once-- A year ago--nay, then I love thee not-- Ay, thou rememberest well--one summer dawn-- By the great tower--Caerleon upon Usk-- Nay, truly we were hidden: this fair lord, The flower of all their vestal knighthood, knelt In amorous homage--knelt--what else?--O ay Knelt, and drew down from out his night-black hair And mumbled that white hand whose ringed caress Had wandered from her own King's golden head, And lost itself in darkness, till she cried-- I thought the great tower would crash down on both-- "Rise, my sweet King, and kiss me on the lips, Thou art my King." This lad, whose lightest word Is mere white truth in simple nakedness, Saw them embrace: he reddens, cannot speak, So bashful, he! but all the maiden Saints, The deathless mother-maidenhood of Heaven, Cry out upon her. Up then, ride with me! Talk not of shame! thou canst not, an thou would'st, Do these more shame than these have done themselves.' She lied with ease; but horror-stricken he, Remembering that dark bower at Camelot, Breathed in a dismal whisper 'It is truth.' Sunnily she smiled 'And even in this lone wood, Sweet lord, ye do right well to whisper this. Fools prate, and perish traitors. Woods have tongues, As walls have ears: but thou shalt go with me, And we will speak at first exceeding low. Meet is it the good King be not deceived. See now, I set thee high on vantage ground, From whence to watch the time, and eagle-like Stoop at thy will on Lancelot and the Queen.' She ceased; his evil spirit upon him leapt, He ground his teeth together, sprang with a yell, Tore from the branch, and cast on earth, the shield, Drove his mailed heel athwart the royal crown, Stampt all into defacement, hurled it from him Among the forest weeds, and cursed the tale, The told-of, and the teller. That weird yell, Unearthlier than all shriek of bird or beast, Thrilled through the woods; and Balan lurking there (His quest was unaccomplished) heard and thought 'The scream of that Wood-devil I came to quell!' Then nearing 'Lo! he hath slain some brother-knight, And tramples on the goodly shield to show His loathing of our Order and the Queen. My quest, meseems, is here. Or devil or man Guard thou thine head.' Sir Balin spake not word, But snatched a sudden buckler from the Squire, And vaulted on his horse, and so they crashed In onset, and King Pellam's holy spear, Reputed to be red with sinless blood, Redded at once with sinful, for the point Across the maiden shield of Balan pricked The hauberk to the flesh; and Balin's horse Was wearied to the death, and, when they clashed, Rolling back upon Balin, crushed the man Inward, and either fell, and swooned away. Then to her Squire muttered the damsel 'Fools! This fellow hath wrought some foulness with his Queen: Else never had he borne her crown, nor raved And thus foamed over at a rival name: But thou, Sir Chick, that scarce hast broken shell, Art yet half-yolk, not even come to down-- Who never sawest Caerleon upon Usk-- And yet hast often pleaded for my love-- See what I see, be thou where I have been, Or else Sir Chick--dismount and loose their casques I fain would know what manner of men they be.' And when the Squire had loosed them, 'Goodly!--look! They might have cropt the myriad flower of May, And butt each other here, like brainless bulls, Dead for one heifer! Then the gentle Squire 'I hold them happy, so they died for love: And, Vivien, though ye beat me like your dog, I too could die, as now I live, for thee.' 'Live on, Sir Boy,' she cried. 'I better prize The living dog than the dead lion: away! I cannot brook to gaze upon the dead.' Then leapt her palfrey o'er the fallen oak, And bounding forward 'Leave them to the wolves.' But when their foreheads felt the cooling air, Balin first woke, and seeing that true face, Familiar up from cradle-time, so wan, Crawled slowly with low moans to where he lay, And on his dying brother cast himself Dying; and he lifted faint eyes; he felt One near him; all at once they found the world, Staring wild-wide; then with a childlike wail And drawing down the dim disastrous brow That o'er him hung, he kissed it, moaned and spake; 'O Balin, Balin, I that fain had died To save thy life, have brought thee to thy death. Why had ye not the shield I knew? and why Trampled ye thus on that which bare the Crown?' Then Balin told him brokenly, and in gasps, All that had chanced, and Balan moaned again. 'Brother, I dwelt a day in Pellam's hall: This Garlon mocked me, but I heeded not. And one said "Eat in peace! a liar is he, And hates thee for the tribute!" this good knight Told me, that twice a wanton damsel came, And sought for Garlon at the castle-gates, Whom Pellam drove away with holy heat. I well believe this damsel, and the one Who stood beside thee even now, the same. "She dwells among the woods" he said "and meets And dallies with him in the Mouth of Hell." Foul are their lives; foul are their lips; they lied. Pure as our own true Mother is our Queen." 'O brother' answered Balin 'woe is me! My madness all thy life has been thy doom, Thy curse, and darkened all thy day; and now The night has come. I scarce can see thee now. Goodnight! for we shall never bid again Goodmorrow--Dark my doom was here, and dark It will be there. I see thee now no more. I would not mine again should darken thine, Goodnight, true brother. Balan answered low 'Goodnight, true brother here! goodmorrow there! We two were born together, and we die Together by one doom:' and while he spoke Closed his death-drowsing eyes, and slept the sleep With Balin, either locked in either's arm. Merlin and Vivien A storm was coming, but the winds were still, And in the wild woods of Broceliande, Before an oak, so hollow, huge and old It looked a tower of ivied masonwork, At Merlin's feet the wily Vivien lay. For he that always bare in bitter grudge The slights of Arthur and his Table, Mark The Cornish King, had heard a wandering voice, A minstrel of Caerleon by strong storm Blown into shelter at Tintagil, say That out of naked knightlike purity Sir Lancelot worshipt no unmarried girl But the great Queen herself, fought in her name, Sware by her--vows like theirs, that high in heaven Love most, but neither marry, nor are given In marriage, angels of our Lord's report. He ceased, and then--for Vivien sweetly said (She sat beside the banquet nearest Mark), 'And is the fair example followed, Sir, In Arthur's household?'--answered innocently: 'Ay, by some few--ay, truly--youths that hold It more beseems the perfect virgin knight To worship woman as true wife beyond All hopes of gaining, than as maiden girl. They place their pride in Lancelot and the Queen. So passionate for an utter purity Beyond the limit of their bond, are these, For Arthur bound them not to singleness. Brave hearts and clean! and yet--God guide them--young.' Then Mark was half in heart to hurl his cup Straight at the speaker, but forbore: he rose To leave the hall, and, Vivien following him, Turned to her: 'Here are snakes within the grass; And you methinks, O Vivien, save ye fear The monkish manhood, and the mask of pure Worn by this court, can stir them till they sting.' And Vivien answered, smiling scornfully, 'Why fear? because that fostered at thy court I savour of thy--virtues? fear them? no. As Love, if Love is perfect, casts out fear, So Hate, if Hate is perfect, casts out fear. My father died in battle against the King, My mother on his corpse in open field; She bore me there, for born from death was I Among the dead and sown upon the wind-- And then on thee! and shown the truth betimes, That old true filth, and bottom of the well Where Truth is hidden. Gracious lessons thine And maxims of the mud! "This Arthur pure! Great Nature through the flesh herself hath made Gives him the lie! There is no being pure, My cherub; saith not Holy Writ the same?"-- If I were Arthur, I would have thy blood. Thy blessing, stainless King! I bring thee back, When I have ferreted out their burrowings, The hearts of all this Order in mine hand-- Ay--so that fate and craft and folly close, Perchance, one curl of Arthur's golden beard. To me this narrow grizzled fork of thine Is cleaner-fashioned--Well, I loved thee first, That warps the wit.' Loud laughed the graceless Mark, But Vivien, into Camelot stealing, lodged Low in the city, and on a festal day When Guinevere was crossing the great hall Cast herself down, knelt to the Queen, and wailed. 'Why kneel ye there? What evil hath ye wrought? Rise!' and the damsel bidden rise arose And stood with folded hands and downward eyes Of glancing corner, and all meekly said, 'None wrought, but suffered much, an orphan maid! My father died in battle for thy King, My mother on his corpse--in open field, The sad sea-sounding wastes of Lyonnesse-- Poor wretch--no friend!--and now by Mark the King For that small charm of feature mine, pursued-- If any such be mine--I fly to thee. Save, save me thou--Woman of women--thine The wreath of beauty, thine the crown of power, Be thine the balm of pity, O Heaven's own white Earth-angel, stainless bride of stainless King-- Help, for he follows! take me to thyself! O yield me shelter for mine innocency Among thy maidens! Here her slow sweet eyes Fear-tremulous, but humbly hopeful, rose Fixt on her hearer's, while the Queen who stood All glittering like May sunshine on May leaves In green and gold, and plumed with green replied, 'Peace, child! of overpraise and overblame We choose the last. Our noble Arthur, him Ye scarce can overpraise, will hear and know. Nay--we believe all evil of thy Mark-- Well, we shall test thee farther; but this hour We ride a-hawking with Sir Lancelot. He hath given us a fair falcon which he trained; We go to prove it. Bide ye here the while.' She past; and Vivien murmured after 'Go! I bide the while.' Then through the portal-arch Peering askance, and muttering broken-wise, As one that labours with an evil dream, Beheld the Queen and Lancelot get to horse. 'Is that the Lancelot? goodly--ay, but gaunt: Courteous--amends for gauntness--takes her hand-- That glance of theirs, but for the street, had been A clinging kiss--how hand lingers in hand! Let go at last!--they ride away--to hawk For waterfowl. Royaller game is mine. For such a supersensual sensual bond As that gray cricket chirpt of at our hearth-- Touch flax with flame--a glance will serve--the liars! Ah little rat that borest in the dyke Thy hole by night to let the boundless deep Down upon far-off cities while they dance-- Or dream--of thee they dreamed not--nor of me These--ay, but each of either: ride, and dream The mortal dream that never yet was mine-- Ride, ride and dream until ye wake--to me! Then, narrow court and lubber King, farewell! For Lancelot will be gracious to the rat, And our wise Queen, if knowing that I know, Will hate, loathe, fear--but honour me the more.' Yet while they rode together down the plain, Their talk was all of training, terms of art, Diet and seeling, jesses, leash and lure. 'She is too noble' he said 'to check at pies, Nor will she rake: there is no baseness in her.' Here when the Queen demanded as by chance 'Know ye the stranger woman?' 'Let her be,' Said Lancelot and unhooded casting off The goodly falcon free; she towered; her bells, Tone under tone, shrilled; and they lifted up Their eager faces, wondering at the strength, Boldness and royal knighthood of the bird Who pounced her quarry and slew it. Many a time As once--of old--among the flowers--they rode. But Vivien half-forgotten of the Queen Among her damsels broidering sat, heard, watched And whispered: through the peaceful court she crept And whispered: then as Arthur in the highest Leavened the world, so Vivien in the lowest, Arriving at a time of golden rest, And sowing one ill hint from ear to ear, While all the heathen lay at Arthur's feet, And no quest came, but all was joust and play, Leavened his hall. They heard and let her be. Thereafter as an enemy that has left Death in the living waters, and withdrawn, The wily Vivien stole from Arthur's court. She hated all the knights, and heard in thought Their lavish comment when her name was named. For once, when Arthur walking all alone, Vext at a rumour issued from herself Of some corruption crept among his knights, Had met her, Vivien, being greeted fair, Would fain have wrought upon his cloudy mood With reverent eyes mock-loyal, shaken voice, And fluttered adoration, and at last With dark sweet hints of some who prized him more Than who should prize him most; at which the King Had gazed upon her blankly and gone by: But one had watched, and had not held his peace: It made the laughter of an afternoon That Vivien should attempt the blameless King. And after that, she set herself to gain Him, the most famous man of all those times, Merlin, who knew the range of all their arts, Had built the King his havens, ships, and halls, Was also Bard, and knew the starry heavens; The people called him Wizard; whom at first She played about with slight and sprightly talk, And vivid smiles, and faintly-venomed points Of slander, glancing here and grazing there; And yielding to his kindlier moods, the Seer Would watch her at her petulance, and play, Even when they seemed unloveable, and laugh As those that watch a kitten; thus he grew Tolerant of what he half disdained, and she, Perceiving that she was but half disdained, Began to break her sports with graver fits, Turn red or pale, would often when they met Sigh fully, or all-silent gaze upon him With such a fixt devotion, that the old man, Though doubtful, felt the flattery, and at times Would flatter his own wish in age for love, And half believe her true: for thus at times He wavered; but that other clung to him, Fixt in her will, and so the seasons went. Then fell on Merlin a great melancholy; He walked with dreams and darkness, and he found A doom that ever poised itself to fall, An ever-moaning battle in the mist, World-war of dying flesh against the life, Death in all life and lying in all love, The meanest having power upon the highest, And the high purpose broken by the worm. So leaving Arthur's court he gained the beach; There found a little boat, and stept into it; And Vivien followed, but he marked her not. She took the helm and he the sail; the boat Drave with a sudden wind across the deeps, And touching Breton sands, they disembarked. And then she followed Merlin all the way, Even to the wild woods of Broceliande. For Merlin once had told her of a charm, The which if any wrought on anyone With woven paces and with waving arms, The man so wrought on ever seemed to lie Closed in the four walls of a hollow tower, From which was no escape for evermore; And none could find that man for evermore, Nor could he see but him who wrought the charm Coming and going, and he lay as dead And lost to life and use and name and fame. And Vivien ever sought to work the charm Upon the great Enchanter of the Time, As fancying that her glory would be great According to his greatness whom she quenched. There lay she all her length and kissed his feet, As if in deepest reverence and in love. A twist of gold was round her hair; a robe Of samite without price, that more exprest Than hid her, clung about her lissome limbs, In colour like the satin-shining palm On sallows in the windy gleams of March: And while she kissed them, crying, 'Trample me, Dear feet, that I have followed through the world, And I will pay you worship; tread me down And I will kiss you for it;' he was mute: So dark a forethought rolled about his brain, As on a dull day in an Ocean cave The blind wave feeling round his long sea-hall In silence: wherefore, when she lifted up A face of sad appeal, and spake and said, 'O Merlin, do ye love me?' and again, 'O Merlin, do ye love me?' and once more, 'Great Master, do ye love me?' he was mute. And lissome Vivien, holding by his heel, Writhed toward him, slided up his knee and sat, Behind his ankle twined her hollow feet Together, curved an arm about his neck, Clung like a snake; and letting her left hand Droop from his mighty shoulder, as a leaf, Made with her right a comb of pearl to part The lists of such a board as youth gone out Had left in ashes: then he spoke and said, Not looking at her, 'Who are wise in love Love most, say least,' and Vivien answered quick, 'I saw the little elf-god eyeless once In Arthur's arras hall at Camelot: But neither eyes nor tongue--O stupid child! Yet you are wise who say it; let me think Silence is wisdom: I am silent then, And ask no kiss;' then adding all at once, 'And lo, I clothe myself with wisdom,' drew The vast and shaggy mantle of his beard Across her neck and bosom to her knee, And called herself a gilded summer fly Caught in a great old tyrant spider's web, Who meant to eat her up in that wild wood Without one word. So Vivien called herself, But rather seemed a lovely baleful star Veiled in gray vapour; till he sadly smiled: 'To what request for what strange boon,' he said, 'Are these your pretty tricks and fooleries, O Vivien, the preamble? yet my thanks, For these have broken up my melancholy.' And Vivien answered smiling saucily, 'What, O my Master, have ye found your voice? I bid the stranger welcome. Thanks at last! But yesterday you never opened lip, Except indeed to drink: no cup had we: In mine own lady palms I culled the spring That gathered trickling dropwise from the cleft, And made a pretty cup of both my hands And offered you it kneeling: then you drank And knew no more, nor gave me one poor word; O no more thanks than might a goat have given With no more sign of reverence than a beard. And when we halted at that other well, And I was faint to swooning, and you lay Foot-gilt with all the blossom-dust of those Deep meadows we had traversed, did you know That Vivien bathed your feet before her own? And yet no thanks: and all through this wild wood And all this morning when I fondled you: Boon, ay, there was a boon, one not so strange-- How had I wronged you? surely ye are wise, But such a silence is more wise than kind.' And Merlin locked his hand in hers and said: 'O did ye never lie upon the shore, And watch the curled white of the coming wave Glassed in the slippery sand before it breaks? Even such a wave, but not so pleasurable, Dark in the glass of some presageful mood, Had I for three days seen, ready to fall. And then I rose and fled from Arthur's court To break the mood. You followed me unasked; And when I looked, and saw you following me still, My mind involved yourself the nearest thing In that mind-mist: for shall I tell you truth? You seemed that wave about to break upon me And sweep me from my hold upon the world, My use and name and fame. Your pardon, child. Your pretty sports have brightened all again. And ask your boon, for boon I owe you thrice, Once for wrong done you by confusion, next For thanks it seems till now neglected, last For these your dainty gambols: wherefore ask; And take this boon so strange and not so strange.' And Vivien answered smiling mournfully: 'O not so strange as my long asking it, Not yet so strange as you yourself are strange, Nor half so strange as that dark mood of yours. I ever feared ye were not wholly mine; And see, yourself have owned ye did me wrong. The people call you prophet: let it be: But not of those that can expound themselves. Take Vivien for expounder; she will call That three-days-long presageful gloom of yours No presage, but the same mistrustful mood That makes you seem less noble than yourself, Whenever I have asked this very boon, Now asked again: for see you not, dear love, That such a mood as that, which lately gloomed Your fancy when ye saw me following you, Must make me fear still more you are not mine, Must make me yearn still more to prove you mine, And make me wish still more to learn this charm Of woven paces and of waving hands, As proof of trust. O Merlin, teach it me. The charm so taught will charm us both to rest. For, grant me some slight power upon your fate, I, feeling that you felt me worthy trust, Should rest and let you rest, knowing you mine. And therefore be as great as ye are named, Not muffled round with selfish reticence. How hard you look and how denyingly! O, if you think this wickedness in me, That I should prove it on you unawares, That makes me passing wrathful; then our bond Had best be loosed for ever: but think or not, By Heaven that hears I tell you the clean truth, As clean as blood of babes, as white as milk: O Merlin, may this earth, if ever I, If these unwitty wandering wits of mine, Even in the jumbled rubbish of a dream, Have tript on such conjectural treachery-- May this hard earth cleave to the Nadir hell Down, down, and close again, and nip me flat, If I be such a traitress. Yield my boon, Till which I scarce can yield you all I am; And grant my re-reiterated wish, The great proof of your love: because I think, However wise, ye hardly know me yet.' And Merlin loosed his hand from hers and said, 'I never was less wise, however wise, Too curious Vivien, though you talk of trust, Than when I told you first of such a charm. Yea, if ye talk of trust I tell you this, Too much I trusted when I told you that, And stirred this vice in you which ruined man Through woman the first hour; for howsoe'er In children a great curiousness be well, Who have to learn themselves and all the world, In you, that are no child, for still I find Your face is practised when I spell the lines, I call it,--well, I will not call it vice: But since you name yourself the summer fly, I well could wish a cobweb for the gnat, That settles, beaten back, and beaten back Settles, till one could yield for weariness: But since I will not yield to give you power Upon my life and use and name and fame, Why will ye never ask some other boon? Yea, by God's rood, I trusted you too much.' And Vivien, like the tenderest-hearted maid That ever bided tryst at village stile, Made answer, either eyelid wet with tears: 'Nay, Master, be not wrathful with your maid; Caress her: let her feel herself forgiven Who feels no heart to ask another boon. I think ye hardly know the tender rhyme Of "trust me not at all or all in all." I heard the great Sir Lancelot sing it once, And it shall answer for me. Listen to it. "In Love, if Love be Love, if Love be ours, Faith and unfaith can ne'er be equal powers: Unfaith in aught is want of faith in all. "It is the little rift within the lute, That by and by will make the music mute, And ever widening slowly silence all. "The little rift within the lover's lute Or little pitted speck in garnered fruit, That rotting inward slowly moulders all. "It is not worth the keeping: let it go: But shall it? answer, darling, answer, no. And trust me not at all or all in all." O Master, do ye love my tender rhyme?' And Merlin looked and half believed her true, So tender was her voice, so fair her face, So sweetly gleamed her eyes behind her tears Like sunlight on the plain behind a shower: And yet he answered half indignantly: 'Far other was the song that once I heard By this huge oak, sung nearly where we sit: For here we met, some ten or twelve of us, To chase a creature that was current then In these wild woods, the hart with golden horns. It was the time when first the question rose About the founding of a Table Round, That was to be, for love of God and men And noble deeds, the flower of all the world. And each incited each to noble deeds. And while we waited, one, the youngest of us, We could not keep him silent, out he flashed, And into such a song, such fire for fame, Such trumpet-glowings in it, coming down To such a stern and iron-clashing close, That when he stopt we longed to hurl together, And should have done it; but the beauteous beast Scared by the noise upstarted at our feet, And like a silver shadow slipt away Through the dim land; and all day long we rode Through the dim land against a rushing wind, That glorious roundel echoing in our ears, And chased the flashes of his golden horns Till they vanished by the fairy well That laughs at iron--as our warriors did-- Where children cast their pins and nails, and cry, "Laugh, little well!" but touch it with a sword, It buzzes fiercely round the point; and there We lost him: such a noble song was that. But, Vivien, when you sang me that sweet rhyme, I felt as though you knew this cursed charm, Were proving it on me, and that I lay And felt them slowly ebbing, name and fame.' And Vivien answered smiling mournfully: 'O mine have ebbed away for evermore, And all through following you to this wild wood, Because I saw you sad, to comfort you. Lo now, what hearts have men! they never mount As high as woman in her selfless mood. And touching fame, howe'er ye scorn my song, Take one verse more--the lady speaks it--this: '"My name, once mine, now thine, is closelier mine, For fame, could fame be mine, that fame were thine, And shame, could shame be thine, that shame were mine. So trust me not at all or all in all." 'Says she not well? and there is more--this rhyme Is like the fair pearl-necklace of the Queen, That burst in dancing, and the pearls were spilt; Some lost, some stolen, some as relics kept. But nevermore the same two sister pearls Ran down the silken thread to kiss each other On her white neck--so is it with this rhyme: It lives dispersedly in many hands, And every minstrel sings it differently; Yet is there one true line, the pearl of pearls: "Man dreams of Fame while woman wakes to love." Yea! Love, though Love were of the grossest, carves A portion from the solid present, eats And uses, careless of the rest; but Fame, The Fame that follows death is nothing to us; And what is Fame in life but half-disfame, And counterchanged with darkness? ye yourself Know well that Envy calls you Devil's son, And since ye seem the Master of all Art, They fain would make you Master of all vice.' And Merlin locked his hand in hers and said, 'I once was looking for a magic weed, And found a fair young squire who sat alone, Had carved himself a knightly shield of wood, And then was painting on it fancied arms, Azure, an Eagle rising or, the Sun In dexter chief; the scroll "I follow fame." And speaking not, but leaning over him I took his brush and blotted out the bird, And made a Gardener putting in a graff, With this for motto, "Rather use than fame." You should have seen him blush; but afterwards He made a stalwart knight. O Vivien, For you, methinks you think you love me well; For me, I love you somewhat; rest: and Love Should have some rest and pleasure in himself, Not ever be too curious for a boon, Too prurient for a proof against the grain Of him ye say ye love: but Fame with men, Being but ampler means to serve mankind, Should have small rest or pleasure in herself, But work as vassal to the larger love, That dwarfs the petty love of one to one. Use gave me Fame at first, and Fame again Increasing gave me use. Lo, there my boon! What other? for men sought to prove me vile, Because I fain had given them greater wits: And then did Envy call me Devil's son: The sick weak beast seeking to help herself By striking at her better, missed, and brought Her own claw back, and wounded her own heart. Sweet were the days when I was all unknown, But when my name was lifted up, the storm Brake on the mountain and I cared not for it. Right well know I that Fame is half-disfame, Yet needs must work my work. That other fame, To one at least, who hath not children, vague, The cackle of the unborn about the grave, I cared not for it: a single misty star, Which is the second in a line of stars That seem a sword beneath a belt of three, I never gazed upon it but I dreamt Of some vast charm concluded in that star To make fame nothing. Wherefore, if I fear, Giving you power upon me through this charm, That you might play me falsely, having power, However well ye think ye love me now (As sons of kings loving in pupilage Have turned to tyrants when they came to power) I rather dread the loss of use than fame; If you--and not so much from wickedness, As some wild turn of anger, or a mood Of overstrained affection, it may be, To keep me all to your own self,--or else A sudden spurt of woman's jealousy,-- Should try this charm on whom ye say ye love.' And Vivien answered smiling as in wrath: 'Have I not sworn? I am not trusted. Good! Well, hide it, hide it; I shall find it out; And being found take heed of Vivien. A woman and not trusted, doubtless I Might feel some sudden turn of anger born Of your misfaith; and your fine epithet Is accurate too, for this full love of mine Without the full heart back may merit well Your term of overstrained. So used as I, My daily wonder is, I love at all. And as to woman's jealousy, O why not? O to what end, except a jealous one, And one to make me jealous if I love, Was this fair charm invented by yourself? I well believe that all about this world Ye cage a buxom captive here and there, Closed in the four walls of a hollow tower From which is no escape for evermore.' Then the great Master merrily answered her: 'Full many a love in loving youth was mine; I needed then no charm to keep them mine But youth and love; and that full heart of yours Whereof ye prattle, may now assure you mine; So live uncharmed. For those who wrought it first, The wrist is parted from the hand that waved, The feet unmortised from their ankle-bones Who paced it, ages back: but will ye hear The legend as in guerdon for your rhyme? 'There lived a king in the most Eastern East, Less old than I, yet older, for my blood Hath earnest in it of far springs to be. A tawny pirate anchored in his port, Whose bark had plundered twenty nameless isles; And passing one, at the high peep of dawn, He saw two cities in a thousand boats All fighting for a woman on the sea. And pushing his black craft among them all, He lightly scattered theirs and brought her off, With loss of half his people arrow-slain; A maid so smooth, so white, so wonderful, They said a light came from her when she moved: And since the pirate would not yield her up, The King impaled him for his piracy; Then made her Queen: but those isle-nurtured eyes Waged such unwilling though successful war On all the youth, they sickened; councils thinned, And armies waned, for magnet-like she drew The rustiest iron of old fighters' hearts; And beasts themselves would worship; camels knelt Unbidden, and the brutes of mountain back That carry kings in castles, bowed black knees Of homage, ringing with their serpent hands, To make her smile, her golden ankle-bells. What wonder, being jealous, that he sent His horns of proclamation out through all The hundred under-kingdoms that he swayed To find a wizard who might teach the King Some charm, which being wrought upon the Queen Might keep her all his own: to such a one He promised more than ever king has given, A league of mountain full of golden mines, A province with a hundred miles of coast, A palace and a princess, all for him: But on all those who tried and failed, the King Pronounced a dismal sentence, meaning by it To keep the list low and pretenders back, Or like a king, not to be trifled with-- Their heads should moulder on the city gates. And many tried and failed, because the charm Of nature in her overbore their own: And many a wizard brow bleached on the walls: And many weeks a troop of carrion crows Hung like a cloud above the gateway towers.' And Vivien breaking in upon him, said: 'I sit and gather honey; yet, methinks, Thy tongue has tript a little: ask thyself. The lady never made unwilling war With those fine eyes: she had her pleasure in it, And made her good man jealous with good cause. And lived there neither dame nor damsel then Wroth at a lover's loss? were all as tame, I mean, as noble, as the Queen was fair? Not one to flirt a venom at her eyes, Or pinch a murderous dust into her drink, Or make her paler with a poisoned rose? Well, those were not our days: but did they find A wizard? Tell me, was he like to thee? She ceased, and made her lithe arm round his neck Tighten, and then drew back, and let her eyes Speak for her, glowing on him, like a bride's On her new lord, her own, the first of men. He answered laughing, 'Nay, not like to me. At last they found--his foragers for charms-- A little glassy-headed hairless man, Who lived alone in a great wild on grass; Read but one book, and ever reading grew So grated down and filed away with thought, So lean his eyes were monstrous; while the skin Clung but to crate and basket, ribs and spine. And since he kept his mind on one sole aim, Nor ever touched fierce wine, nor tasted flesh, Nor owned a sensual wish, to him the wall That sunders ghosts and shadow-casting men Became a crystal, and he saw them through it, And heard their voices talk behind the wall, And learnt their elemental secrets, powers And forces; often o'er the sun's bright eye Drew the vast eyelid of an inky cloud, And lashed it at the base with slanting storm; Or in the noon of mist and driving rain, When the lake whitened and the pinewood roared, And the cairned mountain was a shadow, sunned The world to peace again: here was the man. And so by force they dragged him to the King. And then he taught the King to charm the Queen In such-wise, that no man could see her more, Nor saw she save the King, who wrought the charm, Coming and going, and she lay as dead, And lost all use of life: but when the King Made proffer of the league of golden mines, The province with a hundred miles of coast, The palace and the princess, that old man Went back to his old wild, and lived on grass, And vanished, and his book came down to me.' And Vivien answered smiling saucily: 'Ye have the book: the charm is written in it: Good: take my counsel: let me know it at once: For keep it like a puzzle chest in chest, With each chest locked and padlocked thirty-fold, And whelm all this beneath as vast a mound As after furious battle turfs the slain On some wild down above the windy deep, I yet should strike upon a sudden means To dig, pick, open, find and read the charm: Then, if I tried it, who should blame me then?' And smiling as a master smiles at one That is not of his school, nor any school But that where blind and naked Ignorance Delivers brawling judgments, unashamed, On all things all day long, he answered her: 'Thou read the book, my pretty Vivien! O ay, it is but twenty pages long, But every page having an ample marge, And every marge enclosing in the midst A square of text that looks a little blot, The text no larger than the limbs of fleas; And every square of text an awful charm, Writ in a language that has long gone by. So long, that mountains have arisen since With cities on their flanks--thou read the book! And ever margin scribbled, crost, and crammed With comment, densest condensation, hard To mind and eye; but the long sleepless nights Of my long life have made it easy to me. And none can read the text, not even I; And none can read the comment but myself; And in the comment did I find the charm. O, the results are simple; a mere child Might use it to the harm of anyone, And never could undo it: ask no more: For though you should not prove it upon me, But keep that oath ye sware, ye might, perchance, Assay it on some one of the Table Round, And all because ye dream they babble of you.' And Vivien, frowning in true anger, said: 'What dare the full-fed liars say of me? They ride abroad redressing human wrongs! They sit with knife in meat and wine in horn! They bound to holy vows of chastity! Were I not woman, I could tell a tale. But you are man, you well can understand The shame that cannot be explained for shame. Not one of all the drove should touch me: swine!' Then answered Merlin careless of her words: 'You breathe but accusation vast and vague, Spleen-born, I think, and proofless. If ye know, Set up the charge ye know, to stand or fall!' And Vivien answered frowning wrathfully: 'O ay, what say ye to Sir Valence, him Whose kinsman left him watcher o'er his wife And two fair babes, and went to distant lands; Was one year gone, and on returning found Not two but three? there lay the reckling, one But one hour old! What said the happy sire?' A seven-months' babe had been a truer gift. Those twelve sweet moons confused his fatherhood.' Then answered Merlin, 'Nay, I know the tale. Sir Valence wedded with an outland dame: Some cause had kept him sundered from his wife: One child they had: it lived with her: she died: His kinsman travelling on his own affair Was charged by Valence to bring home the child. He brought, not found it therefore: take the truth.' 'O ay,' said Vivien, 'overtrue a tale. What say ye then to sweet Sir Sagramore, That ardent man? "to pluck the flower in season," So says the song, "I trow it is no treason." O Master, shall we call him overquick To crop his own sweet rose before the hour?' And Merlin answered, 'Overquick art thou To catch a loathly plume fallen from the wing Of that foul bird of rapine whose whole prey Is man's good name: he never wronged his bride. I know the tale. An angry gust of wind Puffed out his torch among the myriad-roomed And many-corridored complexities Of Arthur's palace: then he found a door, And darkling felt the sculptured ornament That wreathen round it made it seem his own; And wearied out made for the couch and slept, A stainless man beside a stainless maid; And either slept, nor knew of other there; Till the high dawn piercing the royal rose In Arthur's casement glimmered chastely down, Blushing upon them blushing, and at once He rose without a word and parted from her: But when the thing was blazed about the court, The brute world howling forced them into bonds, And as it chanced they are happy, being pure.' 'O ay,' said Vivien, 'that were likely too. What say ye then to fair Sir Percivale And of the horrid foulness that he wrought, The saintly youth, the spotless lamb of Christ, Or some black wether of St Satan's fold. What, in the precincts of the chapel-yard, Among the knightly brasses of the graves, And by the cold Hic Jacets of the dead!' And Merlin answered careless of her charge, 'A sober man is Percivale and pure; But once in life was flustered with new wine, Then paced for coolness in the chapel-yard; Where one of Satan's shepherdesses caught And meant to stamp him with her master's mark; And that he sinned is not believable; For, look upon his face!--but if he sinned, The sin that practice burns into the blood, And not the one dark hour which brings remorse, Will brand us, after, of whose fold we be: Or else were he, the holy king, whose hymns Are chanted in the minster, worse than all. But is your spleen frothed out, or have ye more?' And Vivien answered frowning yet in wrath: 'O ay; what say ye to Sir Lancelot, friend Traitor or true? that commerce with the Queen, I ask you, is it clamoured by the child, Or whispered in the corner? do ye know it?' To which he answered sadly, 'Yea, I know it. Sir Lancelot went ambassador, at first, To fetch her, and she watched him from her walls. A rumour runs, she took him for the King, So fixt her fancy on him: let them be. But have ye no one word of loyal praise For Arthur, blameless King and stainless man?' She answered with a low and chuckling laugh: 'Man! is he man at all, who knows and winks? Sees what his fair bride is and does, and winks? By which the good King means to blind himself, And blinds himself and all the Table Round To all the foulness that they work. Myself Could call him (were it not for womanhood) The pretty, popular cause such manhood earns, Could call him the main cause of all their crime; Yea, were he not crowned King, coward, and fool.' Then Merlin to his own heart, loathing, said: 'O true and tender! O my liege and King! O selfless man and stainless gentleman, Who wouldst against thine own eye-witness fain Have all men true and leal, all women pure; How, in the mouths of base interpreters, From over-fineness not intelligible To things with every sense as false and foul As the poached filth that floods the middle street, Is thy white blamelessness accounted blame!' But Vivien, deeming Merlin overborne By instance, recommenced, and let her tongue Rage like a fire among the noblest names, Polluting, and imputing her whole self, Defaming and defacing, till she left Not even Lancelot brave, nor Galahad clean. Her words had issue other than she willed. He dragged his eyebrow bushes down, and made A snowy penthouse for his hollow eyes, And muttered in himself, 'Tell her the charm! So, if she had it, would she rail on me To snare the next, and if she have it not So will she rail. What did the wanton say? "Not mount as high;" we scarce can sink as low: For men at most differ as Heaven and earth, But women, worst and best, as Heaven and Hell. I know the Table Round, my friends of old; All brave, and many generous, and some chaste. She cloaks the scar of some repulse with lies; I well believe she tempted them and failed, Being so bitter: for fine plots may fail, Though harlots paint their talk as well as face With colours of the heart that are not theirs. I will not let her know: nine tithes of times Face-flatterer and backbiter are the same. And they, sweet soul, that most impute a crime Are pronest to it, and impute themselves, Wanting the mental range; or low desire Not to feel lowest makes them level all; Yea, they would pare the mountain to the plain, To leave an equal baseness; and in this Are harlots like the crowd, that if they find Some stain or blemish in a name of note, Not grieving that their greatest are so small, Inflate themselves with some insane delight, And judge all nature from her feet of clay, Without the will to lift their eyes, and see Her godlike head crowned with spiritual fire, And touching other worlds. I am weary of her.' He spoke in words part heard, in whispers part, Half-suffocated in the hoary fell And many-wintered fleece of throat and chin. But Vivien, gathering somewhat of his mood, And hearing 'harlot' muttered twice or thrice, Leapt from her session on his lap, and stood Stiff as a viper frozen; loathsome sight, How from the rosy lips of life and love, Flashed the bare-grinning skeleton of death! White was her cheek; sharp breaths of anger puffed Her fairy nostril out; her hand half-clenched Went faltering sideways downward to her belt, And feeling; had she found a dagger there (For in a wink the false love turns to hate) She would have stabbed him; but she found it not: His eye was calm, and suddenly she took To bitter weeping like a beaten child, A long, long weeping, not consolable. Then her false voice made way, broken with sobs: 'O crueller than was ever told in tale, Or sung in song! O vainly lavished love! O cruel, there was nothing wild or strange, Or seeming shameful--for what shame in love, So love be true, and not as yours is--nothing Poor Vivien had not done to win his trust Who called her what he called her--all her crime, All--all--the wish to prove him wholly hers.' She mused a little, and then clapt her hands Together with a wailing shriek, and said: 'Stabbed through the heart's affections to the heart! Seethed like the kid in its own mother's milk! Killed with a word worse than a life of blows! I thought that he was gentle, being great: O God, that I had loved a smaller man! I should have found in him a greater heart. O, I, that flattering my true passion, saw The knights, the court, the King, dark in your light, Who loved to make men darker than they are, Because of that high pleasure which I had To seat you sole upon my pedestal Of worship--I am answered, and henceforth The course of life that seemed so flowery to me With you for guide and master, only you, Becomes the sea-cliff pathway broken short, And ending in a ruin--nothing left, But into some low cave to crawl, and there, If the wolf spare me, weep my life away, Killed with inutterable unkindliness.' She paused, she turned away, she hung her head, The snake of gold slid from her hair, the braid Slipt and uncoiled itself, she wept afresh, And the dark wood grew darker toward the storm In silence, while his anger slowly died Within him, till he let his wisdom go For ease of heart, and half believed her true: Called her to shelter in the hollow oak, 'Come from the storm,' and having no reply, Gazed at the heaving shoulder, and the face Hand-hidden, as for utmost grief or shame; Then thrice essayed, by tenderest-touching terms, To sleek her ruffled peace of mind, in vain. At last she let herself be conquered by him, And as the cageling newly flown returns, The seeming-injured simple-hearted thing Came to her old perch back, and settled there. There while she sat, half-falling from his knees, Half-nestled at his heart, and since he saw The slow tear creep from her closed eyelid yet, About her, more in kindness than in love, The gentle wizard cast a shielding arm. But she dislinked herself at once and rose, Her arms upon her breast across, and stood, A virtuous gentlewoman deeply wronged, Upright and flushed before him: then she said: 'There must now be no passages of love Betwixt us twain henceforward evermore; Since, if I be what I am grossly called, What should be granted which your own gross heart Would reckon worth the taking? I will go. In truth, but one thing now--better have died Thrice than have asked it once--could make me stay-- That proof of trust--so often asked in vain! How justly, after that vile term of yours, I find with grief! I might believe you then, Who knows? once more. Lo! what was once to me Mere matter of the fancy, now hath grown The vast necessity of heart and life. Farewell; think gently of me, for I fear My fate or folly, passing gayer youth For one so old, must be to love thee still. But ere I leave thee let me swear once more That if I schemed against thy peace in this, May yon just heaven, that darkens o'er me, send One flash, that, missing all things else, may make My scheming brain a cinder, if I lie.' Scarce had she ceased, when out of heaven a bolt (For now the storm was close above them) struck, Furrowing a giant oak, and javelining With darted spikes and splinters of the wood The dark earth round. He raised his eyes and saw The tree that shone white-listed through the gloom. But Vivien, fearing heaven had heard her oath, And dazzled by the livid-flickering fork, And deafened with the stammering cracks and claps That followed, flying back and crying out, 'O Merlin, though you do not love me, save, Yet save me!' clung to him and hugged him close; And called him dear protector in her fright, Nor yet forgot her practice in her fright, But wrought upon his mood and hugged him close. The pale blood of the wizard at her touch Took gayer colours, like an opal warmed. She blamed herself for telling hearsay tales: She shook from fear, and for her fault she wept Of petulancy; she called him lord and liege, Her seer, her bard, her silver star of eve, Her God, her Merlin, the one passionate love Of her whole life; and ever overhead Bellowed the tempest, and the rotten branch Snapt in the rushing of the river-rain Above them; and in change of glare and gloom Her eyes and neck glittering went and came; Till now the storm, its burst of passion spent, Moaning and calling out of other lands, Had left the ravaged woodland yet once more To peace; and what should not have been had been, For Merlin, overtalked and overworn, Had yielded, told her all the charm, and slept. Then, in one moment, she put forth the charm Of woven paces and of waving hands, And in the hollow oak he lay as dead, And lost to life and use and name and fame. Then crying 'I have made his glory mine,' And shrieking out 'O fool!' the harlot leapt Adown the forest, and the thicket closed Behind her, and the forest echoed 'fool.' Lancelot and Elaine Elaine the fair, Elaine the loveable, Elaine, the lily maid of Astolat, High in her chamber up a tower to the east Guarded the sacred shield of Lancelot; Which first she placed where the morning's earliest ray Might strike it, and awake her with the gleam; Then fearing rust or soilure fashioned for it A case of silk, and braided thereupon All the devices blazoned on the shield In their own tinct, and added, of her wit, A border fantasy of branch and flower, And yellow-throated nestling in the nest. Nor rested thus content, but day by day, Leaving her household and good father, climbed That eastern tower, and entering barred her door, Stript off the case, and read the naked shield, Now guessed a hidden meaning in his arms, Now made a pretty history to herself Of every dint a sword had beaten in it, And every scratch a lance had made upon it, Conjecturing when and where: this cut is fresh; That ten years back; this dealt him at Caerlyle; That at Caerleon; this at Camelot: And ah God's mercy, what a stroke was there! And here a thrust that might have killed, but God Broke the strong lance, and rolled his enemy down, And saved him: so she lived in fantasy. How came the lily maid by that good shield Of Lancelot, she that knew not even his name? He left it with her, when he rode to tilt For the great diamond in the diamond jousts, Which Arthur had ordained, and by that name Had named them, since a diamond was the prize. For Arthur, long before they crowned him King, Roving the trackless realms of Lyonnesse, Had found a glen, gray boulder and black tarn. A horror lived about the tarn, and clave Like its own mists to all the mountain side: For here two brothers, one a king, had met And fought together; but their names were lost; And each had slain his brother at a blow; And down they fell and made the glen abhorred: And there they lay till all their bones were bleached, And lichened into colour with the crags: And he, that once was king, had on a crown Of diamonds, one in front, and four aside. And Arthur came, and labouring up the pass, All in a misty moonshine, unawares Had trodden that crowned skeleton, and the skull Brake from the nape, and from the skull the crown Rolled into light, and turning on its rims Fled like a glittering rivulet to the tarn: And down the shingly scaur he plunged, and caught, And set it on his head, and in his heart Heard murmurs, 'Lo, thou likewise shalt be King.' Thereafter, when a King, he had the gems Plucked from the crown, and showed them to his knights, Saying, 'These jewels, whereupon I chanced Divinely, are the kingdom's, not the King's-- For public use: henceforward let there be, Once every year, a joust for one of these: For so by nine years' proof we needs must learn Which is our mightiest, and ourselves shall grow In use of arms and manhood, till we drive The heathen, who, some say, shall rule the land Hereafter, which God hinder.' Thus he spoke: And eight years past, eight jousts had been, and still Had Lancelot won the diamond of the year, With purpose to present them to the Queen, When all were won; but meaning all at once To snare her royal fancy with a boon Worth half her realm, had never spoken word. Now for the central diamond and the last And largest, Arthur, holding then his court Hard on the river nigh the place which now Is this world's hugest, let proclaim a joust At Camelot, and when the time drew nigh Spake (for she had been sick) to Guinevere, 'Are you so sick, my Queen, you cannot move To these fair jousts?' 'Yea, lord,' she said, 'ye know it.' 'Then will ye miss,' he answered, 'the great deeds Of Lancelot, and his prowess in the lists, A sight ye love to look on.' And the Queen Lifted her eyes, and they dwelt languidly On Lancelot, where he stood beside the King. He thinking that he read her meaning there, 'Stay with me, I am sick; my love is more Than many diamonds,' yielded; and a heart Love-loyal to the least wish of the Queen (However much he yearned to make complete The tale of diamonds for his destined boon) Urged him to speak against the truth, and say, 'Sir King, mine ancient wound is hardly whole, And lets me from the saddle;' and the King Glanced first at him, then her, and went his way. No sooner gone than suddenly she began: 'To blame, my lord Sir Lancelot, much to blame! Why go ye not to these fair jousts? the knights Are half of them our enemies, and the crowd Will murmur, "Lo the shameless ones, who take Their pastime now the trustful King is gone!"' Then Lancelot vext at having lied in vain: 'Are ye so wise? ye were not once so wise, My Queen, that summer, when ye loved me first. Then of the crowd ye took no more account Than of the myriad cricket of the mead, When its own voice clings to each blade of grass, And every voice is nothing. As to knights, Them surely can I silence with all ease. But now my loyal worship is allowed Of all men: many a bard, without offence, Has linked our names together in his lay, Lancelot, the flower of bravery, Guinevere, The pearl of beauty: and our knights at feast Have pledged us in this union, while the King Would listen smiling. How then? is there more? Has Arthur spoken aught? or would yourself, Now weary of my service and devoir, Henceforth be truer to your faultless lord?' She broke into a little scornful laugh: 'Arthur, my lord, Arthur, the faultless King, That passionate perfection, my good lord-- But who can gaze upon the Sun in heaven? He never spake word of reproach to me, He never had a glimpse of mine untruth, He cares not for me: only here today There gleamed a vague suspicion in his eyes: Some meddling rogue has tampered with him--else Rapt in this fancy of his Table Round, And swearing men to vows impossible, To make them like himself: but, friend, to me He is all fault who hath no fault at all: For who loves me must have a touch of earth; The low sun makes the colour: I am yours, Not Arthur's, as ye know, save by the bond. And therefore hear my words: go to the jousts: The tiny-trumpeting gnat can break our dream When sweetest; and the vermin voices here May buzz so loud--we scorn them, but they sting.' Then answered Lancelot, the chief of knights: 'And with what face, after my pretext made, Shall I appear, O Queen, at Camelot, I Before a King who honours his own word, As if it were his God's?' 'Yea,' said the Queen, 'A moral child without the craft to rule, Else had he not lost me: but listen to me, If I must find you wit: we hear it said That men go down before your spear at a touch, But knowing you are Lancelot; your great name, This conquers: hide it therefore; go unknown: Win! by this kiss you will: and our true King Will then allow your pretext, O my knight, As all for glory; for to speak him true, Ye know right well, how meek soe'er he seem, No keener hunter after glory breathes. He loves it in his knights more than himself: They prove to him his work: win and return.' Then got Sir Lancelot suddenly to horse, Wroth at himself. Not willing to be known, He left the barren-beaten thoroughfare, Chose the green path that showed the rarer foot, And there among the solitary downs, Full often lost in fancy, lost his way; Till as he traced a faintly-shadowed track, That all in loops and links among the dales Ran to the Castle of Astolat, he saw Fired from the west, far on a hill, the towers. Thither he made, and blew the gateway horn. Then came an old, dumb, myriad-wrinkled man, Who let him into lodging and disarmed. And Lancelot marvelled at the wordless man; And issuing found the Lord of Astolat With two strong sons, Sir Torre and Sir Lavaine, Moving to meet him in the castle court; And close behind them stept the lily maid Elaine, his daughter: mother of the house There was not: some light jest among them rose With laughter dying down as the great knight Approached them: then the Lord of Astolat: 'Whence comes thou, my guest, and by what name Livest thou between the lips? for by thy state And presence I might guess thee chief of those, After the King, who eat in Arthur's halls. Him have I seen: the rest, his Table Round, Known as they are, to me they are unknown.' Then answered Sir Lancelot, the chief of knights: 'Known am I, and of Arthur's hall, and known, What I by mere mischance have brought, my shield. But since I go to joust as one unknown At Camelot for the diamond, ask me not, Hereafter ye shall know me--and the shield-- I pray you lend me one, if such you have, Blank, or at least with some device not mine.' Then said the Lord of Astolat, 'Here is Torre's: Hurt in his first tilt was my son, Sir Torre. And so, God wot, his shield is blank enough. His ye can have.' Then added plain Sir Torre, 'Yea, since I cannot use it, ye may have it.' Here laughed the father saying, 'Fie, Sir Churl, Is that answer for a noble knight? Allow him! but Lavaine, my younger here, He is so full of lustihood, he will ride, Joust for it, and win, and bring it in an hour, And set it in this damsel's golden hair, To make her thrice as wilful as before.' 'Nay, father, nay good father, shame me not Before this noble knight,' said young Lavaine, 'For nothing. Surely I but played on Torre: He seemed so sullen, vext he could not go: A jest, no more! for, knight, the maiden dreamt That some one put this diamond in her hand, And that it was too slippery to be held, And slipt and fell into some pool or stream, The castle-well, belike; and then I said That if I went and if I fought and won it (But all was jest and joke among ourselves) Then must she keep it safelier. All was jest. But, father, give me leave, an if he will, To ride to Camelot with this noble knight: Win shall I not, but do my best to win: Young as I am, yet would I do my best.' 'So will ye grace me,' answered Lancelot, Smiling a moment, 'with your fellowship O'er these waste downs whereon I lost myself, Then were I glad of you as guide and friend: And you shall win this diamond,--as I hear It is a fair large diamond,--if ye may, And yield it to this maiden, if ye will.' 'A fair large diamond,' added plain Sir Torre, 'Such be for queens, and not for simple maids.' Then she, who held her eyes upon the ground, Elaine, and heard her name so tost about, Flushed slightly at the slight disparagement Before the stranger knight, who, looking at her, Full courtly, yet not falsely, thus returned: 'If what is fair be but for what is fair, And only queens are to be counted so, Rash were my judgment then, who deem this maid Might wear as fair a jewel as is on earth, Not violating the bond of like to like.' He spoke and ceased: the lily maid Elaine, Won by the mellow voice before she looked, Lifted her eyes, and read his lineaments. The great and guilty love he bare the Queen, In battle with the love he bare his lord, Had marred his face, and marked it ere his time. Another sinning on such heights with one, The flower of all the west and all the world, Had been the sleeker for it: but in him His mood was often like a fiend, and rose And drove him into wastes and solitudes For agony, who was yet a living soul. Marred as he was, he seemed the goodliest man That ever among ladies ate in hall, And noblest, when she lifted up her eyes. However marred, of more than twice her years, Seamed with an ancient swordcut on the cheek, And bruised and bronzed, she lifted up her eyes And loved him, with that love which was her doom. Then the great knight, the darling of the court, Loved of the loveliest, into that rude hall Stept with all grace, and not with half disdain Hid under grace, as in a smaller time, But kindly man moving among his kind: Whom they with meats and vintage of their best And talk and minstrel melody entertained. And much they asked of court and Table Round, And ever well and readily answered he: But Lancelot, when they glanced at Guinevere, Suddenly speaking of the wordless man, Heard from the Baron that, ten years before, The heathen caught and reft him of his tongue. 'He learnt and warned me of their fierce design Against my house, and him they caught and maimed; But I, my sons, and little daughter fled From bonds or death, and dwelt among the woods By the great river in a boatman's hut. Dull days were those, till our good Arthur broke The Pagan yet once more on Badon hill.' 'O there, great lord, doubtless,' Lavaine said, rapt By all the sweet and sudden passion of youth Toward greatness in its elder, 'you have fought. O tell us--for we live apart--you know Of Arthur's glorious wars.' And Lancelot spoke And answered him at full, as having been With Arthur in the fight which all day long Rang by the white mouth of the violent Glem; And in the four loud battles by the shore Of Duglas; that on Bassa; then the war That thundered in and out the gloomy skirts Of Celidon the forest; and again By castle Gurnion, where the glorious King Had on his cuirass worn our Lady's Head, Carved of one emerald centered in a sun Of silver rays, that lightened as he breathed; And at Caerleon had he helped his lord, When the strong neighings of the wild white Horse Set every gilded parapet shuddering; And up in Agned-Cathregonion too, And down the waste sand-shores of Trath Treroit, Where many a heathen fell; 'and on the mount Of Badon I myself beheld the King Charge at the head of all his Table Round, And all his legions crying Christ and him, And break them; and I saw him, after, stand High on a heap of slain, from spur to plume Red as the rising sun with heathen blood, And seeing me, with a great voice he cried, "They are broken, they are broken!" for the King, However mild he seems at home, nor cares For triumph in our mimic wars, the jousts-- For if his own knight cast him down, he laughs Saying, his knights are better men than he-- Yet in this heathen war the fire of God Fills him: I never saw his like: there lives No greater leader.' While he uttered this, Low to her own heart said the lily maid, 'Save your own great self, fair lord;' and when he fell From talk of war to traits of pleasantry-- Being mirthful he, but in a stately kind-- She still took note that when the living smile Died from his lips, across him came a cloud Of melancholy severe, from which again, Whenever in her hovering to and fro The lily maid had striven to make him cheer, There brake a sudden-beaming tenderness Of manners and of nature: and she thought That all was nature, all, perchance, for her. And all night long his face before her lived, As when a painter, poring on a face, Divinely through all hindrance finds the man Behind it, and so paints him that his face, The shape and colour of a mind and life, Lives for his children, ever at its best And fullest; so the face before her lived, Dark-splendid, speaking in the silence, full Of noble things, and held her from her sleep. Till rathe she rose, half-cheated in the thought She needs must bid farewell to sweet Lavaine. First in fear, step after step, she stole Down the long tower-stairs, hesitating: Anon, she heard Sir Lancelot cry in the court, 'This shield, my friend, where is it?' and Lavaine Past inward, as she came from out the tower. There to his proud horse Lancelot turned, and smoothed The glossy shoulder, humming to himself. Half-envious of the flattering hand, she drew Nearer and stood. He looked, and more amazed Than if seven men had set upon him, saw The maiden standing in the dewy light. He had not dreamed she was so beautiful. Then came on him a sort of sacred fear, For silent, though he greeted her, she stood Rapt on his face as if it were a God's. Suddenly flashed on her a wild desire, That he should wear her favour at the tilt. She braved a riotous heart in asking for it. 'Fair lord, whose name I know not--noble it is, I well believe, the noblest--will you wear My favour at this tourney?' 'Nay,' said he, 'Fair lady, since I never yet have worn Favour of any lady in the lists. Such is my wont, as those, who know me, know.' 'Yea, so,' she answered; 'then in wearing mine Needs must be lesser likelihood, noble lord, That those who know should know you.' And he turned Her counsel up and down within his mind, And found it true, and answered, 'True, my child. Well, I will wear it: fetch it out to me: What is it?' and she told him 'A red sleeve Broidered with pearls,' and brought it: then he bound Her token on his helmet, with a smile Saying, 'I never yet have done so much For any maiden living,' and the blood Sprang to her face and filled her with delight; But left her all the paler, when Lavaine Returning brought the yet-unblazoned shield, His brother's; which he gave to Lancelot, Who parted with his own to fair Elaine: 'Do me this grace, my child, to have my shield In keeping till I come.' 'A grace to me,' She answered, 'twice today. I am your squire!' Whereat Lavaine said, laughing, 'Lily maid, For fear our people call you lily maid In earnest, let me bring your colour back; Once, twice, and thrice: now get you hence to bed:' So kissed her, and Sir Lancelot his own hand, And thus they moved away: she stayed a minute, Then made a sudden step to the gate, and there-- Her bright hair blown about the serious face Yet rosy-kindled with her brother's kiss-- Paused by the gateway, standing near the shield In silence, while she watched their arms far-off Sparkle, until they dipt below the downs. Then to her tower she climbed, and took the shield, There kept it, and so lived in fantasy. Meanwhile the new companions past away Far o'er the long backs of the bushless downs, To where Sir Lancelot knew there lived a knight Not far from Camelot, now for forty years A hermit, who had prayed, laboured and prayed, And ever labouring had scooped himself In the white rock a chapel and a hall On massive columns, like a shorecliff cave, And cells and chambers: all were fair and dry; The green light from the meadows underneath Struck up and lived along the milky roofs; And in the meadows tremulous aspen-trees And poplars made a noise of falling showers. And thither wending there that night they bode. But when the next day broke from underground, And shot red fire and shadows through the cave, They rose, heard mass, broke fast, and rode away: Then Lancelot saying, 'Hear, but hold my name Hidden, you ride with Lancelot of the Lake,' Abashed young Lavaine, whose instant reverence, Dearer to true young hearts than their own praise, But left him leave to stammer, 'Is it indeed?' And after muttering 'The great Lancelot, At last he got his breath and answered, 'One, One have I seen--that other, our liege lord, The dread Pendragon, Britain's King of kings, Of whom the people talk mysteriously, He will be there--then were I stricken blind That minute, I might say that I had seen.' So spake Lavaine, and when they reached the lists By Camelot in the meadow, let his eyes Run through the peopled gallery which half round Lay like a rainbow fallen upon the grass, Until they found the clear-faced King, who sat Robed in red samite, easily to be known, Since to his crown the golden dragon clung, And down his robe the dragon writhed in gold, And from the carven-work behind him crept Two dragons gilded, sloping down to make Arms for his chair, while all the rest of them Through knots and loops and folds innumerable Fled ever through the woodwork, till they found The new design wherein they lost themselves, Yet with all ease, so tender was the work: And, in the costly canopy o'er him set, Blazed the last diamond of the nameless king. Then Lancelot answered young Lavaine and said, 'Me you call great: mine is the firmer seat, The truer lance: but there is many a youth Now crescent, who will come to all I am And overcome it; and in me there dwells No greatness, save it be some far-off touch Of greatness to know well I am not great: There is the man.' And Lavaine gaped upon him As on a thing miraculous, and anon The trumpets blew; and then did either side, They that assailed, and they that held the lists, Set lance in rest, strike spur, suddenly move, Meet in the midst, and there so furiously Shock, that a man far-off might well perceive, If any man that day were left afield, The hard earth shake, and a low thunder of arms. And Lancelot bode a little, till he saw Which were the weaker; then he hurled into it Against the stronger: little need to speak Of Lancelot in his glory! King, duke, earl, Count, baron--whom he smote, he overthrew. But in the field were Lancelot's kith and kin, Ranged with the Table Round that held the lists, Strong men, and wrathful that a stranger knight Should do and almost overdo the deeds Of Lancelot; and one said to the other, 'Lo! What is he? I do not mean the force alone-- The grace and versatility of the man! Is it not Lancelot?' 'When has Lancelot worn Favour of any lady in the lists? Not such his wont, as we, that know him, know.' 'How then? who then?' a fury seized them all, A fiery family passion for the name Of Lancelot, and a glory one with theirs. They couched their spears and pricked their steeds, and thus, Their plumes driven backward by the wind they made In moving, all together down upon him Bare, as a wild wave in the wide North-sea, Green-glimmering toward the summit, bears, with all Its stormy crests that smoke against the skies, Down on a bark, and overbears the bark, And him that helms it, so they overbore Sir Lancelot and his charger, and a spear Down-glancing lamed the charger, and a spear Pricked sharply his own cuirass, and the head Pierced through his side, and there snapt, and remained. Then Sir Lavaine did well and worshipfully; He bore a knight of old repute to the earth, And brought his horse to Lancelot where he lay. He up the side, sweating with agony, got, But thought to do while he might yet endure, And being lustily holpen by the rest, His party,--though it seemed half-miracle To those he fought with,--drave his kith and kin, And all the Table Round that held the lists, Back to the barrier; then the trumpets blew Proclaiming his the prize, who wore the sleeve Of scarlet, and the pearls; and all the knights, His party, cried 'Advance and take thy prize The diamond;' but he answered, 'Diamond me No diamonds! for God's love, a little air! Prize me no prizes, for my prize is death! Hence will I, and I charge you, follow me not.' He spoke, and vanished suddenly from the field With young Lavaine into the poplar grove. There from his charger down he slid, and sat, Gasping to Sir Lavaine, 'Draw the lance-head:' 'Ah my sweet lord Sir Lancelot,' said Lavaine, 'I dread me, if I draw it, you will die.' But he, 'I die already with it: draw-- Draw,'--and Lavaine drew, and Sir Lancelot gave A marvellous great shriek and ghastly groan, And half his blood burst forth, and down he sank For the pure pain, and wholly swooned away. Then came the hermit out and bare him in, There stanched his wound; and there, in daily doubt Whether to live or die, for many a week Hid from the wide world's rumour by the grove Of poplars with their noise of falling showers, And ever-tremulous aspen-trees, he lay. But on that day when Lancelot fled the lists, His party, knights of utmost North and West, Lords of waste marches, kings of desolate isles, Came round their great Pendragon, saying to him, 'Lo, Sire, our knight, through whom we won the day, Hath gone sore wounded, and hath left his prize Untaken, crying that his prize is death.' 'Heaven hinder,' said the King, 'that such an one, So great a knight as we have seen today-- He seemed to me another Lancelot-- Yea, twenty times I thought him Lancelot-- He must not pass uncared for. Wherefore, rise, O Gawain, and ride forth and find the knight. Wounded and wearied needs must he be near. I charge you that you get at once to horse. And, knights and kings, there breathes not one of you Will deem this prize of ours is rashly given: His prowess was too wondrous. We will do him No customary honour: since the knight Came not to us, of us to claim the prize, Ourselves will send it after. Rise and take This diamond, and deliver it, and return, And bring us where he is, and how he fares, And cease not from your quest until ye find.' So saying, from the carven flower above, To which it made a restless heart, he took, And gave, the diamond: then from where he sat At Arthur's right, with smiling face arose, With smiling face and frowning heart, a Prince In the mid might and flourish of his May, Gawain, surnamed The Courteous, fair and strong, And after Lancelot, Tristram, and Geraint And Gareth, a good knight, but therewithal Sir Modred's brother, and the child of Lot, Nor often loyal to his word, and now Wroth that the King's command to sally forth In quest of whom he knew not, made him leave The banquet, and concourse of knights and kings. So all in wrath he got to horse and went; While Arthur to the banquet, dark in mood, Past, thinking 'Is it Lancelot who hath come Despite the wound he spake of, all for gain Of glory, and hath added wound to wound, And ridden away to die?' So feared the King, And, after two days' tarriance there, returned. Then when he saw the Queen, embracing asked, 'Love, are you yet so sick?' 'Nay, lord,' she said. 'And where is Lancelot?' Then the Queen amazed, 'Was he not with you? won he not your prize?' 'Nay, but one like him.' 'Why that like was he.' And when the King demanded how she knew, Said, 'Lord, no sooner had ye parted from us, Than Lancelot told me of a common talk That men went down before his spear at a touch, But knowing he was Lancelot; his great name Conquered; and therefore would he hide his name From all men, even the King, and to this end Had made a pretext of a hindering wound, That he might joust unknown of all, and learn If his old prowess were in aught decayed; And added, "Our true Arthur, when he learns, Will well allow me pretext, as for gain Of purer glory."' Then replied the King: 'Far lovelier in our Lancelot had it been, In lieu of idly dallying with the truth, To have trusted me as he hath trusted thee. Surely his King and most familiar friend Might well have kept his secret. True, indeed, Albeit I know my knights fantastical, So fine a fear in our large Lancelot Must needs have moved my laughter: now remains But little cause for laughter: his own kin-- Ill news, my Queen, for all who love him, this!-- His kith and kin, not knowing, set upon him; So that he went sore wounded from the field: Yet good news too: for goodly hopes are mine That Lancelot is no more a lonely heart. He wore, against his wont, upon his helm A sleeve of scarlet, broidered with great pearls, Some gentle maiden's gift.' 'Yea, lord,' she said, 'Thy hopes are mine,' and saying that, she choked, And sharply turned about to hide her face, Past to her chamber, and there flung herself Down on the great King's couch, and writhed upon it, And clenched her fingers till they bit the palm, And shrieked out 'Traitor' to the unhearing wall, Then flashed into wild tears, and rose again, And moved about her palace, proud and pale. Gawain the while through all the region round Rode with his diamond, wearied of the quest, Touched at all points, except the poplar grove, And came at last, though late, to Astolat: Whom glittering in enamelled arms the maid Glanced at, and cried, 'What news from Camelot, lord? What of the knight with the red sleeve?' 'He won.' 'I knew it,' she said. 'But parted from the jousts Hurt in the side,' whereat she caught her breath; Through her own side she felt the sharp lance go; Thereon she smote her hand: wellnigh she swooned: And, while he gazed wonderingly at her, came The Lord of Astolat out, to whom the Prince Reported who he was, and on what quest Sent, that he bore the prize and could not find The victor, but had ridden a random round To seek him, and had wearied of the search. To whom the Lord of Astolat, 'Bide with us, And ride no more at random, noble Prince! Here was the knight, and here he left a shield; This will he send or come for: furthermore Our son is with him; we shall hear anon, Needs must hear.' To this the courteous Prince Accorded with his wonted courtesy, Courtesy with a touch of traitor in it, And stayed; and cast his eyes on fair Elaine: Where could be found face daintier? then her shape From forehead down to foot, perfect--again From foot to forehead exquisitely turned: 'Well--if I bide, lo! this wild flower for me!' And oft they met among the garden yews, And there he set himself to play upon her With sallying wit, free flashes from a height Above her, graces of the court, and songs, Sighs, and slow smiles, and golden eloquence And amorous adulation, till the maid Rebelled against it, saying to him, 'Prince, O loyal nephew of our noble King, Why ask you not to see the shield he left, Whence you might learn his name? Why slight your King, And lose the quest he sent you on, and prove No surer than our falcon yesterday, Who lost the hern we slipt her at, and went To all the winds?' 'Nay, by mine head,' said he, 'I lose it, as we lose the lark in heaven, O damsel, in the light of your blue eyes; But an ye will it let me see the shield.' And when the shield was brought, and Gawain saw Sir Lancelot's azure lions, crowned with gold, Ramp in the field, he smote his thigh, and mocked: 'Right was the King! our Lancelot! that true man!' 'And right was I,' she answered merrily, 'I, Who dreamed my knight the greatest knight of all.' 'And if I dreamed,' said Gawain, 'that you love This greatest knight, your pardon! lo, ye know it! Speak therefore: shall I waste myself in vain?' Full simple was her answer, 'What know I? My brethren have been all my fellowship; And I, when often they have talked of love, Wished it had been my mother, for they talked, Meseemed, of what they knew not; so myself-- I know not if I know what true love is, But if I know, then, if I love not him, I know there is none other I can love.' 'Yea, by God's death,' said he, 'ye love him well, But would not, knew ye what all others know, And whom he loves.' 'So be it,' cried Elaine, And lifted her fair face and moved away: But he pursued her, calling, 'Stay a little! One golden minute's grace! he wore your sleeve: Would he break faith with one I may not name? Must our true man change like a leaf at last? Nay--like enow: why then, far be it from me To cross our mighty Lancelot in his loves! And, damsel, for I deem you know full well Where your great knight is hidden, let me leave My quest with you; the diamond also: here! For if you love, it will be sweet to give it; And if he love, it will be sweet to have it From your own hand; and whether he love or not, A diamond is a diamond. Fare you well A thousand times!--a thousand times farewell! Yet, if he love, and his love hold, we two May meet at court hereafter: there, I think, So ye will learn the courtesies of the court, We two shall know each other.' Then he gave, And slightly kissed the hand to which he gave, The diamond, and all wearied of the quest Leapt on his horse, and carolling as he went A true-love ballad, lightly rode away. Thence to the court he past; there told the King What the King knew, 'Sir Lancelot is the knight.' And added, 'Sire, my liege, so much I learnt; But failed to find him, though I rode all round The region: but I lighted on the maid Whose sleeve he wore; she loves him; and to her, Deeming our courtesy is the truest law, I gave the diamond: she will render it; For by mine head she knows his hiding-place.' The seldom-frowning King frowned, and replied, 'Too courteous truly! ye shall go no more On quest of mine, seeing that ye forget Obedience is the courtesy due to kings.' He spake and parted. Wroth, but all in awe, For twenty strokes of the blood, without a word, Lingered that other, staring after him; Then shook his hair, strode off, and buzzed abroad About the maid of Astolat, and her love. All ears were pricked at once, all tongues were loosed: 'The maid of Astolat loves Sir Lancelot, Sir Lancelot loves the maid of Astolat.' Some read the King's face, some the Queen's, and all Had marvel what the maid might be, but most Predoomed her as unworthy. One old dame Came suddenly on the Queen with the sharp news. She, that had heard the noise of it before, But sorrowing Lancelot should have stooped so low, Marred her friend's aim with pale tranquillity. So ran the tale like fire about the court, Fire in dry stubble a nine-days' wonder flared: Till even the knights at banquet twice or thrice Forgot to drink to Lancelot and the Queen, And pledging Lancelot and the lily maid Smiled at each other, while the Queen, who sat With lips severely placid, felt the knot Climb in her throat, and with her feet unseen Crushed the wild passion out against the floor Beneath the banquet, where all the meats became As wormwood, and she hated all who pledged. But far away the maid in Astolat, Her guiltless rival, she that ever kept The one-day-seen Sir Lancelot in her heart, Crept to her father, while he mused alone, Sat on his knee, stroked his gray face and said, 'Father, you call me wilful, and the fault Is yours who let me have my will, and now, Sweet father, will you let me lose my wits?' 'Nay,' said he, 'surely.' 'Wherefore, let me hence,' She answered, 'and find out our dear Lavaine.' 'Ye will not lose your wits for dear Lavaine: Bide,' answered he: 'we needs must hear anon Of him, and of that other.' 'Ay,' she said, 'And of that other, for I needs must hence And find that other, wheresoe'er he be, And with mine own hand give his diamond to him, Lest I be found as faithless in the quest As yon proud Prince who left the quest to me. Sweet father, I behold him in my dreams Gaunt as it were the skeleton of himself, Death-pale, for lack of gentle maiden's aid. The gentler-born the maiden, the more bound, My father, to be sweet and serviceable To noble knights in sickness, as ye know When these have worn their tokens: let me hence I pray you.' Then her father nodding said, 'Ay, ay, the diamond: wit ye well, my child, Right fain were I to learn this knight were whole, Being our greatest: yea, and you must give it-- And sure I think this fruit is hung too high For any mouth to gape for save a queen's-- Nay, I mean nothing: so then, get you gone, Being so very wilful you must go.' Lightly, her suit allowed, she slipt away, And while she made her ready for her ride, Her father's latest word hummed in her ear, 'Being so very wilful you must go,' And changed itself and echoed in her heart, 'Being so very wilful you must die.' But she was happy enough and shook it off, As we shake off the bee that buzzes at us; And in her heart she answered it and said, 'What matter, so I help him back to life?' Then far away with good Sir Torre for guide Rode o'er the long backs of the bushless downs To Camelot, and before the city-gates Came on her brother with a happy face Making a roan horse caper and curvet For pleasure all about a field of flowers: Whom when she saw, 'Lavaine,' she cried, 'Lavaine, How fares my lord Sir Lancelot?' He amazed, 'Torre and Elaine! why here? Sir Lancelot! How know ye my lord's name is Lancelot?' But when the maid had told him all her tale, Then turned Sir Torre, and being in his moods Left them, and under the strange-statued gate, Where Arthur's wars were rendered mystically, Past up the still rich city to his kin, His own far blood, which dwelt at Camelot; And her, Lavaine across the poplar grove Led to the caves: there first she saw the casque Of Lancelot on the wall: her scarlet sleeve, Though carved and cut, and half the pearls away, Streamed from it still; and in her heart she laughed, Because he had not loosed it from his helm, But meant once more perchance to tourney in it. And when they gained the cell wherein he slept, His battle-writhen arms and mighty hands Lay naked on the wolfskin, and a dream Of dragging down his enemy made them move. Then she that saw him lying unsleek, unshorn, Gaunt as it were the skeleton of himself, Uttered a little tender dolorous cry. The sound not wonted in a place so still Woke the sick knight, and while he rolled his eyes Yet blank from sleep, she started to him, saying, 'Your prize the diamond sent you by the King:' His eyes glistened: she fancied 'Is it for me?' And when the maid had told him all the tale Of King and Prince, the diamond sent, the quest Assigned to her not worthy of it, she knelt Full lowly by the corners of his bed, And laid the diamond in his open hand. Her face was near, and as we kiss the child That does the task assigned, he kissed her face. At once she slipt like water to the floor. 'Alas,' he said, 'your ride hath wearied you. Rest must you have.' 'No rest for me,' she said; 'Nay, for near you, fair lord, I am at rest.' What might she mean by that? his large black eyes, Yet larger through his leanness, dwelt upon her, Till all her heart's sad secret blazed itself In the heart's colours on her simple face; And Lancelot looked and was perplext in mind, And being weak in body said no more; But did not love the colour; woman's love, Save one, he not regarded, and so turned Sighing, and feigned a sleep until he slept. Then rose Elaine and glided through the fields, And past beneath the weirdly-sculptured gates Far up the dim rich city to her kin; There bode the night: but woke with dawn, and past Down through the dim rich city to the fields, Thence to the cave: so day by day she past In either twilight ghost-like to and fro Gliding, and every day she tended him, And likewise many a night: and Lancelot Would, though he called his wound a little hurt Whereof he should be quickly whole, at times Brain-feverous in his heat and agony, seem Uncourteous, even he: but the meek maid Sweetly forbore him ever, being to him Meeker than any child to a rough nurse, Milder than any mother to a sick child, And never woman yet, since man's first fall, Did kindlier unto man, but her deep love Upbore her; till the hermit, skilled in all The simples and the science of that time, Told him that her fine care had saved his life. And the sick man forgot her simple blush, Would call her friend and sister, sweet Elaine, Would listen for her coming and regret Her parting step, and held her tenderly, And loved her with all love except the love Of man and woman when they love their best, Closest and sweetest, and had died the death In any knightly fashion for her sake. And peradventure had he seen her first She might have made this and that other world Another world for the sick man; but now The shackles of an old love straitened him, His honour rooted in dishonour stood, And faith unfaithful kept him falsely true. Yet the great knight in his mid-sickness made Full many a holy vow and pure resolve. These, as but born of sickness, could not live: For when the blood ran lustier in him again, Full often the bright image of one face, Making a treacherous quiet in his heart, Dispersed his resolution like a cloud. Then if the maiden, while that ghostly grace Beamed on his fancy, spoke, he answered not, Or short and coldly, and she knew right well What the rough sickness meant, but what this meant She knew not, and the sorrow dimmed her sight, And drave her ere her time across the fields Far into the rich city, where alone She murmured, 'Vain, in vain: it cannot be. He will not love me: how then? must I die?' Then as a little helpless innocent bird, That has but one plain passage of few notes, Will sing the simple passage o'er and o'er For all an April morning, till the ear Wearies to hear it, so the simple maid Went half the night repeating, 'Must I die?' And now to right she turned, and now to left, And found no ease in turning or in rest; And 'Him or death,' she muttered, 'death or him,' Again and like a burthen, 'Him or death.' But when Sir Lancelot's deadly hurt was whole, To Astolat returning rode the three. There morn by morn, arraying her sweet self In that wherein she deemed she looked her best, She came before Sir Lancelot, for she thought 'If I be loved, these are my festal robes, If not, the victim's flowers before he fall.' And Lancelot ever prest upon the maid That she should ask some goodly gift of him For her own self or hers; 'and do not shun To speak the wish most near to your true heart; Such service have ye done me, that I make My will of yours, and Prince and Lord am I In mine own land, and what I will I can.' Then like a ghost she lifted up her face, But like a ghost without the power to speak. And Lancelot saw that she withheld her wish, And bode among them yet a little space Till he should learn it; and one morn it chanced He found her in among the garden yews, And said, 'Delay no longer, speak your wish, Seeing I go today:' then out she brake: 'Going? and we shall never see you more. And I must die for want of one bold word.' 'Speak: that I live to hear,' he said, 'is yours.' Then suddenly and passionately she spoke: 'I have gone mad. I love you: let me die.' 'Ah, sister,' answered Lancelot, 'what is this?' And innocently extending her white arms, 'Your love,' she said, 'your love--to be your wife.' And Lancelot answered, 'Had I chosen to wed, I had been wedded earlier, sweet Elaine: But now there never will be wife of mine.' 'No, no,' she cried, 'I care not to be wife, But to be with you still, to see your face, To serve you, and to follow you through the world.' And Lancelot answered, 'Nay, the world, the world, All ear and eye, with such a stupid heart To interpret ear and eye, and such a tongue To blare its own interpretation--nay, Full ill then should I quit your brother's love, And your good father's kindness.' And she said, 'Not to be with you, not to see your face-- Alas for me then, my good days are done.' 'Nay, noble maid,' he answered, 'ten times nay! This is not love: but love's first flash in youth, Most common: yea, I know it of mine own self: And you yourself will smile at your own self Hereafter, when you yield your flower of life To one more fitly yours, not thrice your age: And then will I, for true you are and sweet Beyond mine old belief in womanhood, More specially should your good knight be poor, Endow you with broad land and territory Even to the half my realm beyond the seas, So that would make you happy: furthermore, Even to the death, as though ye were my blood, In all your quarrels will I be your knight. This I will do, dear damsel, for your sake, And more than this I cannot.' While he spoke She neither blushed nor shook, but deathly-pale Stood grasping what was nearest, then replied: 'Of all this will I nothing;' and so fell, And thus they bore her swooning to her tower. Then spake, to whom through those black walls of yew Their talk had pierced, her father: 'Ay, a flash, I fear me, that will strike my blossom dead. Too courteous are ye, fair Lord Lancelot. I pray you, use some rough discourtesy To blunt or break her passion.' Lancelot said, 'That were against me: what I can I will;' And there that day remained, and toward even Sent for his shield: full meekly rose the maid, Stript off the case, and gave the naked shield; Then, when she heard his horse upon the stones, Unclasping flung the casement back, and looked Down on his helm, from which her sleeve had gone. And Lancelot knew the little clinking sound; And she by tact of love was well aware That Lancelot knew that she was looking at him. And yet he glanced not up, nor waved his hand, Nor bad farewell, but sadly rode away. This was the one discourtesy that he used. So in her tower alone the maiden sat: His very shield was gone; only the case, Her own poor work, her empty labour, left. But still she heard him, still his picture formed And grew between her and the pictured wall. Then came her father, saying in low tones, 'Have comfort,' whom she greeted quietly. Then came her brethren saying, 'Peace to thee, Sweet sister,' whom she answered with all calm. But when they left her to herself again, Death, like a friend's voice from a distant field Approaching through the darkness, called; the owls Wailing had power upon her, and she mixt Her fancies with the sallow-rifted glooms Of evening, and the moanings of the wind. And in those days she made a little song, And called her song 'The Song of Love and Death,' And sang it: sweetly could she make and sing. 'Sweet is true love though given in vain, in vain; And sweet is death who puts an end to pain: I know not which is sweeter, no, not I. 'Love, art thou sweet? then bitter death must be: Love, thou art bitter; sweet is death to me. O Love, if death be sweeter, let me die. 'Sweet love, that seems not made to fade away, Sweet death, that seems to make us loveless clay, I know not which is sweeter, no, not I. 'I fain would follow love, if that could be; I needs must follow death, who calls for me; Call and I follow, I follow! let me die.' High with the last line scaled her voice, and this, All in a fiery dawning wild with wind That shook her tower, the brothers heard, and thought With shuddering, 'Hark the Phantom of the house That ever shrieks before a death,' and called The father, and all three in hurry and fear Ran to her, and lo! the blood-red light of dawn Flared on her face, she shrilling, 'Let me die!' As when we dwell upon a word we know, Repeating, till the word we know so well Becomes a wonder, and we know not why, So dwelt the father on her face, and thought 'Is this Elaine?' till back the maiden fell, Then gave a languid hand to each, and lay, Speaking a still good-morrow with her eyes. At last she said, 'Sweet brothers, yesternight I seemed a curious little maid again, As happy as when we dwelt among the woods, And when ye used to take me with the flood Up the great river in the boatman's boat. Only ye would not pass beyond the cape That has the poplar on it: there ye fixt Your limit, oft returning with the tide. And yet I cried because ye would not pass Beyond it, and far up the shining flood Until we found the palace of the King. And yet ye would not; but this night I dreamed That I was all alone upon the flood, And then I said, "Now shall I have my will:" And there I woke, but still the wish remained. So let me hence that I may pass at last Beyond the poplar and far up the flood, Until I find the palace of the King. There will I enter in among them all, And no man there will dare to mock at me; But there the fine Gawain will wonder at me, And there the great Sir Lancelot muse at me; Gawain, who bad a thousand farewells to me, Lancelot, who coldly went, nor bad me one: And there the King will know me and my love, And there the Queen herself will pity me, And all the gentle court will welcome me, And after my long voyage I shall rest!' 'Peace,' said her father, 'O my child, ye seem Light-headed, for what force is yours to go So far, being sick? and wherefore would ye look On this proud fellow again, who scorns us all?' Then the rough Torre began to heave and move, And bluster into stormy sobs and say, 'I never loved him: an I meet with him, I care not howsoever great he be, Then will I strike at him and strike him down, Give me good fortune, I will strike him dead, For this discomfort he hath done the house.' To whom the gentle sister made reply, 'Fret not yourself, dear brother, nor be wroth, Seeing it is no more Sir Lancelot's fault Not to love me, than it is mine to love Him of all men who seems to me the highest.' 'Highest?' the father answered, echoing 'highest?' (He meant to break the passion in her) 'nay, Daughter, I know not what you call the highest; But this I know, for all the people know it, He loves the Queen, and in an open shame: And she returns his love in open shame; If this be high, what is it to be low?' Then spake the lily maid of Astolat: 'Sweet father, all too faint and sick am I For anger: these are slanders: never yet Was noble man but made ignoble talk. He makes no friend who never made a foe. But now it is my glory to have loved One peerless, without stain: so let me pass, My father, howsoe'er I seem to you, Not all unhappy, having loved God's best And greatest, though my love had no return: Yet, seeing you desire your child to live, Thanks, but you work against your own desire; For if I could believe the things you say I should but die the sooner; wherefore cease, Sweet father, and bid call the ghostly man Hither, and let me shrive me clean, and die.' So when the ghostly man had come and gone, She with a face, bright as for sin forgiven, Besought Lavaine to write as she devised A letter, word for word; and when he asked 'Is it for Lancelot, is it for my dear lord? Then will I bear it gladly;' she replied, 'For Lancelot and the Queen and all the world, But I myself must bear it.' Then he wrote The letter she devised; which being writ And folded, 'O sweet father, tender and true, Deny me not,' she said--'ye never yet Denied my fancies--this, however strange, My latest: lay the letter in my hand A little ere I die, and close the hand Upon it; I shall guard it even in death. And when the heat is gone from out my heart, Then take the little bed on which I died For Lancelot's love, and deck it like the Queen's For richness, and me also like the Queen In all I have of rich, and lay me on it. And let there be prepared a chariot-bier To take me to the river, and a barge Be ready on the river, clothed in black. I go in state to court, to meet the Queen. There surely I shall speak for mine own self, And none of you can speak for me so well. And therefore let our dumb old man alone Go with me, he can steer and row, and he Will guide me to that palace, to the doors.' She ceased: her father promised; whereupon She grew so cheerful that they deemed her death Was rather in the fantasy than the blood. But ten slow mornings past, and on the eleventh Her father laid the letter in her hand, And closed the hand upon it, and she died. So that day there was dole in Astolat. But when the next sun brake from underground, Then, those two brethren slowly with bent brows Accompanying, the sad chariot-bier Past like a shadow through the field, that shone Full-summer, to that stream whereon the barge, Palled all its length in blackest samite, lay. There sat the lifelong creature of the house, Loyal, the dumb old servitor, on deck, Winking his eyes, and twisted all his face. So those two brethren from the chariot took And on the black decks laid her in her bed, Set in her hand a lily, o'er her hung The silken case with braided blazonings, And kissed her quiet brows, and saying to her 'Sister, farewell for ever,' and again 'Farewell, sweet sister,' parted all in tears. Then rose the dumb old servitor, and the dead, Oared by the dumb, went upward with the flood-- In her right hand the lily, in her left The letter--all her bright hair streaming down-- And all the coverlid was cloth of gold Drawn to her waist, and she herself in white All but her face, and that clear-featured face Was lovely, for she did not seem as dead, But fast asleep, and lay as though she smiled. That day Sir Lancelot at the palace craved Audience of Guinevere, to give at last, The price of half a realm, his costly gift, Hard-won and hardly won with bruise and blow, With deaths of others, and almost his own, The nine-years-fought-for diamonds: for he saw One of her house, and sent him to the Queen Bearing his wish, whereto the Queen agreed With such and so unmoved a majesty She might have seemed her statue, but that he, Low-drooping till he wellnigh kissed her feet For loyal awe, saw with a sidelong eye The shadow of some piece of pointed lace, In the Queen's shadow, vibrate on the walls, And parted, laughing in his courtly heart. All in an oriel on the summer side, Vine-clad, of Arthur's palace toward the stream, They met, and Lancelot kneeling uttered, 'Queen, Lady, my liege, in whom I have my joy, Take, what I had not won except for you, These jewels, and make me happy, making them An armlet for the roundest arm on earth, Or necklace for a neck to which the swan's Is tawnier than her cygnet's: these are words: Your beauty is your beauty, and I sin In speaking, yet O grant my worship of it Words, as we grant grief tears. Such sin in words Perchance, we both can pardon: but, my Queen, I hear of rumours flying through your court. Our bond, as not the bond of man and wife, Should have in it an absoluter trust To make up that defect: let rumours be: When did not rumours fly? these, as I trust That you trust me in your own nobleness, I may not well believe that you believe.' While thus he spoke, half turned away, the Queen Brake from the vast oriel-embowering vine Leaf after leaf, and tore, and cast them off, Till all the place whereon she stood was green; Then, when he ceased, in one cold passive hand Received at once and laid aside the gems There on a table near her, and replied: 'It may be, I am quicker of belief Than you believe me, Lancelot of the Lake. Our bond is not the bond of man and wife. This good is in it, whatsoe'er of ill, It can be broken easier. I for you This many a year have done despite and wrong To one whom ever in my heart of hearts I did acknowledge nobler. What are these? Diamonds for me! they had been thrice their worth Being your gift, had you not lost your own. To loyal hearts the value of all gifts Must vary as the giver's. Not for me! For her! for your new fancy. Only this Grant me, I pray you: have your joys apart. I doubt not that however changed, you keep So much of what is graceful: and myself Would shun to break those bounds of courtesy In which as Arthur's Queen I move and rule: So cannot speak my mind. An end to this! A strange one! yet I take it with Amen. So pray you, add my diamonds to her pearls; Deck her with these; tell her, she shines me down: An armlet for an arm to which the Queen's Is haggard, or a necklace for a neck O as much fairer--as a faith once fair Was richer than these diamonds--hers not mine-- Nay, by the mother of our Lord himself, Or hers or mine, mine now to work my will-- She shall not have them.' Saying which she seized, And, through the casement standing wide for heat, Flung them, and down they flashed, and smote the stream. Then from the smitten surface flashed, as it were, Diamonds to meet them, and they past away. Then while Sir Lancelot leant, in half disdain At love, life, all things, on the window ledge, Close underneath his eyes, and right across Where these had fallen, slowly past the barge. Whereon the lily maid of Astolat Lay smiling, like a star in blackest night. But the wild Queen, who saw not, burst away To weep and wail in secret; and the barge, On to the palace-doorway sliding, paused. There two stood armed, and kept the door; to whom, All up the marble stair, tier over tier, Were added mouths that gaped, and eyes that asked 'What is it?' but that oarsman's haggard face, As hard and still as is the face that men Shape to their fancy's eye from broken rocks On some cliff-side, appalled them, and they said 'He is enchanted, cannot speak--and she, Look how she sleeps--the Fairy Queen, so fair! Yea, but how pale! what are they? flesh and blood? Or come to take the King to Fairyland? For some do hold our Arthur cannot die, But that he passes into Fairyland.' While thus they babbled of the King, the King Came girt with knights: then turned the tongueless man From the half-face to the full eye, and rose And pointed to the damsel, and the doors. So Arthur bad the meek Sir Percivale And pure Sir Galahad to uplift the maid; And reverently they bore her into hall. Then came the fine Gawain and wondered at her, And Lancelot later came and mused at her, And last the Queen herself, and pitied her: But Arthur spied the letter in her hand, Stoopt, took, brake seal, and read it; this was all: 'Most noble lord, Sir Lancelot of the Lake, I, sometime called the maid of Astolat, Come, for you left me taking no farewell, Hither, to take my last farewell of you. I loved you, and my love had no return, And therefore my true love has been my death. And therefore to our Lady Guinevere, And to all other ladies, I make moan: Pray for my soul, and yield me burial. Pray for my soul thou too, Sir Lancelot, As thou art a knight peerless.' Thus he read; And ever in the reading, lords and dames Wept, looking often from his face who read To hers which lay so silent, and at times, So touched were they, half-thinking that her lips, Who had devised the letter, moved again. Then freely spoke Sir Lancelot to them all: 'My lord liege Arthur, and all ye that hear, Know that for this most gentle maiden's death Right heavy am I; for good she was and true, But loved me with a love beyond all love In women, whomsoever I have known. Yet to be loved makes not to love again; Not at my years, however it hold in youth. I swear by truth and knighthood that I gave No cause, not willingly, for such a love: To this I call my friends in testimony, Her brethren, and her father, who himself Besought me to be plain and blunt, and use, To break her passion, some discourtesy Against my nature: what I could, I did. I left her and I bad her no farewell; Though, had I dreamt the damsel would have died, I might have put my wits to some rough use, And helped her from herself.' Then said the Queen (Sea was her wrath, yet working after storm) 'Ye might at least have done her so much grace, Fair lord, as would have helped her from her death.' He raised his head, their eyes met and hers fell, He adding, 'Queen, she would not be content Save that I wedded her, which could not be. Then might she follow me through the world, she asked; It could not be. I told her that her love Was but the flash of youth, would darken down To rise hereafter in a stiller flame Toward one more worthy of her--then would I, More specially were he, she wedded, poor, Estate them with large land and territory In mine own realm beyond the narrow seas, To keep them in all joyance: more than this I could not; this she would not, and she died.' He pausing, Arthur answered, 'O my knight, It will be to thy worship, as my knight, And mine, as head of all our Table Round, To see that she be buried worshipfully.' So toward that shrine which then in all the realm Was richest, Arthur leading, slowly went The marshalled Order of their Table Round, And Lancelot sad beyond his wont, to see The maiden buried, not as one unknown, Nor meanly, but with gorgeous obsequies, And mass, and rolling music, like a queen. And when the knights had laid her comely head Low in the dust of half-forgotten kings, Then Arthur spake among them, 'Let her tomb Be costly, and her image thereupon, And let the shield of Lancelot at her feet Be carven, and her lily in her hand. And let the story of her dolorous voyage For all true hearts be blazoned on her tomb In letters gold and azure!' which was wrought Thereafter; but when now the lords and dames And people, from the high door streaming, brake Disorderly, as homeward each, the Queen, Who marked Sir Lancelot where he moved apart, Drew near, and sighed in passing, 'Lancelot, Forgive me; mine was jealousy in love.' He answered with his eyes upon the ground, 'That is love's curse; pass on, my Queen, forgiven.' But Arthur, who beheld his cloudy brows, Approached him, and with full affection said, 'Lancelot, my Lancelot, thou in whom I have Most joy and most affiance, for I know What thou hast been in battle by my side, And many a time have watched thee at the tilt Strike down the lusty and long practised knight, And let the younger and unskilled go by To win his honour and to make his name, And loved thy courtesies and thee, a man Made to be loved; but now I would to God, Seeing the homeless trouble in thine eyes, Thou couldst have loved this maiden, shaped, it seems, By God for thee alone, and from her face, If one may judge the living by the dead, Delicately pure and marvellously fair, Who might have brought thee, now a lonely man Wifeless and heirless, noble issue, sons Born to the glory of thine name and fame, My knight, the great Sir Lancelot of the Lake.' Then answered Lancelot, 'Fair she was, my King, Pure, as you ever wish your knights to be. To doubt her fairness were to want an eye, To doubt her pureness were to want a heart-- Yea, to be loved, if what is worthy love Could bind him, but free love will not be bound.' 'Free love, so bound, were freest,' said the King. 'Let love be free; free love is for the best: And, after heaven, on our dull side of death, What should be best, if not so pure a love Clothed in so pure a loveliness? yet thee She failed to bind, though being, as I think, Unbound as yet, and gentle, as I know.' And Lancelot answered nothing, but he went, And at the inrunning of a little brook Sat by the river in a cove, and watched The high reed wave, and lifted up his eyes And saw the barge that brought her moving down, Far-off, a blot upon the stream, and said Low in himself, 'Ah simple heart and sweet, Ye loved me, damsel, surely with a love Far tenderer than my Queen's. Pray for thy soul? Ay, that will I. Farewell too--now at last-- Farewell, fair lily. "Jealousy in love?" Not rather dead love's harsh heir, jealous pride? Queen, if I grant the jealousy as of love, May not your crescent fear for name and fame Speak, as it waxes, of a love that wanes? Why did the King dwell on my name to me? Mine own name shames me, seeming a reproach, Lancelot, whom the Lady of the Lake Caught from his mother's arms--the wondrous one Who passes through the vision of the night-- She chanted snatches of mysterious hymns Heard on the winding waters, eve and morn She kissed me saying, "Thou art fair, my child, As a king's son," and often in her arms She bare me, pacing on the dusky mere. Would she had drowned me in it, where'er it be! For what am I? what profits me my name Of greatest knight? I fought for it, and have it: Pleasure to have it, none; to lose it, pain; Now grown a part of me: but what use in it? To make men worse by making my sin known? Or sin seem less, the sinner seeming great? Alas for Arthur's greatest knight, a man Not after Arthur's heart! I needs must break These bonds that so defame me: not without She wills it: would I, if she willed it? nay, Who knows? but if I would not, then may God, I pray him, send a sudden Angel down To seize me by the hair and bear me far, And fling me deep in that forgotten mere, Among the tumbled fragments of the hills.' So groaned Sir Lancelot in remorseful pain, Not knowing he should die a holy man. The Holy Grail From noiseful arms, and acts of prowess done In tournament or tilt, Sir Percivale, Whom Arthur and his knighthood called The Pure, Had passed into the silent life of prayer, Praise, fast, and alms; and leaving for the cowl The helmet in an abbey far away From Camelot, there, and not long after, died. And one, a fellow-monk among the rest, Ambrosius, loved him much beyond the rest, And honoured him, and wrought into his heart A way by love that wakened love within, To answer that which came: and as they sat Beneath a world-old yew-tree, darkening half The cloisters, on a gustful April morn That puffed the swaying branches into smoke Above them, ere the summer when he died The monk Ambrosius questioned Percivale: 'O brother, I have seen this yew-tree smoke, Spring after spring, for half a hundred years: For never have I known the world without, Nor ever strayed beyond the pale: but thee, When first thou camest--such a courtesy Spake through the limbs and in the voice--I knew For one of those who eat in Arthur's hall; For good ye are and bad, and like to coins, Some true, some light, but every one of you Stamped with the image of the King; and now Tell me, what drove thee from the Table Round, My brother? was it earthly passion crost?' 'Nay,' said the knight; 'for no such passion mine. But the sweet vision of the Holy Grail Drove me from all vainglories, rivalries, And earthly heats that spring and sparkle out Among us in the jousts, while women watch Who wins, who falls; and waste the spiritual strength Within us, better offered up to Heaven.' To whom the monk: 'The Holy Grail!--I trust We are green in Heaven's eyes; but here too much We moulder--as to things without I mean-- Yet one of your own knights, a guest of ours, Told us of this in our refectory, But spake with such a sadness and so low We heard not half of what he said. What is it? The phantom of a cup that comes and goes?' 'Nay, monk! what phantom?' answered Percivale. 'The cup, the cup itself, from which our Lord Drank at the last sad supper with his own. This, from the blessed land of Aromat-- After the day of darkness, when the dead Went wandering o'er Moriah--the good saint Arimathaean Joseph, journeying brought To Glastonbury, where the winter thorn Blossoms at Christmas, mindful of our Lord. And there awhile it bode; and if a man Could touch or see it, he was healed at once, By faith, of all his ills. But then the times Grew to such evil that the holy cup Was caught away to Heaven, and disappeared.' To whom the monk: 'From our old books I know That Joseph came of old to Glastonbury, And there the heathen Prince, Arviragus, Gave him an isle of marsh whereon to build; And there he built with wattles from the marsh A little lonely church in days of yore, For so they say, these books of ours, but seem Mute of this miracle, far as I have read. But who first saw the holy thing today?' 'A woman,' answered Percivale, 'a nun, And one no further off in blood from me Than sister; and if ever holy maid With knees of adoration wore the stone, A holy maid; though never maiden glowed, But that was in her earlier maidenhood, With such a fervent flame of human love, Which being rudely blunted, glanced and shot Only to holy things; to prayer and praise She gave herself, to fast and alms. And yet, Nun as she was, the scandal of the Court, Sin against Arthur and the Table Round, And the strange sound of an adulterous race, Across the iron grating of her cell Beat, and she prayed and fasted all the more. 'And he to whom she told her sins, or what Her all but utter whiteness held for sin, A man wellnigh a hundred winters old, Spake often with her of the Holy Grail, A legend handed down through five or six, And each of these a hundred winters old, From our Lord's time. And when King Arthur made His Table Round, and all men's hearts became Clean for a season, surely he had thought That now the Holy Grail would come again; But sin broke out. Ah, Christ, that it would come, And heal the world of all their wickedness! "O Father!" asked the maiden, "might it come To me by prayer and fasting?" "Nay," said he, "I know not, for thy heart is pure as snow." And so she prayed and fasted, till the sun Shone, and the wind blew, through her, and I thought She might have risen and floated when I saw her. 'For on a day she sent to speak with me. And when she came to speak, behold her eyes Beyond my knowing of them, beautiful, Beyond all knowing of them, wonderful, Beautiful in the light of holiness. And "O my brother Percivale," she said, "Sweet brother, I have seen the Holy Grail: For, waked at dead of night, I heard a sound As of a silver horn from o'er the hills Blown, and I thought, 'It is not Arthur's use To hunt by moonlight;' and the slender sound As from a distance beyond distance grew Coming upon me--O never harp nor horn, Nor aught we blow with breath, or touch with hand, Was like that music as it came; and then Streamed through my cell a cold and silver beam, And down the long beam stole the Holy Grail, Rose-red with beatings in it, as if alive, Till all the white walls of my cell were dyed With rosy colours leaping on the wall; And then the music faded, and the Grail Past, and the beam decayed, and from the walls The rosy quiverings died into the night. So now the Holy Thing is here again Among us, brother, fast thou too and pray, And tell thy brother knights to fast and pray, That so perchance the vision may be seen By thee and those, and all the world be healed." 'Then leaving the pale nun, I spake of this To all men; and myself fasted and prayed Always, and many among us many a week Fasted and prayed even to the uttermost, Expectant of the wonder that would be. 'And one there was among us, ever moved Among us in white armour, Galahad. "God make thee good as thou art beautiful," Said Arthur, when he dubbed him knight; and none, In so young youth, was ever made a knight Till Galahad; and this Galahad, when he heard My sister's vision, filled me with amaze; His eyes became so like her own, they seemed Hers, and himself her brother more than I. 'Sister or brother none had he; but some Called him a son of Lancelot, and some said Begotten by enchantment--chatterers they, Like birds of passage piping up and down, That gape for flies--we know not whence they come; For when was Lancelot wanderingly lewd? 'But she, the wan sweet maiden, shore away Clean from her forehead all that wealth of hair Which made a silken mat-work for her feet; And out of this she plaited broad and long A strong sword-belt, and wove with silver thread And crimson in the belt a strange device, A crimson grail within a silver beam; And saw the bright boy-knight, and bound it on him, Saying, "My knight, my love, my knight of heaven, O thou, my love, whose love is one with mine, I, maiden, round thee, maiden, bind my belt. Go forth, for thou shalt see what I have seen, And break through all, till one will crown thee king Far in the spiritual city:" and as she spake She sent the deathless passion in her eyes Through him, and made him hers, and laid her mind On him, and he believed in her belief. 'Then came a year of miracle: O brother, In our great hall there stood a vacant chair, Fashioned by Merlin ere he past away, And carven with strange figures; and in and out The figures, like a serpent, ran a scroll Of letters in a tongue no man could read. And Merlin called it "The Siege perilous," Perilous for good and ill; "for there," he said, "No man could sit but he should lose himself:" And once by misadvertence Merlin sat In his own chair, and so was lost; but he, Galahad, when he heard of Merlin's doom, Cried, "If I lose myself, I save myself!" 'Then on a summer night it came to pass, While the great banquet lay along the hall, That Galahad would sit down in Merlin's chair. 'And all at once, as there we sat, we heard A cracking and a riving of the roofs, And rending, and a blast, and overhead Thunder, and in the thunder was a cry. And in the blast there smote along the hall A beam of light seven times more clear than day: And down the long beam stole the Holy Grail All over covered with a luminous cloud. And none might see who bare it, and it past. But every knight beheld his fellow's face As in a glory, and all the knights arose, And staring each at other like dumb men Stood, till I found a voice and sware a vow. 'I sware a vow before them all, that I, Because I had not seen the Grail, would ride A twelvemonth and a day in quest of it, Until I found and saw it, as the nun My sister saw it; and Galahad sware the vow, And good Sir Bors, our Lancelot's cousin, sware, And Lancelot sware, and many among the knights, And Gawain sware, and louder than the rest.' Then spake the monk Ambrosius, asking him, 'What said the King? Did Arthur take the vow?' 'Nay, for my lord,' said Percivale, 'the King, Was not in hall: for early that same day, Scaped through a cavern from a bandit hold, An outraged maiden sprang into the hall Crying on help: for all her shining hair Was smeared with earth, and either milky arm Red-rent with hooks of bramble, and all she wore Torn as a sail that leaves the rope is torn In tempest: so the King arose and went To smoke the scandalous hive of those wild bees That made such honey in his realm. Howbeit Some little of this marvel he too saw, Returning o'er the plain that then began To darken under Camelot; whence the King Looked up, calling aloud, "Lo, there! the roofs Of our great hall are rolled in thunder-smoke! Pray Heaven, they be not smitten by the bolt." For dear to Arthur was that hall of ours, As having there so oft with all his knights Feasted, and as the stateliest under heaven. 'O brother, had you known our mighty hall, Which Merlin built for Arthur long ago! For all the sacred mount of Camelot, And all the dim rich city, roof by roof, Tower after tower, spire beyond spire, By grove, and garden-lawn, and rushing brook, Climbs to the mighty hall that Merlin built. And four great zones of sculpture, set betwixt With many a mystic symbol, gird the hall: And in the lowest beasts are slaying men, And in the second men are slaying beasts, And on the third are warriors, perfect men, And on the fourth are men with growing wings, And over all one statue in the mould Of Arthur, made by Merlin, with a crown, And peaked wings pointed to the Northern Star. And eastward fronts the statue, and the crown And both the wings are made of gold, and flame At sunrise till the people in far fields, Wasted so often by the heathen hordes, Behold it, crying, "We have still a King." 'And, brother, had you known our hall within, Broader and higher than any in all the lands! Where twelve great windows blazon Arthur's wars, And all the light that falls upon the board Streams through the twelve great battles of our King. Nay, one there is, and at the eastern end, Wealthy with wandering lines of mount and mere, Where Arthur finds the brand Excalibur. And also one to the west, and counter to it, And blank: and who shall blazon it? when and how?-- O there, perchance, when all our wars are done, The brand Excalibur will be cast away. 'So to this hall full quickly rode the King, In horror lest the work by Merlin wrought, Dreamlike, should on the sudden vanish, wrapt In unremorseful folds of rolling fire. And in he rode, and up I glanced, and saw The golden dragon sparkling over all: And many of those who burnt the hold, their arms Hacked, and their foreheads grimed with smoke, and seared, Followed, and in among bright faces, ours, Full of the vision, prest: and then the King Spake to me, being nearest, "Percivale," (Because the hall was all in tumult--some Vowing, and some protesting), "what is this?" 'O brother, when I told him what had chanced, My sister's vision, and the rest, his face Darkened, as I have seen it more than once, When some brave deed seemed to be done in vain, Darken; and "Woe is me, my knights," he cried, "Had I been here, ye had not sworn the vow." Bold was mine answer, "Had thyself been here, My King, thou wouldst have sworn." "Yea, yea," said he, "Art thou so bold and hast not seen the Grail?" '"Nay, lord, I heard the sound, I saw the light, But since I did not see the Holy Thing, I sware a vow to follow it till I saw." 'Then when he asked us, knight by knight, if any Had seen it, all their answers were as one: "Nay, lord, and therefore have we sworn our vows." '"Lo now," said Arthur, "have ye seen a cloud? What go ye into the wilderness to see?" 'Then Galahad on the sudden, and in a voice Shrilling along the hall to Arthur, called, "But I, Sir Arthur, saw the Holy Grail, I saw the Holy Grail and heard a cry-- 'O Galahad, and O Galahad, follow me.'" '"Ah, Galahad, Galahad," said the King, "for such As thou art is the vision, not for these. Thy holy nun and thou have seen a sign-- Holier is none, my Percivale, than she-- A sign to maim this Order which I made. But ye, that follow but the leader's bell" (Brother, the King was hard upon his knights) "Taliessin is our fullest throat of song, And one hath sung and all the dumb will sing. Lancelot is Lancelot, and hath overborne Five knights at once, and every younger knight, Unproven, holds himself as Lancelot, Till overborne by one, he learns--and ye, What are ye? Galahads?--no, nor Percivales" (For thus it pleased the King to range me close After Sir Galahad); "nay," said he, "but men With strength and will to right the wronged, of power To lay the sudden heads of violence flat, Knights that in twelve great battles splashed and dyed The strong White Horse in his own heathen blood-- But one hath seen, and all the blind will see. Go, since your vows are sacred, being made: Yet--for ye know the cries of all my realm Pass through this hall--how often, O my knights, Your places being vacant at my side, This chance of noble deeds will come and go Unchallenged, while ye follow wandering fires Lost in the quagmire! Many of you, yea most, Return no more: ye think I show myself Too dark a prophet: come now, let us meet The morrow morn once more in one full field Of gracious pastime, that once more the King, Before ye leave him for this Quest, may count The yet-unbroken strength of all his knights, Rejoicing in that Order which he made." 'So when the sun broke next from under ground, All the great table of our Arthur closed And clashed in such a tourney and so full, So many lances broken--never yet Had Camelot seen the like, since Arthur came; And I myself and Galahad, for a strength Was in us from this vision, overthrew So many knights that all the people cried, And almost burst the barriers in their heat, Shouting, "Sir Galahad and Sir Percivale!" 'But when the next day brake from under ground-- O brother, had you known our Camelot, Built by old kings, age after age, so old The King himself had fears that it would fall, So strange, and rich, and dim; for where the roofs Tottered toward each other in the sky, Met foreheads all along the street of those Who watched us pass; and lower, and where the long Rich galleries, lady-laden, weighed the necks Of dragons clinging to the crazy walls, Thicker than drops from thunder, showers of flowers Fell as we past; and men and boys astride On wyvern, lion, dragon, griffin, swan, At all the corners, named us each by name, Calling, "God speed!" but in the ways below The knights and ladies wept, and rich and poor Wept, and the King himself could hardly speak For grief, and all in middle street the Queen, Who rode by Lancelot, wailed and shrieked aloud, "This madness has come on us for our sins." So to the Gate of the three Queens we came, Where Arthur's wars are rendered mystically, And thence departed every one his way. 'And I was lifted up in heart, and thought Of all my late-shown prowess in the lists, How my strong lance had beaten down the knights, So many and famous names; and never yet Had heaven appeared so blue, nor earth so green, For all my blood danced in me, and I knew That I should light upon the Holy Grail. 'Thereafter, the dark warning of our King, That most of us would follow wandering fires, Came like a driving gloom across my mind. Then every evil word I had spoken once, And every evil thought I had thought of old, And every evil deed I ever did, Awoke and cried, "This Quest is not for thee." And lifting up mine eyes, I found myself Alone, and in a land of sand and thorns, And I was thirsty even unto death; And I, too, cried, "This Quest is not for thee." 'And on I rode, and when I thought my thirst Would slay me, saw deep lawns, and then a brook, With one sharp rapid, where the crisping white Played ever back upon the sloping wave, And took both ear and eye; and o'er the brook Were apple-trees, and apples by the brook Fallen, and on the lawns. "I will rest here," I said, "I am not worthy of the Quest;" But even while I drank the brook, and ate The goodly apples, all these things at once Fell into dust, and I was left alone, And thirsting, in a land of sand and thorns. 'And then behold a woman at a door Spinning; and fair the house whereby she sat, And kind the woman's eyes and innocent, And all her bearing gracious; and she rose Opening her arms to meet me, as who should say, "Rest here;" but when I touched her, lo! she, too, Fell into dust and nothing, and the house Became no better than a broken shed, And in it a dead babe; and also this Fell into dust, and I was left alone. 'And on I rode, and greater was my thirst. Then flashed a yellow gleam across the world, And where it smote the plowshare in the field, The plowman left his plowing, and fell down Before it; where it glittered on her pail, The milkmaid left her milking, and fell down Before it, and I knew not why, but thought "The sun is rising," though the sun had risen. Then was I ware of one that on me moved In golden armour with a crown of gold About a casque all jewels; and his horse In golden armour jewelled everywhere: And on the splendour came, flashing me blind; And seemed to me the Lord of all the world, Being so huge. But when I thought he meant To crush me, moving on me, lo! he, too, Opened his arms to embrace me as he came, And up I went and touched him, and he, too, Fell into dust, and I was left alone And wearying in a land of sand and thorns. 'And I rode on and found a mighty hill, And on the top, a city walled: the spires Pricked with incredible pinnacles into heaven. And by the gateway stirred a crowd; and these Cried to me climbing, "Welcome, Percivale! Thou mightiest and thou purest among men!" And glad was I and clomb, but found at top No man, nor any voice. And thence I past Far through a ruinous city, and I saw That man had once dwelt there; but there I found Only one man of an exceeding age. "Where is that goodly company," said I, "That so cried out upon me?" and he had Scarce any voice to answer, and yet gasped, "Whence and what art thou?" and even as he spoke Fell into dust, and disappeared, and I Was left alone once more, and cried in grief, "Lo, if I find the Holy Grail itself And touch it, it will crumble into dust." 'And thence I dropt into a lowly vale, Low as the hill was high, and where the vale Was lowest, found a chapel, and thereby A holy hermit in a hermitage, To whom I told my phantoms, and he said: '"O son, thou hast not true humility, The highest virtue, mother of them all; For when the Lord of all things made Himself Naked of glory for His mortal change, 'Take thou my robe,' she said, 'for all is thine,' And all her form shone forth with sudden light So that the angels were amazed, and she Followed Him down, and like a flying star Led on the gray-haired wisdom of the east; But her thou hast not known: for what is this Thou thoughtest of thy prowess and thy sins? Thou hast not lost thyself to save thyself As Galahad." When the hermit made an end, In silver armour suddenly Galahad shone Before us, and against the chapel door Laid lance, and entered, and we knelt in prayer. And there the hermit slaked my burning thirst, And at the sacring of the mass I saw The holy elements alone; but he, "Saw ye no more? I, Galahad, saw the Grail, The Holy Grail, descend upon the shrine: I saw the fiery face as of a child That smote itself into the bread, and went; And hither am I come; and never yet Hath what thy sister taught me first to see, This Holy Thing, failed from my side, nor come Covered, but moving with me night and day, Fainter by day, but always in the night Blood-red, and sliding down the blackened marsh Blood-red, and on the naked mountain top Blood-red, and in the sleeping mere below Blood-red. And in the strength of this I rode, Shattering all evil customs everywhere, And past through Pagan realms, and made them mine, And clashed with Pagan hordes, and bore them down, And broke through all, and in the strength of this Come victor. But my time is hard at hand, And hence I go; and one will crown me king Far in the spiritual city; and come thou, too, For thou shalt see the vision when I go." 'While thus he spake, his eye, dwelling on mine, Drew me, with power upon me, till I grew One with him, to believe as he believed. Then, when the day began to wane, we went. 'There rose a hill that none but man could climb, Scarred with a hundred wintry water-courses-- Storm at the top, and when we gained it, storm Round us and death; for every moment glanced His silver arms and gloomed: so quick and thick The lightnings here and there to left and right Struck, till the dry old trunks about us, dead, Yea, rotten with a hundred years of death, Sprang into fire: and at the base we found On either hand, as far as eye could see, A great black swamp and of an evil smell, Part black, part whitened with the bones of men, Not to be crost, save that some ancient king Had built a way, where, linked with many a bridge, A thousand piers ran into the great Sea. And Galahad fled along them bridge by bridge, And every bridge as quickly as he crost Sprang into fire and vanished, though I yearned To follow; and thrice above him all the heavens Opened and blazed with thunder such as seemed Shoutings of all the sons of God: and first At once I saw him far on the great Sea, In silver-shining armour starry-clear; And o'er his head the Holy Vessel hung Clothed in white samite or a luminous cloud. And with exceeding swiftness ran the boat, If boat it were--I saw not whence it came. And when the heavens opened and blazed again Roaring, I saw him like a silver star-- And had he set the sail, or had the boat Become a living creature clad with wings? And o'er his head the Holy Vessel hung Redder than any rose, a joy to me, For now I knew the veil had been withdrawn. Then in a moment when they blazed again Opening, I saw the least of little stars Down on the waste, and straight beyond the star I saw the spiritual city and all her spires And gateways in a glory like one pearl-- No larger, though the goal of all the saints-- Strike from the sea; and from the star there shot A rose-red sparkle to the city, and there Dwelt, and I knew it was the Holy Grail, Which never eyes on earth again shall see. Then fell the floods of heaven drowning the deep. And how my feet recrost the deathful ridge No memory in me lives; but that I touched The chapel-doors at dawn I know; and thence Taking my war-horse from the holy man, Glad that no phantom vext me more, returned To whence I came, the gate of Arthur's wars.' 'O brother,' asked Ambrosius,--'for in sooth These ancient books--and they would win thee--teem, Only I find not there this Holy Grail, With miracles and marvels like to these, Not all unlike; which oftentime I read, Who read but on my breviary with ease, Till my head swims; and then go forth and pass Down to the little thorpe that lies so close, And almost plastered like a martin's nest To these old walls--and mingle with our folk; And knowing every honest face of theirs As well as ever shepherd knew his sheep, And every homely secret in their hearts, Delight myself with gossip and old wives, And ills and aches, and teethings, lyings-in, And mirthful sayings, children of the place, That have no meaning half a league away: Or lulling random squabbles when they rise, Chafferings and chatterings at the market-cross, Rejoice, small man, in this small world of mine, Yea, even in their hens and in their eggs-- O brother, saving this Sir Galahad, Came ye on none but phantoms in your quest, No man, no woman?' Then Sir Percivale: 'All men, to one so bound by such a vow, And women were as phantoms. O, my brother, Why wilt thou shame me to confess to thee How far I faltered from my quest and vow? For after I had lain so many nights A bedmate of the snail and eft and snake, In grass and burdock, I was changed to wan And meagre, and the vision had not come; And then I chanced upon a goodly town With one great dwelling in the middle of it; Thither I made, and there was I disarmed By maidens each as fair as any flower: But when they led me into hall, behold, The Princess of that castle was the one, Brother, and that one only, who had ever Made my heart leap; for when I moved of old A slender page about her father's hall, And she a slender maiden, all my heart Went after her with longing: yet we twain Had never kissed a kiss, or vowed a vow. And now I came upon her once again, And one had wedded her, and he was dead, And all his land and wealth and state were hers. And while I tarried, every day she set A banquet richer than the day before By me; for all her longing and her will Was toward me as of old; till one fair morn, I walking to and fro beside a stream That flashed across her orchard underneath Her castle-walls, she stole upon my walk, And calling me the greatest of all knights, Embraced me, and so kissed me the first time, And gave herself and all her wealth to me. Then I remembered Arthur's warning word, That most of us would follow wandering fires, And the Quest faded in my heart. Anon, The heads of all her people drew to me, With supplication both of knees and tongue: "We have heard of thee: thou art our greatest knight, Our Lady says it, and we well believe: Wed thou our Lady, and rule over us, And thou shalt be as Arthur in our land." O me, my brother! but one night my vow Burnt me within, so that I rose and fled, But wailed and wept, and hated mine own self, And even the Holy Quest, and all but her; Then after I was joined with Galahad Cared not for her, nor anything upon earth.' Then said the monk, 'Poor men, when yule is cold, Must be content to sit by little fires. And this am I, so that ye care for me Ever so little; yea, and blest be Heaven That brought thee here to this poor house of ours Where all the brethren are so hard, to warm My cold heart with a friend: but O the pity To find thine own first love once more--to hold, Hold her a wealthy bride within thine arms, Or all but hold, and then--cast her aside, Foregoing all her sweetness, like a weed. For we that want the warmth of double life, We that are plagued with dreams of something sweet Beyond all sweetness in a life so rich,-- Ah, blessed Lord, I speak too earthlywise, Seeing I never strayed beyond the cell, But live like an old badger in his earth, With earth about him everywhere, despite All fast and penance. Saw ye none beside, None of your knights?' 'Yea so,' said Percivale: 'One night my pathway swerving east, I saw The pelican on the casque of our Sir Bors All in the middle of the rising moon: And toward him spurred, and hailed him, and he me, And each made joy of either; then he asked, "Where is he? hast thou seen him--Lancelot?--Once," Said good Sir Bors, "he dashed across me--mad, And maddening what he rode: and when I cried, 'Ridest thou then so hotly on a quest So holy,' Lancelot shouted, 'Stay me not! I have been the sluggard, and I ride apace, For now there is a lion in the way.' So vanished." 'Then Sir Bors had ridden on Softly, and sorrowing for our Lancelot, Because his former madness, once the talk And scandal of our table, had returned; For Lancelot's kith and kin so worship him That ill to him is ill to them; to Bors Beyond the rest: he well had been content Not to have seen, so Lancelot might have seen, The Holy Cup of healing; and, indeed, Being so clouded with his grief and love, Small heart was his after the Holy Quest: If God would send the vision, well: if not, The Quest and he were in the hands of Heaven. 'And then, with small adventure met, Sir Bors Rode to the lonest tract of all the realm, And found a people there among their crags, Our race and blood, a remnant that were left Paynim amid their circles, and the stones They pitch up straight to heaven: and their wise men Were strong in that old magic which can trace The wandering of the stars, and scoffed at him And this high Quest as at a simple thing: Told him he followed--almost Arthur's words-- A mocking fire: "what other fire than he, Whereby the blood beats, and the blossom blows, And the sea rolls, and all the world is warmed?" And when his answer chafed them, the rough crowd, Hearing he had a difference with their priests, Seized him, and bound and plunged him into a cell Of great piled stones; and lying bounden there In darkness through innumerable hours He heard the hollow-ringing heavens sweep Over him till by miracle--what else?-- Heavy as it was, a great stone slipt and fell, Such as no wind could move: and through the gap Glimmered the streaming scud: then came a night Still as the day was loud; and through the gap The seven clear stars of Arthur's Table Round-- For, brother, so one night, because they roll Through such a round in heaven, we named the stars, Rejoicing in ourselves and in our King-- And these, like bright eyes of familiar friends, In on him shone: "And then to me, to me," Said good Sir Bors, "beyond all hopes of mine, Who scarce had prayed or asked it for myself-- Across the seven clear stars--O grace to me-- In colour like the fingers of a hand Before a burning taper, the sweet Grail Glided and past, and close upon it pealed A sharp quick thunder." Afterwards, a maid, Who kept our holy faith among her kin In secret, entering, loosed and let him go.' To whom the monk: 'And I remember now That pelican on the casque: Sir Bors it was Who spake so low and sadly at our board; And mighty reverent at our grace was he: A square-set man and honest; and his eyes, An out-door sign of all the warmth within, Smiled with his lips--a smile beneath a cloud, But heaven had meant it for a sunny one: Ay, ay, Sir Bors, who else? But when ye reached The city, found ye all your knights returned, Or was there sooth in Arthur's prophecy, Tell me, and what said each, and what the King?' Then answered Percivale: 'And that can I, Brother, and truly; since the living words Of so great men as Lancelot and our King Pass not from door to door and out again, But sit within the house. O, when we reached The city, our horses stumbling as they trode On heaps of ruin, hornless unicorns, Cracked basilisks, and splintered cockatrices, And shattered talbots, which had left the stones Raw, that they fell from, brought us to the hall. 'And there sat Arthur on the dais-throne, And those that had gone out upon the Quest, Wasted and worn, and but a tithe of them, And those that had not, stood before the King, Who, when he saw me, rose, and bad me hail, Saying, "A welfare in thine eye reproves Our fear of some disastrous chance for thee On hill, or plain, at sea, or flooding ford. So fierce a gale made havoc here of late Among the strange devices of our kings; Yea, shook this newer, stronger hall of ours, And from the statue Merlin moulded for us Half-wrenched a golden wing; but now--the Quest, This vision--hast thou seen the Holy Cup, That Joseph brought of old to Glastonbury?" 'So when I told him all thyself hast heard, Ambrosius, and my fresh but fixt resolve To pass away into the quiet life, He answered not, but, sharply turning, asked Of Gawain, "Gawain, was this Quest for thee?" '"Nay, lord," said Gawain, "not for such as I. Therefore I communed with a saintly man, Who made me sure the Quest was not for me; For I was much awearied of the Quest: But found a silk pavilion in a field, And merry maidens in it; and then this gale Tore my pavilion from the tenting-pin, And blew my merry maidens all about With all discomfort; yea, and but for this, My twelvemonth and a day were pleasant to me." 'He ceased; and Arthur turned to whom at first He saw not, for Sir Bors, on entering, pushed Athwart the throng to Lancelot, caught his hand, Held it, and there, half-hidden by him, stood, Until the King espied him, saying to him, "Hail, Bors! if ever loyal man and true Could see it, thou hast seen the Grail;" and Bors, "Ask me not, for I may not speak of it: I saw it;" and the tears were in his eyes. 'Then there remained but Lancelot, for the rest Spake but of sundry perils in the storm; Perhaps, like him of Cana in Holy Writ, Our Arthur kept his best until the last; "Thou, too, my Lancelot," asked the king, "my friend, Our mightiest, hath this Quest availed for thee?" '"Our mightiest!" answered Lancelot, with a groan; "O King!"--and when he paused, methought I spied A dying fire of madness in his eyes-- "O King, my friend, if friend of thine I be, Happier are those that welter in their sin, Swine in the mud, that cannot see for slime, Slime of the ditch: but in me lived a sin So strange, of such a kind, that all of pure, Noble, and knightly in me twined and clung Round that one sin, until the wholesome flower And poisonous grew together, each as each, Not to be plucked asunder; and when thy knights Sware, I sware with them only in the hope That could I touch or see the Holy Grail They might be plucked asunder. Then I spake To one most holy saint, who wept and said, That save they could be plucked asunder, all My quest were but in vain; to whom I vowed That I would work according as he willed. And forth I went, and while I yearned and strove To tear the twain asunder in my heart, My madness came upon me as of old, And whipt me into waste fields far away; There was I beaten down by little men, Mean knights, to whom the moving of my sword And shadow of my spear had been enow To scare them from me once; and then I came All in my folly to the naked shore, Wide flats, where nothing but coarse grasses grew; But such a blast, my King, began to blow, So loud a blast along the shore and sea, Ye could not hear the waters for the blast, Though heapt in mounds and ridges all the sea Drove like a cataract, and all the sand Swept like a river, and the clouded heavens Were shaken with the motion and the sound. And blackening in the sea-foam swayed a boat, Half-swallowed in it, anchored with a chain; And in my madness to myself I said, 'I will embark and I will lose myself, And in the great sea wash away my sin.' I burst the chain, I sprang into the boat. Seven days I drove along the dreary deep, And with me drove the moon and all the stars; And the wind fell, and on the seventh night I heard the shingle grinding in the surge, And felt the boat shock earth, and looking up, Behold, the enchanted towers of Carbonek, A castle like a rock upon a rock, With chasm-like portals open to the sea, And steps that met the breaker! there was none Stood near it but a lion on each side That kept the entry, and the moon was full. Then from the boat I leapt, and up the stairs. There drew my sword. With sudden-flaring manes Those two great beasts rose upright like a man, Each gript a shoulder, and I stood between; And, when I would have smitten them, heard a voice, 'Doubt not, go forward; if thou doubt, the beasts Will tear thee piecemeal.' Then with violence The sword was dashed from out my hand, and fell. And up into the sounding hall I past; But nothing in the sounding hall I saw, No bench nor table, painting on the wall Or shield of knight; only the rounded moon Through the tall oriel on the rolling sea. But always in the quiet house I heard, Clear as a lark, high o'er me as a lark, A sweet voice singing in the topmost tower To the eastward: up I climbed a thousand steps With pain: as in a dream I seemed to climb For ever: at the last I reached a door, A light was in the crannies, and I heard, 'Glory and joy and honour to our Lord And to the Holy Vessel of the Grail.' Then in my madness I essayed the door; It gave; and through a stormy glare, a heat As from a seventimes-heated furnace, I, Blasted and burnt, and blinded as I was, With such a fierceness that I swooned away-- O, yet methought I saw the Holy Grail, All palled in crimson samite, and around Great angels, awful shapes, and wings and eyes. And but for all my madness and my sin, And then my swooning, I had sworn I saw That which I saw; but what I saw was veiled And covered; and this Quest was not for me." 'So speaking, and here ceasing, Lancelot left The hall long silent, till Sir Gawain--nay, Brother, I need not tell thee foolish words,-- A reckless and irreverent knight was he, Now boldened by the silence of his King,-- Well, I will tell thee: "O King, my liege," he said, "Hath Gawain failed in any quest of thine? When have I stinted stroke in foughten field? But as for thine, my good friend Percivale, Thy holy nun and thou have driven men mad, Yea, made our mightiest madder than our least. But by mine eyes and by mine ears I swear, I will be deafer than the blue-eyed cat, And thrice as blind as any noonday owl, To holy virgins in their ecstasies, Henceforward." '"Deafer," said the blameless King, "Gawain, and blinder unto holy things Hope not to make thyself by idle vows, Being too blind to have desire to see. But if indeed there came a sign from heaven, Blessed are Bors, Lancelot and Percivale, For these have seen according to their sight. For every fiery prophet in old times, And all the sacred madness of the bard, When God made music through them, could but speak His music by the framework and the chord; And as ye saw it ye have spoken truth. '"Nay--but thou errest, Lancelot: never yet Could all of true and noble in knight and man Twine round one sin, whatever it might be, With such a closeness, but apart there grew, Save that he were the swine thou spakest of, Some root of knighthood and pure nobleness; Whereto see thou, that it may bear its flower. '"And spake I not too truly, O my knights? Was I too dark a prophet when I said To those who went upon the Holy Quest, That most of them would follow wandering fires, Lost in the quagmire?--lost to me and gone, And left me gazing at a barren board, And a lean Order--scarce returned a tithe-- And out of those to whom the vision came My greatest hardly will believe he saw; Another hath beheld it afar off, And leaving human wrongs to right themselves, Cares but to pass into the silent life. And one hath had the vision face to face, And now his chair desires him here in vain, However they may crown him otherwhere. '"And some among you held, that if the King Had seen the sight he would have sworn the vow: Not easily, seeing that the King must guard That which he rules, and is but as the hind To whom a space of land is given to plow. Who may not wander from the allotted field Before his work be done; but, being done, Let visions of the night or of the day Come, as they will; and many a time they come, Until this earth he walks on seems not earth, This light that strikes his eyeball is not light, This air that smites his forehead is not air But vision--yea, his very hand and foot-- In moments when he feels he cannot die, And knows himself no vision to himself, Nor the high God a vision, nor that One Who rose again: ye have seen what ye have seen." 'So spake the King: I knew not all he meant.' Pelleas and Ettarre King Arthur made new knights to fill the gap Left by the Holy Quest; and as he sat In hall at old Caerleon, the high doors Were softly sundered, and through these a youth, Pelleas, and the sweet smell of the fields Past, and the sunshine came along with him. 'Make me thy knight, because I know, Sir King, All that belongs to knighthood, and I love.' Such was his cry: for having heard the King Had let proclaim a tournament--the prize A golden circlet and a knightly sword, Full fain had Pelleas for his lady won The golden circlet, for himself the sword: And there were those who knew him near the King, And promised for him: and Arthur made him knight. And this new knight, Sir Pelleas of the isles-- But lately come to his inheritance, And lord of many a barren isle was he-- Riding at noon, a day or twain before, Across the forest called of Dean, to find Caerleon and the King, had felt the sun Beat like a strong knight on his helm, and reeled Almost to falling from his horse; but saw Near him a mound of even-sloping side, Whereon a hundred stately beeches grew, And here and there great hollies under them; But for a mile all round was open space, And fern and heath: and slowly Pelleas drew To that dim day, then binding his good horse To a tree, cast himself down; and as he lay At random looking over the brown earth Through that green-glooming twilight of the grove, It seemed to Pelleas that the fern without Burnt as a living fire of emeralds, So that his eyes were dazzled looking at it. Then o'er it crost the dimness of a cloud Floating, and once the shadow of a bird Flying, and then a fawn; and his eyes closed. And since he loved all maidens, but no maid In special, half-awake he whispered, 'Where? O where? I love thee, though I know thee not. For fair thou art and pure as Guinevere, And I will make thee with my spear and sword As famous--O my Queen, my Guinevere, For I will be thine Arthur when we meet.' Suddenly wakened with a sound of talk And laughter at the limit of the wood, And glancing through the hoary boles, he saw, Strange as to some old prophet might have seemed A vision hovering on a sea of fire, Damsels in divers colours like the cloud Of sunset and sunrise, and all of them On horses, and the horses richly trapt Breast-high in that bright line of bracken stood: And all the damsels talked confusedly, And one was pointing this way, and one that, Because the way was lost. And Pelleas rose, And loosed his horse, and led him to the light. There she that seemed the chief among them said, 'In happy time behold our pilot-star! Youth, we are damsels-errant, and we ride, Armed as ye see, to tilt against the knights There at Caerleon, but have lost our way: To right? to left? straight forward? back again? Which? tell us quickly.' Pelleas gazing thought, 'Is Guinevere herself so beautiful?' For large her violet eyes looked, and her bloom A rosy dawn kindled in stainless heavens, And round her limbs, mature in womanhood; And slender was her hand and small her shape; And but for those large eyes, the haunts of scorn, She might have seemed a toy to trifle with, And pass and care no more. But while he gazed The beauty of her flesh abashed the boy, As though it were the beauty of her soul: For as the base man, judging of the good, Puts his own baseness in him by default Of will and nature, so did Pelleas lend All the young beauty of his own soul to hers, Believing her; and when she spake to him, Stammered, and could not make her a reply. For out of the waste islands had he come, Where saving his own sisters he had known Scarce any but the women of his isles, Rough wives, that laughed and screamed against the gulls, Makers of nets, and living from the sea. Then with a slow smile turned the lady round And looked upon her people; and as when A stone is flung into some sleeping tarn, The circle widens till it lip the marge, Spread the slow smile through all her company. Three knights were thereamong; and they too smiled, Scorning him; for the lady was Ettarre, And she was a great lady in her land. Again she said, 'O wild and of the woods, Knowest thou not the fashion of our speech? Or have the Heavens but given thee a fair face, Lacking a tongue?' 'O damsel,' answered he, 'I woke from dreams; and coming out of gloom Was dazzled by the sudden light, and crave Pardon: but will ye to Caerleon? I Go likewise: shall I lead you to the King?' 'Lead then,' she said; and through the woods they went. And while they rode, the meaning in his eyes, His tenderness of manner, and chaste awe, His broken utterances and bashfulness, Were all a burthen to her, and in her heart She muttered, 'I have lighted on a fool, Raw, yet so stale!' But since her mind was bent On hearing, after trumpet blown, her name And title, 'Queen of Beauty,' in the lists Cried--and beholding him so strong, she thought That peradventure he will fight for me, And win the circlet: therefore flattered him, Being so gracious, that he wellnigh deemed His wish by hers was echoed; and her knights And all her damsels too were gracious to him, For she was a great lady. And when they reached Caerleon, ere they past to lodging, she, Taking his hand, 'O the strong hand,' she said, 'See! look at mine! but wilt thou fight for me, And win me this fine circlet, Pelleas, That I may love thee?' Then his helpless heart Leapt, and he cried, 'Ay! wilt thou if I win?' 'Ay, that will I,' she answered, and she laughed, And straitly nipt the hand, and flung it from her; Then glanced askew at those three knights of hers, Till all her ladies laughed along with her. 'O happy world,' thought Pelleas, 'all, meseems, Are happy; I the happiest of them all.' Nor slept that night for pleasure in his blood, And green wood-ways, and eyes among the leaves; Then being on the morrow knighted, sware To love one only. And as he came away, The men who met him rounded on their heels And wondered after him, because his face Shone like the countenance of a priest of old Against the flame about a sacrifice Kindled by fire from heaven: so glad was he. Then Arthur made vast banquets, and strange knights From the four winds came in: and each one sat, Though served with choice from air, land, stream, and sea, Oft in mid-banquet measuring with his eyes His neighbour's make and might: and Pelleas looked Noble among the noble, for he dreamed His lady loved him, and he knew himself Loved of the King: and him his new-made knight Worshipt, whose lightest whisper moved him more Than all the ranged reasons of the world. Then blushed and brake the morning of the jousts, And this was called 'The Tournament of Youth:' For Arthur, loving his young knight, withheld His older and his mightier from the lists, That Pelleas might obtain his lady's love, According to her promise, and remain Lord of the tourney. And Arthur had the jousts Down in the flat field by the shore of Usk Holden: the gilded parapets were crowned With faces, and the great tower filled with eyes Up to the summit, and the trumpets blew. There all day long Sir Pelleas kept the field With honour: so by that strong hand of his The sword and golden circlet were achieved. Then rang the shout his lady loved: the heat Of pride and glory fired her face; her eye Sparkled; she caught the circlet from his lance, And there before the people crowned herself: So for the last time she was gracious to him. Then at Caerleon for a space--her look Bright for all others, cloudier on her knight-- Lingered Ettarre: and seeing Pelleas droop, Said Guinevere, 'We marvel at thee much, O damsel, wearing this unsunny face To him who won thee glory!' And she said, 'Had ye not held your Lancelot in your bower, My Queen, he had not won.' Whereat the Queen, As one whose foot is bitten by an ant, Glanced down upon her, turned and went her way. But after, when her damsels, and herself, And those three knights all set their faces home, Sir Pelleas followed. She that saw him cried, 'Damsels--and yet I should be shamed to say it-- I cannot bide Sir Baby. Keep him back Among yourselves. Would rather that we had Some rough old knight who knew the worldly way, Albeit grizzlier than a bear, to ride And jest with: take him to you, keep him off, And pamper him with papmeat, if ye will, Old milky fables of the wolf and sheep, Such as the wholesome mothers tell their boys. Nay, should ye try him with a merry one To find his mettle, good: and if he fly us, Small matter! let him.' This her damsels heard, And mindful of her small and cruel hand, They, closing round him through the journey home, Acted her hest, and always from her side Restrained him with all manner of device, So that he could not come to speech with her. And when she gained her castle, upsprang the bridge, Down rang the grate of iron through the groove, And he was left alone in open field. 'These be the ways of ladies,' Pelleas thought, 'To those who love them, trials of our faith. Yea, let her prove me to the uttermost, For loyal to the uttermost am I.' So made his moan; and darkness falling, sought A priory not far off, there lodged, but rose With morning every day, and, moist or dry, Full-armed upon his charger all day long Sat by the walls, and no one opened to him. And this persistence turned her scorn to wrath. Then calling her three knights, she charged them, 'Out! And drive him from the walls.' And out they came But Pelleas overthrew them as they dashed Against him one by one; and these returned, But still he kept his watch beneath the wall. Thereon her wrath became a hate; and once, A week beyond, while walking on the walls With her three knights, she pointed downward, 'Look, He haunts me--I cannot breathe--besieges me; Down! strike him! put my hate into your strokes, And drive him from my walls.' And down they went, And Pelleas overthrew them one by one; And from the tower above him cried Ettarre, 'Bind him, and bring him in.' He heard her voice; Then let the strong hand, which had overthrown Her minion-knights, by those he overthrew Be bounden straight, and so they brought him in. Then when he came before Ettarre, the sight Of her rich beauty made him at one glance More bondsman in his heart than in his bonds. Yet with good cheer he spake, 'Behold me, Lady, A prisoner, and the vassal of thy will; And if thou keep me in thy donjon here, Content am I so that I see thy face But once a day: for I have sworn my vows, And thou hast given thy promise, and I know That all these pains are trials of my faith, And that thyself, when thou hast seen me strained And sifted to the utmost, wilt at length Yield me thy love and know me for thy knight.' Then she began to rail so bitterly, With all her damsels, he was stricken mute; But when she mocked his vows and the great King, Lighted on words: 'For pity of thine own self, Peace, Lady, peace: is he not thine and mine?' 'Thou fool,' she said, 'I never heard his voice But longed to break away. Unbind him now, And thrust him out of doors; for save he be Fool to the midmost marrow of his bones, He will return no more.' And those, her three, Laughed, and unbound, and thrust him from the gate. And after this, a week beyond, again She called them, saying, 'There he watches yet, There like a dog before his master's door! Kicked, he returns: do ye not hate him, ye? Ye know yourselves: how can ye bide at peace, Affronted with his fulsome innocence? Are ye but creatures of the board and bed, No men to strike? Fall on him all at once, And if ye slay him I reck not: if ye fail, Give ye the slave mine order to be bound, Bind him as heretofore, and bring him in: It may be ye shall slay him in his bonds.' She spake; and at her will they couched their spears, Three against one: and Gawain passing by, Bound upon solitary adventure, saw Low down beneath the shadow of those towers A villainy, three to one: and through his heart The fire of honour and all noble deeds Flashed, and he called, 'I strike upon thy side-- The caitiffs!' 'Nay,' said Pelleas, 'but forbear; He needs no aid who doth his lady's will.' So Gawain, looking at the villainy done, Forbore, but in his heat and eagerness Trembled and quivered, as the dog, withheld A moment from the vermin that he sees Before him, shivers, ere he springs and kills. And Pelleas overthrew them, one to three; And they rose up, and bound, and brought him in. Then first her anger, leaving Pelleas, burned Full on her knights in many an evil name Of craven, weakling, and thrice-beaten hound: 'Yet, take him, ye that scarce are fit to touch, Far less to bind, your victor, and thrust him out, And let who will release him from his bonds. And if he comes again'--there she brake short; And Pelleas answered, 'Lady, for indeed I loved you and I deemed you beautiful, I cannot brook to see your beauty marred Through evil spite: and if ye love me not, I cannot bear to dream you so forsworn: I had liefer ye were worthy of my love, Than to be loved again of you--farewell; And though ye kill my hope, not yet my love, Vex not yourself: ye will not see me more.' While thus he spake, she gazed upon the man Of princely bearing, though in bonds, and thought, 'Why have I pushed him from me? this man loves, If love there be: yet him I loved not. Why? I deemed him fool? yea, so? or that in him A something--was it nobler than myself? Seemed my reproach? He is not of my kind. He could not love me, did he know me well. Nay, let him go--and quickly.' And her knights Laughed not, but thrust him bounden out of door. Forth sprang Gawain, and loosed him from his bonds, And flung them o'er the walls; and afterward, Shaking his hands, as from a lazar's rag, 'Faith of my body,' he said, 'and art thou not-- Yea thou art he, whom late our Arthur made Knight of his table; yea and he that won The circlet? wherefore hast thou so defamed Thy brotherhood in me and all the rest, As let these caitiffs on thee work their will?' And Pelleas answered, 'O, their wills are hers For whom I won the circlet; and mine, hers, Thus to be bounden, so to see her face, Marred though it be with spite and mockery now, Other than when I found her in the woods; And though she hath me bounden but in spite, And all to flout me, when they bring me in, Let me be bounden, I shall see her face; Else must I die through mine unhappiness.' And Gawain answered kindly though in scorn, 'Why, let my lady bind me if she will, And let my lady beat me if she will: But an she send her delegate to thrall These fighting hands of mine--Christ kill me then But I will slice him handless by the wrist, And let my lady sear the stump for him, Howl as he may. But hold me for your friend: Come, ye know nothing: here I pledge my troth, Yea, by the honour of the Table Round, I will be leal to thee and work thy work, And tame thy jailing princess to thine hand. Lend me thine horse and arms, and I will say That I have slain thee. She will let me in To hear the manner of thy fight and fall; Then, when I come within her counsels, then From prime to vespers will I chant thy praise As prowest knight and truest lover, more Than any have sung thee living, till she long To have thee back in lusty life again, Not to be bound, save by white bonds and warm, Dearer than freedom. Wherefore now thy horse And armour: let me go: be comforted: Give me three days to melt her fancy, and hope The third night hence will bring thee news of gold.' Then Pelleas lent his horse and all his arms, Saving the goodly sword, his prize, and took Gawain's, and said, 'Betray me not, but help-- Art thou not he whom men call light-of-love?' 'Ay,' said Gawain, 'for women be so light.' Then bounded forward to the castle walls, And raised a bugle hanging from his neck, And winded it, and that so musically That all the old echoes hidden in the wall Rang out like hollow woods at hunting-tide. Up ran a score of damsels to the tower; 'Avaunt,' they cried, 'our lady loves thee not.' But Gawain lifting up his vizor said, 'Gawain am I, Gawain of Arthur's court, And I have slain this Pelleas whom ye hate: Behold his horse and armour. Open gates, And I will make you merry.' And down they ran, Her damsels, crying to their lady, 'Lo! Pelleas is dead--he told us--he that hath His horse and armour: will ye let him in? He slew him! Gawain, Gawain of the court, Sir Gawain--there he waits below the wall, Blowing his bugle as who should say him nay.' And so, leave given, straight on through open door Rode Gawain, whom she greeted courteously. 'Dead, is it so?' she asked. 'Ay, ay,' said he, 'And oft in dying cried upon your name.' 'Pity on him,' she answered, 'a good knight, But never let me bide one hour at peace.' 'Ay,' thought Gawain, 'and you be fair enow: But I to your dead man have given my troth, That whom ye loathe, him will I make you love.' So those three days, aimless about the land, Lost in a doubt, Pelleas wandering Waited, until the third night brought a moon With promise of large light on woods and ways. Hot was the night and silent; but a sound Of Gawain ever coming, and this lay-- Which Pelleas had heard sung before the Queen, And seen her sadden listening--vext his heart, And marred his rest--'A worm within the rose.' 'A rose, but one, none other rose had I, A rose, one rose, and this was wondrous fair, One rose, a rose that gladdened earth and sky, One rose, my rose, that sweetened all mine air-- I cared not for the thorns; the thorns were there. 'One rose, a rose to gather by and by, One rose, a rose, to gather and to wear, No rose but one--what other rose had I? One rose, my rose; a rose that will not die,-- He dies who loves it,--if the worm be there.' This tender rhyme, and evermore the doubt, 'Why lingers Gawain with his golden news?' So shook him that he could not rest, but rode Ere midnight to her walls, and bound his horse Hard by the gates. Wide open were the gates, And no watch kept; and in through these he past, And heard but his own steps, and his own heart Beating, for nothing moved but his own self, And his own shadow. Then he crost the court, And spied not any light in hall or bower, But saw the postern portal also wide Yawning; and up a slope of garden, all Of roses white and red, and brambles mixt And overgrowing them, went on, and found, Here too, all hushed below the mellow moon, Save that one rivulet from a tiny cave Came lightening downward, and so spilt itself Among the roses, and was lost again. Then was he ware of three pavilions reared Above the bushes, gilden-peakt: in one, Red after revel, droned her lurdane knights Slumbering, and their three squires across their feet: In one, their malice on the placid lip Frozen by sweet sleep, four of her damsels lay: And in the third, the circlet of the jousts Bound on her brow, were Gawain and Ettarre. Back, as a hand that pushes through the leaf To find a nest and feels a snake, he drew: Back, as a coward slinks from what he fears To cope with, or a traitor proven, or hound Beaten, did Pelleas in an utter shame Creep with his shadow through the court again, Fingering at his sword-handle until he stood There on the castle-bridge once more, and thought, 'I will go back, and slay them where they lie.' And so went back, and seeing them yet in sleep Said, 'Ye, that so dishallow the holy sleep, Your sleep is death,' and drew the sword, and thought, 'What! slay a sleeping knight? the King hath bound And sworn me to this brotherhood;' again, 'Alas that ever a knight should be so false.' Then turned, and so returned, and groaning laid The naked sword athwart their naked throats, There left it, and them sleeping; and she lay, The circlet of her tourney round her brows, And the sword of the tourney across her throat. And forth he past, and mounting on his horse Stared at her towers that, larger than themselves In their own darkness, thronged into the moon. Then crushed the saddle with his thighs, and clenched His hands, and maddened with himself and moaned: 'Would they have risen against me in their blood At the last day? I might have answered them Even before high God. O towers so strong, Huge, solid, would that even while I gaze The crack of earthquake shivering to your base Split you, and Hell burst up your harlot roofs Bellowing, and charred you through and through within, Black as the harlot's heart--hollow as a skull! Let the fierce east scream through your eyelet-holes, And whirl the dust of harlots round and round In dung and nettles! hiss, snake--I saw him there-- Let the fox bark, let the wolf yell. Who yells Here in the still sweet summer night, but I-- I, the poor Pelleas whom she called her fool? Fool, beast--he, she, or I? myself most fool; Beast too, as lacking human wit--disgraced, Dishonoured all for trial of true love-- Love?--we be all alike: only the King Hath made us fools and liars. O noble vows! O great and sane and simple race of brutes That own no lust because they have no law! For why should I have loved her to my shame? I loathe her, as I loved her to my shame. I never loved her, I but lusted for her-- Away--' He dashed the rowel into his horse, And bounded forth and vanished through the night. Then she, that felt the cold touch on her throat, Awaking knew the sword, and turned herself To Gawain: 'Liar, for thou hast not slain This Pelleas! here he stood, and might have slain Me and thyself.' And he that tells the tale Says that her ever-veering fancy turned To Pelleas, as the one true knight on earth, And only lover; and through her love her life Wasted and pined, desiring him in vain. But he by wild and way, for half the night, And over hard and soft, striking the sod From out the soft, the spark from off the hard, Rode till the star above the wakening sun, Beside that tower where Percivale was cowled, Glanced from the rosy forehead of the dawn. For so the words were flashed into his heart He knew not whence or wherefore: 'O sweet star, Pure on the virgin forehead of the dawn!' And there he would have wept, but felt his eyes Harder and drier than a fountain bed In summer: thither came the village girls And lingered talking, and they come no more Till the sweet heavens have filled it from the heights Again with living waters in the change Of seasons: hard his eyes; harder his heart Seemed; but so weary were his limbs, that he, Gasping, 'Of Arthur's hall am I, but here, Here let me rest and die,' cast himself down, And gulfed his griefs in inmost sleep; so lay, Till shaken by a dream, that Gawain fired The hall of Merlin, and the morning star Reeled in the smoke, brake into flame, and fell. He woke, and being ware of some one nigh, Sent hands upon him, as to tear him, crying, 'False! and I held thee pure as Guinevere.' But Percivale stood near him and replied, 'Am I but false as Guinevere is pure? Or art thou mazed with dreams? or being one Of our free-spoken Table hast not heard That Lancelot'--there he checked himself and paused. Then fared it with Sir Pelleas as with one Who gets a wound in battle, and the sword That made it plunges through the wound again, And pricks it deeper: and he shrank and wailed, 'Is the Queen false?' and Percivale was mute. 'Have any of our Round Table held their vows?' And Percivale made answer not a word. 'Is the King true?' 'The King!' said Percivale. 'Why then let men couple at once with wolves. What! art thou mad?' But Pelleas, leaping up, Ran through the doors and vaulted on his horse And fled: small pity upon his horse had he, Or on himself, or any, and when he met A cripple, one that held a hand for alms-- Hunched as he was, and like an old dwarf-elm That turns its back upon the salt blast, the boy Paused not, but overrode him, shouting, 'False, And false with Gawain!' and so left him bruised And battered, and fled on, and hill and wood Went ever streaming by him till the gloom, That follows on the turning of the world, Darkened the common path: he twitched the reins, And made his beast that better knew it, swerve Now off it and now on; but when he saw High up in heaven the hall that Merlin built, Blackening against the dead-green stripes of even, 'Black nest of rats,' he groaned, 'ye build too high.' Not long thereafter from the city gates Issued Sir Lancelot riding airily, Warm with a gracious parting from the Queen, Peace at his heart, and gazing at a star And marvelling what it was: on whom the boy, Across the silent seeded meadow-grass Borne, clashed: and Lancelot, saying, 'What name hast thou That ridest here so blindly and so hard?' 'No name, no name,' he shouted, 'a scourge am I To lash the treasons of the Table Round.' 'Yea, but thy name?' 'I have many names,' he cried: 'I am wrath and shame and hate and evil fame, And like a poisonous wind I pass to blast And blaze the crime of Lancelot and the Queen.' 'First over me,' said Lancelot, 'shalt thou pass.' 'Fight therefore,' yelled the youth, and either knight Drew back a space, and when they closed, at once The weary steed of Pelleas floundering flung His rider, who called out from the dark field, 'Thou art as false as Hell: slay me: I have no sword.' Then Lancelot, 'Yea, between thy lips--and sharp; But here I will disedge it by thy death.' 'Slay then,' he shrieked, 'my will is to be slain,' And Lancelot, with his heel upon the fallen, Rolling his eyes, a moment stood, then spake: 'Rise, weakling; I am Lancelot; say thy say.' And Lancelot slowly rode his warhorse back To Camelot, and Sir Pelleas in brief while Caught his unbroken limbs from the dark field, And followed to the city. It chanced that both Brake into hall together, worn and pale. There with her knights and dames was Guinevere. Full wonderingly she gazed on Lancelot So soon returned, and then on Pelleas, him Who had not greeted her, but cast himself Down on a bench, hard-breathing. 'Have ye fought?' She asked of Lancelot. 'Ay, my Queen,' he said. 'And hast thou overthrown him?' 'Ay, my Queen.' Then she, turning to Pelleas, 'O young knight, Hath the great heart of knighthood in thee failed So far thou canst not bide, unfrowardly, A fall from him?' Then, for he answered not, 'Or hast thou other griefs? If I, the Queen, May help them, loose thy tongue, and let me know.' But Pelleas lifted up an eye so fierce She quailed; and he, hissing 'I have no sword,' Sprang from the door into the dark. The Queen Looked hard upon her lover, he on her; And each foresaw the dolorous day to be: And all talk died, as in a grove all song Beneath the shadow of some bird of prey; Then a long silence came upon the hall, And Modred thought, 'The time is hard at hand.' The Last Tournament Dagonet, the fool, whom Gawain in his mood Had made mock-knight of Arthur's Table Round, At Camelot, high above the yellowing woods, Danced like a withered leaf before the hall. And toward him from the hall, with harp in hand, And from the crown thereof a carcanet Of ruby swaying to and fro, the prize Of Tristram in the jousts of yesterday, Came Tristram, saying, 'Why skip ye so, Sir Fool?' For Arthur and Sir Lancelot riding once Far down beneath a winding wall of rock Heard a child wail. A stump of oak half-dead, From roots like some black coil of carven snakes, Clutched at the crag, and started through mid air Bearing an eagle's nest: and through the tree Rushed ever a rainy wind, and through the wind Pierced ever a child's cry: and crag and tree Scaling, Sir Lancelot from the perilous nest, This ruby necklace thrice around her neck, And all unscarred from beak or talon, brought A maiden babe; which Arthur pitying took, Then gave it to his Queen to rear: the Queen But coldly acquiescing, in her white arms Received, and after loved it tenderly, And named it Nestling; so forgot herself A moment, and her cares; till that young life Being smitten in mid heaven with mortal cold Past from her; and in time the carcanet Vext her with plaintive memories of the child: So she, delivering it to Arthur, said, 'Take thou the jewels of this dead innocence, And make them, an thou wilt, a tourney-prize.' To whom the King, 'Peace to thine eagle-borne Dead nestling, and this honour after death, Following thy will! but, O my Queen, I muse Why ye not wear on arm, or neck, or zone Those diamonds that I rescued from the tarn, And Lancelot won, methought, for thee to wear.' 'Would rather you had let them fall,' she cried, 'Plunge and be lost--ill-fated as they were, A bitterness to me!--ye look amazed, Not knowing they were lost as soon as given-- Slid from my hands, when I was leaning out Above the river--that unhappy child Past in her barge: but rosier luck will go With these rich jewels, seeing that they came Not from the skeleton of a brother-slayer, But the sweet body of a maiden babe. Perchance--who knows?--the purest of thy knights May win them for the purest of my maids.' She ended, and the cry of a great jousts With trumpet-blowings ran on all the ways From Camelot in among the faded fields To furthest towers; and everywhere the knights Armed for a day of glory before the King. But on the hither side of that loud morn Into the hall staggered, his visage ribbed From ear to ear with dogwhip-weals, his nose Bridge-broken, one eye out, and one hand off, And one with shattered fingers dangling lame, A churl, to whom indignantly the King, 'My churl, for whom Christ died, what evil beast Hath drawn his claws athwart thy face? or fiend? Man was it who marred heaven's image in thee thus?' Then, sputtering through the hedge of splintered teeth, Yet strangers to the tongue, and with blunt stump Pitch-blackened sawing the air, said the maimed churl, 'He took them and he drave them to his tower-- Some hold he was a table-knight of thine-- A hundred goodly ones--the Red Knight, he-- Lord, I was tending swine, and the Red Knight Brake in upon me and drave them to his tower; And when I called upon thy name as one That doest right by gentle and by churl, Maimed me and mauled, and would outright have slain, Save that he sware me to a message, saying, "Tell thou the King and all his liars, that I Have founded my Round Table in the North, And whatsoever his own knights have sworn My knights have sworn the counter to it--and say My tower is full of harlots, like his court, But mine are worthier, seeing they profess To be none other than themselves--and say My knights are all adulterers like his own, But mine are truer, seeing they profess To be none other; and say his hour is come, The heathen are upon him, his long lance Broken, and his Excalibur a straw."' Then Arthur turned to Kay the seneschal, 'Take thou my churl, and tend him curiously Like a king's heir, till all his hurts be whole. The heathen--but that ever-climbing wave, Hurled back again so often in empty foam, Hath lain for years at rest--and renegades, Thieves, bandits, leavings of confusion, whom The wholesome realm is purged of otherwhere, Friends, through your manhood and your fealty,--now Make their last head like Satan in the North. My younger knights, new-made, in whom your flower Waits to be solid fruit of golden deeds, Move with me toward their quelling, which achieved, The loneliest ways are safe from shore to shore. But thou, Sir Lancelot, sitting in my place Enchaired tomorrow, arbitrate the field; For wherefore shouldst thou care to mingle with it, Only to yield my Queen her own again? Speak, Lancelot, thou art silent: is it well?' Thereto Sir Lancelot answered, 'It is well: Yet better if the King abide, and leave The leading of his younger knights to me. Else, for the King has willed it, it is well.' Then Arthur rose and Lancelot followed him, And while they stood without the doors, the King Turned to him saying, 'Is it then so well? Or mine the blame that oft I seem as he Of whom was written, "A sound is in his ears"? The foot that loiters, bidden go,--the glance That only seems half-loyal to command,-- A manner somewhat fallen from reverence-- Or have I dreamed the bearing of our knights Tells of a manhood ever less and lower? Or whence the fear lest this my realm, upreared, By noble deeds at one with noble vows, From flat confusion and brute violences, Reel back into the beast, and be no more?' He spoke, and taking all his younger knights, Down the slope city rode, and sharply turned North by the gate. In her high bower the Queen, Working a tapestry, lifted up her head, Watched her lord pass, and knew not that she sighed. Then ran across her memory the strange rhyme Of bygone Merlin, 'Where is he who knows? From the great deep to the great deep he goes.' But when the morning of a tournament, By these in earnest those in mockery called The Tournament of the Dead Innocence, Brake with a wet wind blowing, Lancelot, Round whose sick head all night, like birds of prey, The words of Arthur flying shrieked, arose, And down a streetway hung with folds of pure White samite, and by fountains running wine, Where children sat in white with cups of gold, Moved to the lists, and there, with slow sad steps Ascending, filled his double-dragoned chair. He glanced and saw the stately galleries, Dame, damsel, each through worship of their Queen White-robed in honour of the stainless child, And some with scattered jewels, like a bank Of maiden snow mingled with sparks of fire. He looked but once, and vailed his eyes again. The sudden trumpet sounded as in a dream To ears but half-awaked, then one low roll Of Autumn thunder, and the jousts began: And ever the wind blew, and yellowing leaf And gloom and gleam, and shower and shorn plume Went down it. Sighing weariedly, as one Who sits and gazes on a faded fire, When all the goodlier guests are past away, Sat their great umpire, looking o'er the lists. He saw the laws that ruled the tournament Broken, but spake not; once, a knight cast down Before his throne of arbitration cursed The dead babe and the follies of the King; And once the laces of a helmet cracked, And showed him, like a vermin in its hole, Modred, a narrow face: anon he heard The voice that billowed round the barriers roar An ocean-sounding welcome to one knight, But newly-entered, taller than the rest, And armoured all in forest green, whereon There tript a hundred tiny silver deer, And wearing but a holly-spray for crest, With ever-scattering berries, and on shield A spear, a harp, a bugle--Tristram--late From overseas in Brittany returned, And marriage with a princess of that realm, Isolt the White--Sir Tristram of the Woods-- Whom Lancelot knew, had held sometime with pain His own against him, and now yearned to shake The burthen off his heart in one full shock With Tristram even to death: his strong hands gript And dinted the gilt dragons right and left, Until he groaned for wrath--so many of those, That ware their ladies' colours on the casque, Drew from before Sir Tristram to the bounds, And there with gibes and flickering mockeries Stood, while he muttered, 'Craven crests! O shame! What faith have these in whom they sware to love? The glory of our Round Table is no more.' So Tristram won, and Lancelot gave, the gems, Not speaking other word than 'Hast thou won? Art thou the purest, brother? See, the hand Wherewith thou takest this, is red!' to whom Tristram, half plagued by Lancelot's languorous mood, Made answer, 'Ay, but wherefore toss me this Like a dry bone cast to some hungry hound? Lest be thy fair Queen's fantasy. Strength of heart And might of limb, but mainly use and skill, Are winners in this pastime of our King. My hand--belike the lance hath dript upon it-- No blood of mine, I trow; but O chief knight, Right arm of Arthur in the battlefield, Great brother, thou nor I have made the world; Be happy in thy fair Queen as I in mine.' And Tristram round the gallery made his horse Caracole; then bowed his homage, bluntly saying, 'Fair damsels, each to him who worships each Sole Queen of Beauty and of love, behold This day my Queen of Beauty is not here.' And most of these were mute, some angered, one Murmuring, 'All courtesy is dead,' and one, 'The glory of our Round Table is no more.' Then fell thick rain, plume droopt and mantle clung, And pettish cries awoke, and the wan day Went glooming down in wet and weariness: But under her black brows a swarthy one Laughed shrilly, crying, 'Praise the patient saints, Our one white day of Innocence hath past, Though somewhat draggled at the skirt. So be it. The snowdrop only, flowering through the year, Would make the world as blank as Winter-tide. Come--let us gladden their sad eyes, our Queen's And Lancelot's, at this night's solemnity With all the kindlier colours of the field.' So dame and damsel glittered at the feast Variously gay: for he that tells the tale Likened them, saying, as when an hour of cold Falls on the mountain in midsummer snows, And all the purple slopes of mountain flowers Pass under white, till the warm hour returns With veer of wind, and all are flowers again; So dame and damsel cast the simple white, And glowing in all colours, the live grass, Rose-campion, bluebell, kingcup, poppy, glanced About the revels, and with mirth so loud Beyond all use, that, half-amazed, the Queen, And wroth at Tristram and the lawless jousts, Brake up their sports, then slowly to her bower Parted, and in her bosom pain was lord. And little Dagonet on the morrow morn, High over all the yellowing Autumn-tide, Danced like a withered leaf before the hall. Then Tristram saying, 'Why skip ye so, Sir Fool?' Wheeled round on either heel, Dagonet replied, 'Belike for lack of wiser company; Or being fool, and seeing too much wit Makes the world rotten, why, belike I skip To know myself the wisest knight of all.' 'Ay, fool,' said Tristram, 'but 'tis eating dry To dance without a catch, a roundelay To dance to.' Then he twangled on his harp, And while he twangled little Dagonet stood Quiet as any water-sodden log Stayed in the wandering warble of a brook; But when the twangling ended, skipt again; And being asked, 'Why skipt ye not, Sir Fool?' Made answer, 'I had liefer twenty years Skip to the broken music of my brains Than any broken music thou canst make.' Then Tristram, waiting for the quip to come, 'Good now, what music have I broken, fool?' And little Dagonet, skipping, 'Arthur, the King's; For when thou playest that air with Queen Isolt, Thou makest broken music with thy bride, Her daintier namesake down in Brittany-- And so thou breakest Arthur's music too.' 'Save for that broken music in thy brains, Sir Fool,' said Tristram, 'I would break thy head. Fool, I came too late, the heathen wars were o'er, The life had flown, we sware but by the shell-- I am but a fool to reason with a fool-- Come, thou art crabbed and sour: but lean me down, Sir Dagonet, one of thy long asses' ears, And harken if my music be not true. '"Free love--free field--we love but while we may: The woods are hushed, their music is no more: The leaf is dead, the yearning past away: New leaf, new life--the days of frost are o'er: New life, new love, to suit the newer day: New loves are sweet as those that went before: Free love--free field--we love but while we may." 'Ye might have moved slow-measure to my tune, Not stood stockstill. I made it in the woods, And heard it ring as true as tested gold.' But Dagonet with one foot poised in his hand, 'Friend, did ye mark that fountain yesterday Made to run wine?--but this had run itself All out like a long life to a sour end-- And them that round it sat with golden cups To hand the wine to whosoever came-- The twelve small damosels white as Innocence, In honour of poor Innocence the babe, Who left the gems which Innocence the Queen Lent to the King, and Innocence the King Gave for a prize--and one of those white slips Handed her cup and piped, the pretty one, "Drink, drink, Sir Fool," and thereupon I drank, Spat--pish--the cup was gold, the draught was mud.' And Tristram, 'Was it muddier than thy gibes? Is all the laughter gone dead out of thee?-- Not marking how the knighthood mock thee, fool-- "Fear God: honour the King--his one true knight-- Sole follower of the vows"--for here be they Who knew thee swine enow before I came, Smuttier than blasted grain: but when the King Had made thee fool, thy vanity so shot up It frighted all free fool from out thy heart; Which left thee less than fool, and less than swine, A naked aught--yet swine I hold thee still, For I have flung thee pearls and find thee swine.' And little Dagonet mincing with his feet, 'Knight, an ye fling those rubies round my neck In lieu of hers, I'll hold thou hast some touch Of music, since I care not for thy pearls. Swine? I have wallowed, I have washed--the world Is flesh and shadow--I have had my day. The dirty nurse, Experience, in her kind Hath fouled me--an I wallowed, then I washed-- I have had my day and my philosophies-- And thank the Lord I am King Arthur's fool. Swine, say ye? swine, goats, asses, rams and geese Trooped round a Paynim harper once, who thrummed On such a wire as musically as thou Some such fine song--but never a king's fool.' And Tristram, 'Then were swine, goats, asses, geese The wiser fools, seeing thy Paynim bard Had such a mastery of his mystery That he could harp his wife up out of hell.' Then Dagonet, turning on the ball of his foot, 'And whither harp'st thou thine? down! and thyself Down! and two more: a helpful harper thou, That harpest downward! Dost thou know the star We call the harp of Arthur up in heaven?' And Tristram, 'Ay, Sir Fool, for when our King Was victor wellnigh day by day, the knights, Glorying in each new glory, set his name High on all hills, and in the signs of heaven.' And Dagonet answered, 'Ay, and when the land Was freed, and the Queen false, ye set yourself To babble about him, all to show your wit-- And whether he were King by courtesy, Or King by right--and so went harping down The black king's highway, got so far, and grew So witty that ye played at ducks and drakes With Arthur's vows on the great lake of fire. Tuwhoo! do ye see it? do ye see the star?' 'Nay, fool,' said Tristram, 'not in open day.' And Dagonet, 'Nay, nor will: I see it and hear. It makes a silent music up in heaven, And I, and Arthur and the angels hear, And then we skip.' 'Lo, fool,' he said, 'ye talk Fool's treason: is the King thy brother fool?' Then little Dagonet clapt his hands and shrilled, 'Ay, ay, my brother fool, the king of fools! Conceits himself as God that he can make Figs out of thistles, silk from bristles, milk From burning spurge, honey from hornet-combs, And men from beasts--Long live the king of fools!' And down the city Dagonet danced away; But through the slowly-mellowing avenues And solitary passes of the wood Rode Tristram toward Lyonnesse and the west. Before him fled the face of Queen Isolt With ruby-circled neck, but evermore Past, as a rustle or twitter in the wood Made dull his inner, keen his outer eye For all that walked, or crept, or perched, or flew. Anon the face, as, when a gust hath blown, Unruffling waters re-collect the shape Of one that in them sees himself, returned; But at the slot or fewmets of a deer, Or even a fallen feather, vanished again. So on for all that day from lawn to lawn Through many a league-long bower he rode. At length A lodge of intertwisted beechen-boughs Furze-crammed, and bracken-rooft, the which himself Built for a summer day with Queen Isolt Against a shower, dark in the golden grove Appearing, sent his fancy back to where She lived a moon in that low lodge with him: Till Mark her lord had past, the Cornish King, With six or seven, when Tristram was away, And snatched her thence; yet dreading worse than shame Her warrior Tristram, spake not any word, But bode his hour, devising wretchedness. And now that desert lodge to Tristram lookt So sweet, that halting, in he past, and sank Down on a drift of foliage random-blown; But could not rest for musing how to smoothe And sleek his marriage over to the Queen. Perchance in lone Tintagil far from all The tonguesters of the court she had not heard. But then what folly had sent him overseas After she left him lonely here? a name? Was it the name of one in Brittany, Isolt, the daughter of the King? 'Isolt Of the white hands' they called her: the sweet name Allured him first, and then the maid herself, Who served him well with those white hands of hers, And loved him well, until himself had thought He loved her also, wedded easily, But left her all as easily, and returned. The black-blue Irish hair and Irish eyes Had drawn him home--what marvel? then he laid His brows upon the drifted leaf and dreamed. He seemed to pace the strand of Brittany Between Isolt of Britain and his bride, And showed them both the ruby-chain, and both Began to struggle for it, till his Queen Graspt it so hard, that all her hand was red. Then cried the Breton, 'Look, her hand is red! These be no rubies, this is frozen blood, And melts within her hand--her hand is hot With ill desires, but this I gave thee, look, Is all as cool and white as any flower.' Followed a rush of eagle's wings, and then A whimpering of the spirit of the child, Because the twain had spoiled her carcanet. He dreamed; but Arthur with a hundred spears Rode far, till o'er the illimitable reed, And many a glancing plash and sallowy isle, The wide-winged sunset of the misty marsh Glared on a huge machicolated tower That stood with open doors, whereout was rolled A roar of riot, as from men secure Amid their marshes, ruffians at their ease Among their harlot-brides, an evil song. 'Lo there,' said one of Arthur's youth, for there, High on a grim dead tree before the tower, A goodly brother of the Table Round Swung by the neck: and on the boughs a shield Showing a shower of blood in a field noir, And therebeside a horn, inflamed the knights At that dishonour done the gilded spur, Till each would clash the shield, and blow the horn. But Arthur waved them back. Alone he rode. Then at the dry harsh roar of the great horn, That sent the face of all the marsh aloft An ever upward-rushing storm and cloud Of shriek and plume, the Red Knight heard, and all, Even to tipmost lance and topmost helm, In blood-red armour sallying, howled to the King, 'The teeth of Hell flay bare and gnash thee flat!-- Lo! art thou not that eunuch-hearted King Who fain had clipt free manhood from the world-- The woman-worshipper? Yea, God's curse, and I! Slain was the brother of my paramour By a knight of thine, and I that heard her whine And snivel, being eunuch-hearted too, Sware by the scorpion-worm that twists in hell, And stings itself to everlasting death, To hang whatever knight of thine I fought And tumbled. Art thou King? --Look to thy life!' He ended: Arthur knew the voice; the face Wellnigh was helmet-hidden, and the name Went wandering somewhere darkling in his mind. And Arthur deigned not use of word or sword, But let the drunkard, as he stretched from horse To strike him, overbalancing his bulk, Down from the causeway heavily to the swamp Fall, as the crest of some slow-arching wave, Heard in dead night along that table-shore, Drops flat, and after the great waters break Whitening for half a league, and thin themselves, Far over sands marbled with moon and cloud, From less and less to nothing; thus he fell Head-heavy; then the knights, who watched him, roared And shouted and leapt down upon the fallen; There trampled out his face from being known, And sank his head in mire, and slimed themselves: Nor heard the King for their own cries, but sprang Through open doors, and swording right and left Men, women, on their sodden faces, hurled The tables over and the wines, and slew Till all the rafters rang with woman-yells, And all the pavement streamed with massacre: Then, echoing yell with yell, they fired the tower, Which half that autumn night, like the live North, Red-pulsing up through Alioth and Alcor, Made all above it, and a hundred meres About it, as the water Moab saw Came round by the East, and out beyond them flushed The long low dune, and lazy-plunging sea. So all the ways were safe from shore to shore, But in the heart of Arthur pain was lord. Then, out of Tristram waking, the red dream Fled with a shout, and that low lodge returned, Mid-forest, and the wind among the boughs. He whistled his good warhorse left to graze Among the forest greens, vaulted upon him, And rode beneath an ever-showering leaf, Till one lone woman, weeping near a cross, Stayed him. 'Why weep ye?' 'Lord,' she said, 'my man Hath left me or is dead;' whereon he thought-- 'What, if she hate me now? I would not this. What, if she love me still? I would not that. I know not what I would'--but said to her, 'Yet weep not thou, lest, if thy mate return, He find thy favour changed and love thee not'-- Then pressing day by day through Lyonnesse Last in a roky hollow, belling, heard The hounds of Mark, and felt the goodly hounds Yelp at his heart, but turning, past and gained Tintagil, half in sea, and high on land, A crown of towers. Down in a casement sat, A low sea-sunset glorying round her hair And glossy-throated grace, Isolt the Queen. And when she heard the feet of Tristram grind The spiring stone that scaled about her tower, Flushed, started, met him at the doors, and there Belted his body with her white embrace, Crying aloud, 'Not Mark--not Mark, my soul! The footstep fluttered me at first: not he: Catlike through his own castle steals my Mark, But warrior-wise thou stridest through his halls Who hates thee, as I him--even to the death. My soul, I felt my hatred for my Mark Quicken within me, and knew that thou wert nigh.' To whom Sir Tristram smiling, 'I am here. Let be thy Mark, seeing he is not thine.' And drawing somewhat backward she replied, 'Can he be wronged who is not even his own, But save for dread of thee had beaten me, Scratched, bitten, blinded, marred me somehow--Mark? What rights are his that dare not strike for them? Not lift a hand--not, though he found me thus! But harken! have ye met him? hence he went Today for three days' hunting--as he said-- And so returns belike within an hour. Mark's way, my soul!--but eat not thou with Mark, Because he hates thee even more than fears; Nor drink: and when thou passest any wood Close vizor, lest an arrow from the bush Should leave me all alone with Mark and hell. My God, the measure of my hate for Mark Is as the measure of my love for thee.' So, plucked one way by hate and one by love, Drained of her force, again she sat, and spake To Tristram, as he knelt before her, saying, 'O hunter, and O blower of the horn, Harper, and thou hast been a rover too, For, ere I mated with my shambling king, Ye twain had fallen out about the bride Of one--his name is out of me--the prize, If prize she were--(what marvel--she could see)-- Thine, friend; and ever since my craven seeks To wreck thee villainously: but, O Sir Knight, What dame or damsel have ye kneeled to last?' And Tristram, 'Last to my Queen Paramount, Here now to my Queen Paramount of love And loveliness--ay, lovelier than when first Her light feet fell on our rough Lyonnesse, Sailing from Ireland.' Softly laughed Isolt; 'Flatter me not, for hath not our great Queen My dole of beauty trebled?' and he said, 'Her beauty is her beauty, and thine thine, And thine is more to me--soft, gracious, kind-- Save when thy Mark is kindled on thy lips Most gracious; but she, haughty, even to him, Lancelot; for I have seen him wan enow To make one doubt if ever the great Queen Have yielded him her love.' To whom Isolt, 'Ah then, false hunter and false harper, thou Who brakest through the scruple of my bond, Calling me thy white hind, and saying to me That Guinevere had sinned against the highest, And I--misyoked with such a want of man-- That I could hardly sin against the lowest.' He answered, 'O my soul, be comforted! If this be sweet, to sin in leading-strings, If here be comfort, and if ours be sin, Crowned warrant had we for the crowning sin That made us happy: but how ye greet me--fear And fault and doubt--no word of that fond tale-- Thy deep heart-yearnings, thy sweet memories Of Tristram in that year he was away.' And, saddening on the sudden, spake Isolt, 'I had forgotten all in my strong joy To see thee--yearnings?--ay! for, hour by hour, Here in the never-ended afternoon, O sweeter than all memories of thee, Deeper than any yearnings after thee Seemed those far-rolling, westward-smiling seas, Watched from this tower. Isolt of Britain dashed Before Isolt of Brittany on the strand, Would that have chilled her bride-kiss? Wedded her? Fought in her father's battles? wounded there? The King was all fulfilled with gratefulness, And she, my namesake of the hands, that healed Thy hurt and heart with unguent and caress-- Well--can I wish her any huger wrong Than having known thee? her too hast thou left To pine and waste in those sweet memories. O were I not my Mark's, by whom all men Are noble, I should hate thee more than love.' And Tristram, fondling her light hands, replied, 'Grace, Queen, for being loved: she loved me well. Did I love her? the name at least I loved. Isolt?--I fought his battles, for Isolt! The night was dark; the true star set. Isolt! The name was ruler of the dark--Isolt? Care not for her! patient, and prayerful, meek, Pale-blooded, she will yield herself to God.' And Isolt answered, 'Yea, and why not I? Mine is the larger need, who am not meek, Pale-blooded, prayerful. Let me tell thee now. Here one black, mute midsummer night I sat, Lonely, but musing on thee, wondering where, Murmuring a light song I had heard thee sing, And once or twice I spake thy name aloud. Then flashed a levin-brand; and near me stood, In fuming sulphur blue and green, a fiend-- Mark's way to steal behind one in the dark-- For there was Mark: "He has wedded her," he said, Not said, but hissed it: then this crown of towers So shook to such a roar of all the sky, That here in utter dark I swooned away, And woke again in utter dark, and cried, "I will flee hence and give myself to God"-- And thou wert lying in thy new leman's arms.' Then Tristram, ever dallying with her hand, 'May God be with thee, sweet, when old and gray, And past desire!' a saying that angered her. '"May God be with thee, sweet, when thou art old, And sweet no more to me!" I need Him now. For when had Lancelot uttered aught so gross Even to the swineherd's malkin in the mast? The greater man, the greater courtesy. Far other was the Tristram, Arthur's knight! But thou, through ever harrying thy wild beasts-- Save that to touch a harp, tilt with a lance Becomes thee well--art grown wild beast thyself. How darest thou, if lover, push me even In fancy from thy side, and set me far In the gray distance, half a life away, Her to be loved no more? Unsay it, unswear! Flatter me rather, seeing me so weak, Broken with Mark and hate and solitude, Thy marriage and mine own, that I should suck Lies like sweet wines: lie to me: I believe. Will ye not lie? not swear, as there ye kneel, And solemnly as when ye sware to him, The man of men, our King--My God, the power Was once in vows when men believed the King! They lied not then, who sware, and through their vows The King prevailing made his realm:--I say, Swear to me thou wilt love me even when old, Gray-haired, and past desire, and in despair.' Then Tristram, pacing moodily up and down, 'Vows! did you keep the vow you made to Mark More than I mine? Lied, say ye? Nay, but learnt, The vow that binds too strictly snaps itself-- My knighthood taught me this--ay, being snapt-- We run more counter to the soul thereof Than had we never sworn. I swear no more. I swore to the great King, and am forsworn. For once--even to the height--I honoured him. "Man, is he man at all?" methought, when first I rode from our rough Lyonnesse, and beheld That victor of the Pagan throned in hall-- His hair, a sun that rayed from off a brow Like hillsnow high in heaven, the steel-blue eyes, The golden beard that clothed his lips with light-- Moreover, that weird legend of his birth, With Merlin's mystic babble about his end Amazed me; then, his foot was on a stool Shaped as a dragon; he seemed to me no man, But Michael trampling Satan; so I sware, Being amazed: but this went by-- The vows! O ay--the wholesome madness of an hour-- They served their use, their time; for every knight Believed himself a greater than himself, And every follower eyed him as a God; Till he, being lifted up beyond himself, Did mightier deeds than elsewise he had done, And so the realm was made; but then their vows-- First mainly through that sullying of our Queen-- Began to gall the knighthood, asking whence Had Arthur right to bind them to himself? Dropt down from heaven? washed up from out the deep? They failed to trace him through the flesh and blood Of our old kings: whence then? a doubtful lord To bind them by inviolable vows, Which flesh and blood perforce would violate: For feel this arm of mine--the tide within Red with free chase and heather-scented air, Pulsing full man; can Arthur make me pure As any maiden child? lock up my tongue From uttering freely what I freely hear? Bind me to one? The wide world laughs at it. And worldling of the world am I, and know The ptarmigan that whitens ere his hour Woos his own end; we are not angels here Nor shall be: vows--I am woodman of the woods, And hear the garnet-headed yaffingale Mock them: my soul, we love but while we may; And therefore is my love so large for thee, Seeing it is not bounded save by love.' Here ending, he moved toward her, and she said, 'Good: an I turned away my love for thee To some one thrice as courteous as thyself-- For courtesy wins woman all as well As valour may, but he that closes both Is perfect, he is Lancelot--taller indeed, Rosier and comelier, thou--but say I loved This knightliest of all knights, and cast thee back Thine own small saw, "We love but while we may," Well then, what answer?' He that while she spake, Mindful of what he brought to adorn her with, The jewels, had let one finger lightly touch The warm white apple of her throat, replied, 'Press this a little closer, sweet, until-- Come, I am hungered and half-angered--meat, Wine, wine--and I will love thee to the death, And out beyond into the dream to come.' So then, when both were brought to full accord, She rose, and set before him all he willed; And after these had comforted the blood With meats and wines, and satiated their hearts-- Now talking of their woodland paradise, The deer, the dews, the fern, the founts, the lawns; Now mocking at the much ungainliness, And craven shifts, and long crane legs of Mark-- Then Tristram laughing caught the harp, and sang: 'Ay, ay, O ay--the winds that bend the brier! A star in heaven, a star within the mere! Ay, ay, O ay--a star was my desire, And one was far apart, and one was near: Ay, ay, O ay--the winds that bow the grass! And one was water and one star was fire, And one will ever shine and one will pass. Ay, ay, O ay--the winds that move the mere.' Then in the light's last glimmer Tristram showed And swung the ruby carcanet. She cried, 'The collar of some Order, which our King Hath newly founded, all for thee, my soul, For thee, to yield thee grace beyond thy peers.' 'Not so, my Queen,' he said, 'but the red fruit Grown on a magic oak-tree in mid-heaven, And won by Tristram as a tourney-prize, And hither brought by Tristram for his last Love-offering and peace-offering unto thee.' He spoke, he turned, then, flinging round her neck, Claspt it, and cried, 'Thine Order, O my Queen!' But, while he bowed to kiss the jewelled throat, Out of the dark, just as the lips had touched, Behind him rose a shadow and a shriek-- 'Mark's way,' said Mark, and clove him through the brain. That night came Arthur home, and while he climbed, All in a death-dumb autumn-dripping gloom, The stairway to the hall, and looked and saw The great Queen's bower was dark,--about his feet A voice clung sobbing till he questioned it, 'What art thou?' and the voice about his feet Sent up an answer, sobbing, 'I am thy fool, And I shall never make thee smile again.' Guinevere Queen Guinevere had fled the court, and sat There in the holy house at Almesbury Weeping, none with her save a little maid, A novice: one low light betwixt them burned Blurred by the creeping mist, for all abroad, Beneath a moon unseen albeit at full, The white mist, like a face-cloth to the face, Clung to the dead earth, and the land was still. For hither had she fled, her cause of flight Sir Modred; he that like a subtle beast Lay couchant with his eyes upon the throne, Ready to spring, waiting a chance: for this He chilled the popular praises of the King With silent smiles of slow disparagement; And tampered with the Lords of the White Horse, Heathen, the brood by Hengist left; and sought To make disruption in the Table Round Of Arthur, and to splinter it into feuds Serving his traitorous end; and all his aims Were sharpened by strong hate for Lancelot. For thus it chanced one morn when all the court, Green-suited, but with plumes that mocked the may, Had been, their wont, a-maying and returned, That Modred still in green, all ear and eye, Climbed to the high top of the garden-wall To spy some secret scandal if he might, And saw the Queen who sat betwixt her best Enid, and lissome Vivien, of her court The wiliest and the worst; and more than this He saw not, for Sir Lancelot passing by Spied where he couched, and as the gardener's hand Picks from the colewort a green caterpillar, So from the high wall and the flowering grove Of grasses Lancelot plucked him by the heel, And cast him as a worm upon the way; But when he knew the Prince though marred with dust, He, reverencing king's blood in a bad man, Made such excuses as he might, and these Full knightly without scorn; for in those days No knight of Arthur's noblest dealt in scorn; But, if a man were halt or hunched, in him By those whom God had made full-limbed and tall, Scorn was allowed as part of his defect, And he was answered softly by the King And all his Table. So Sir Lancelot holp To raise the Prince, who rising twice or thrice Full sharply smote his knees, and smiled, and went: But, ever after, the small violence done Rankled in him and ruffled all his heart, As the sharp wind that ruffles all day long A little bitter pool about a stone On the bare coast. But when Sir Lancelot told This matter to the Queen, at first she laughed Lightly, to think of Modred's dusty fall, Then shuddered, as the village wife who cries 'I shudder, some one steps across my grave;' Then laughed again, but faintlier, for indeed She half-foresaw that he, the subtle beast, Would track her guilt until he found, and hers Would be for evermore a name of scorn. Henceforward rarely could she front in hall, Or elsewhere, Modred's narrow foxy face, Heart-hiding smile, and gray persistent eye: Henceforward too, the Powers that tend the soul, To help it from the death that cannot die, And save it even in extremes, began To vex and plague her. Many a time for hours, Beside the placid breathings of the King, In the dead night, grim faces came and went Before her, or a vague spiritual fear-- Like to some doubtful noise of creaking doors, Heard by the watcher in a haunted house, That keeps the rust of murder on the walls-- Held her awake: or if she slept, she dreamed An awful dream; for then she seemed to stand On some vast plain before a setting sun, And from the sun there swiftly made at her A ghastly something, and its shadow flew Before it, till it touched her, and she turned-- When lo! her own, that broadening from her feet, And blackening, swallowed all the land, and in it Far cities burnt, and with a cry she woke. And all this trouble did not pass but grew; Till even the clear face of the guileless King, And trustful courtesies of household life, Became her bane; and at the last she said, 'O Lancelot, get thee hence to thine own land, For if thou tarry we shall meet again, And if we meet again, some evil chance Will make the smouldering scandal break and blaze Before the people, and our lord the King.' And Lancelot ever promised, but remained, And still they met and met. Again she said, 'O Lancelot, if thou love me get thee hence.' And then they were agreed upon a night (When the good King should not be there) to meet And part for ever. Vivien, lurking, heard. She told Sir Modred. Passion-pale they met And greeted. Hands in hands, and eye to eye, Low on the border of her couch they sat Stammering and staring. It was their last hour, A madness of farewells. And Modred brought His creatures to the basement of the tower For testimony; and crying with full voice 'Traitor, come out, ye are trapt at last,' aroused Lancelot, who rushing outward lionlike Leapt on him, and hurled him headlong, and he fell Stunned, and his creatures took and bare him off, And all was still: then she, 'The end is come, And I am shamed for ever;' and he said, 'Mine be the shame; mine was the sin: but rise, And fly to my strong castle overseas: There will I hide thee, till my life shall end, There hold thee with my life against the world.' She answered, 'Lancelot, wilt thou hold me so? Nay, friend, for we have taken our farewells. Would God that thou couldst hide me from myself! Mine is the shame, for I was wife, and thou Unwedded: yet rise now, and let us fly, For I will draw me into sanctuary, And bide my doom.' So Lancelot got her horse, Set her thereon, and mounted on his own, And then they rode to the divided way, There kissed, and parted weeping: for he past, Love-loyal to the least wish of the Queen, Back to his land; but she to Almesbury Fled all night long by glimmering waste and weald, And heard the Spirits of the waste and weald Moan as she fled, or thought she heard them moan: And in herself she moaned 'Too late, too late!' Till in the cold wind that foreruns the morn, A blot in heaven, the Raven, flying high, Croaked, and she thought, 'He spies a field of death; For now the Heathen of the Northern Sea, Lured by the crimes and frailties of the court, Begin to slay the folk, and spoil the land.' And when she came to Almesbury she spake There to the nuns, and said, 'Mine enemies Pursue me, but, O peaceful Sisterhood, Receive, and yield me sanctuary, nor ask Her name to whom ye yield it, till her time To tell you:' and her beauty, grace and power, Wrought as a charm upon them, and they spared To ask it. So the stately Queen abode For many a week, unknown, among the nuns; Nor with them mixed, nor told her name, nor sought, Wrapt in her grief, for housel or for shrift, But communed only with the little maid, Who pleased her with a babbling heedlessness Which often lured her from herself; but now, This night, a rumour wildly blown about Came, that Sir Modred had usurped the realm, And leagued him with the heathen, while the King Was waging war on Lancelot: then she thought, 'With what a hate the people and the King Must hate me,' and bowed down upon her hands Silent, until the little maid, who brooked No silence, brake it, uttering, 'Late! so late! What hour, I wonder, now?' and when she drew No answer, by and by began to hum An air the nuns had taught her; 'Late, so late!' Which when she heard, the Queen looked up, and said, 'O maiden, if indeed ye list to sing, Sing, and unbind my heart that I may weep.' Whereat full willingly sang the little maid. 'Late, late, so late! and dark the night and chill! Late, late, so late! but we can enter still. Too late, too late! ye cannot enter now. 'No light had we: for that we do repent; And learning this, the bridegroom will relent. Too late, too late! ye cannot enter now. 'No light: so late! and dark and chill the night! O let us in, that we may find the light! Too late, too late: ye cannot enter now. 'Have we not heard the bridegroom is so sweet? O let us in, though late, to kiss his feet! No, no, too late! ye cannot enter now.' So sang the novice, while full passionately, Her head upon her hands, remembering Her thought when first she came, wept the sad Queen. Then said the little novice prattling to her, 'O pray you, noble lady, weep no more; But let my words, the words of one so small, Who knowing nothing knows but to obey, And if I do not there is penance given-- Comfort your sorrows; for they do not flow From evil done; right sure am I of that, Who see your tender grace and stateliness. But weigh your sorrows with our lord the King's, And weighing find them less; for gone is he To wage grim war against Sir Lancelot there, Round that strong castle where he holds the Queen; And Modred whom he left in charge of all, The traitor--Ah sweet lady, the King's grief For his own self, and his own Queen, and realm, Must needs be thrice as great as any of ours. For me, I thank the saints, I am not great. For if there ever come a grief to me I cry my cry in silence, and have done. None knows it, and my tears have brought me good: But even were the griefs of little ones As great as those of great ones, yet this grief Is added to the griefs the great must bear, That howsoever much they may desire Silence, they cannot weep behind a cloud: As even here they talk at Almesbury About the good King and his wicked Queen, And were I such a King with such a Queen, Well might I wish to veil her wickedness, But were I such a King, it could not be.' Then to her own sad heart muttered the Queen, 'Will the child kill me with her innocent talk?' But openly she answered, 'Must not I, If this false traitor have displaced his lord, Grieve with the common grief of all the realm?' 'Yea,' said the maid, 'this is all woman's grief, That she is woman, whose disloyal life Hath wrought confusion in the Table Round Which good King Arthur founded, years ago, With signs and miracles and wonders, there At Camelot, ere the coming of the Queen.' Then thought the Queen within herself again, 'Will the child kill me with her foolish prate?' But openly she spake and said to her, 'O little maid, shut in by nunnery walls, What canst thou know of Kings and Tables Round, Or what of signs and wonders, but the signs And simple miracles of thy nunnery?' To whom the little novice garrulously, 'Yea, but I know: the land was full of signs And wonders ere the coming of the Queen. So said my father, and himself was knight Of the great Table--at the founding of it; And rode thereto from Lyonnesse, and he said That as he rode, an hour or maybe twain After the sunset, down the coast, he heard Strange music, and he paused, and turning--there, All down the lonely coast of Lyonnesse, Each with a beacon-star upon his head, And with a wild sea-light about his feet, He saw them--headland after headland flame Far on into the rich heart of the west: And in the light the white mermaiden swam, And strong man-breasted things stood from the sea, And sent a deep sea-voice through all the land, To which the little elves of chasm and cleft Made answer, sounding like a distant horn. So said my father--yea, and furthermore, Next morning, while he past the dim-lit woods, Himself beheld three spirits mad with joy Come dashing down on a tall wayside flower, That shook beneath them, as the thistle shakes When three gray linnets wrangle for the seed: And still at evenings on before his horse The flickering fairy-circle wheeled and broke Flying, and linked again, and wheeled and broke Flying, for all the land was full of life. And when at last he came to Camelot, A wreath of airy dancers hand-in-hand Swung round the lighted lantern of the hall; And in the hall itself was such a feast As never man had dreamed; for every knight Had whatsoever meat he longed for served By hands unseen; and even as he said Down in the cellars merry bloated things Shouldered the spigot, straddling on the butts While the wine ran: so glad were spirits and men Before the coming of the sinful Queen.' Then spake the Queen and somewhat bitterly, 'Were they so glad? ill prophets were they all, Spirits and men: could none of them foresee, Not even thy wise father with his signs And wonders, what has fallen upon the realm?' To whom the novice garrulously again, 'Yea, one, a bard; of whom my father said, Full many a noble war-song had he sung, Even in the presence of an enemy's fleet, Between the steep cliff and the coming wave; And many a mystic lay of life and death Had chanted on the smoky mountain-tops, When round him bent the spirits of the hills With all their dewy hair blown back like flame: So said my father--and that night the bard Sang Arthur's glorious wars, and sang the King As wellnigh more than man, and railed at those Who called him the false son of Gorlois: For there was no man knew from whence he came; But after tempest, when the long wave broke All down the thundering shores of Bude and Bos, There came a day as still as heaven, and then They found a naked child upon the sands Of dark Tintagil by the Cornish sea; And that was Arthur; and they fostered him Till he by miracle was approven King: And that his grave should be a mystery From all men, like his birth; and could he find A woman in her womanhood as great As he was in his manhood, then, he sang, The twain together well might change the world. But even in the middle of his song He faltered, and his hand fell from the harp, And pale he turned, and reeled, and would have fallen, But that they stayed him up; nor would he tell His vision; but what doubt that he foresaw This evil work of Lancelot and the Queen?' Then thought the Queen, 'Lo! they have set her on, Our simple-seeming Abbess and her nuns, To play upon me,' and bowed her head nor spake. Whereat the novice crying, with clasped hands, Shame on her own garrulity garrulously, Said the good nuns would check her gadding tongue Full often, 'and, sweet lady, if I seem To vex an ear too sad to listen to me, Unmannerly, with prattling and the tales Which my good father told me, check me too Nor let me shame my father's memory, one Of noblest manners, though himself would say Sir Lancelot had the noblest; and he died, Killed in a tilt, come next, five summers back, And left me; but of others who remain, And of the two first-famed for courtesy-- And pray you check me if I ask amiss-- But pray you, which had noblest, while you moved Among them, Lancelot or our lord the King?' Then the pale Queen looked up and answered her, 'Sir Lancelot, as became a noble knight, Was gracious to all ladies, and the same In open battle or the tilting-field Forbore his own advantage, and the King In open battle or the tilting-field Forbore his own advantage, and these two Were the most nobly-mannered men of all; For manners are not idle, but the fruit Of loyal nature, and of noble mind.' 'Yea,' said the maid, 'be manners such fair fruit?' Then Lancelot's needs must be a thousand-fold Less noble, being, as all rumour runs, The most disloyal friend in all the world.' To which a mournful answer made the Queen: 'O closed about by narrowing nunnery-walls, What knowest thou of the world, and all its lights And shadows, all the wealth and all the woe? If ever Lancelot, that most noble knight, Were for one hour less noble than himself, Pray for him that he scape the doom of fire, And weep for her that drew him to his doom.' 'Yea,' said the little novice, 'I pray for both; But I should all as soon believe that his, Sir Lancelot's, were as noble as the King's, As I could think, sweet lady, yours would be Such as they are, were you the sinful Queen.' So she, like many another babbler, hurt Whom she would soothe, and harmed where she would heal; For here a sudden flush of wrathful heat Fired all the pale face of the Queen, who cried, 'Such as thou art be never maiden more For ever! thou their tool, set on to plague And play upon, and harry me, petty spy And traitress.' When that storm of anger brake From Guinevere, aghast the maiden rose, White as her veil, and stood before the Queen As tremulously as foam upon the beach Stands in a wind, ready to break and fly, And when the Queen had added 'Get thee hence,' Fled frighted. Then that other left alone Sighed, and began to gather heart again, Saying in herself, 'The simple, fearful child Meant nothing, but my own too-fearful guilt, Simpler than any child, betrays itself. But help me, heaven, for surely I repent. For what is true repentance but in thought-- Not even in inmost thought to think again The sins that made the past so pleasant to us: And I have sworn never to see him more, To see him more.' And even in saying this, Her memory from old habit of the mind Went slipping back upon the golden days In which she saw him first, when Lancelot came, Reputed the best knight and goodliest man, Ambassador, to lead her to his lord Arthur, and led her forth, and far ahead Of his and her retinue moving, they, Rapt in sweet talk or lively, all on love And sport and tilts and pleasure, (for the time Was maytime, and as yet no sin was dreamed,) Rode under groves that looked a paradise Of blossom, over sheets of hyacinth That seemed the heavens upbreaking through the earth, And on from hill to hill, and every day Beheld at noon in some delicious dale The silk pavilions of King Arthur raised For brief repast or afternoon repose By couriers gone before; and on again, Till yet once more ere set of sun they saw The Dragon of the great Pendragonship, That crowned the state pavilion of the King, Blaze by the rushing brook or silent well. But when the Queen immersed in such a trance, And moving through the past unconsciously, Came to that point where first she saw the King Ride toward her from the city, sighed to find Her journey done, glanced at him, thought him cold, High, self-contained, and passionless, not like him, 'Not like my Lancelot'--while she brooded thus And grew half-guilty in her thoughts again, There rode an armed warrior to the doors. A murmuring whisper through the nunnery ran, Then on a sudden a cry, 'The King.' She sat Stiff-stricken, listening; but when armed feet Through the long gallery from the outer doors Rang coming, prone from off her seat she fell, And grovelled with her face against the floor: There with her milkwhite arms and shadowy hair She made her face a darkness from the King: And in the darkness heard his armed feet Pause by her; then came silence, then a voice, Monotonous and hollow like a Ghost's Denouncing judgment, but though changed, the King's: 'Liest thou here so low, the child of one I honoured, happy, dead before thy shame? Well is it that no child is born of thee. The children born of thee are sword and fire, Red ruin, and the breaking up of laws, The craft of kindred and the Godless hosts Of heathen swarming o'er the Northern Sea; Whom I, while yet Sir Lancelot, my right arm, The mightiest of my knights, abode with me, Have everywhere about this land of Christ In twelve great battles ruining overthrown. And knowest thou now from whence I come--from him From waging bitter war with him: and he, That did not shun to smite me in worse way, Had yet that grace of courtesy in him left, He spared to lift his hand against the King Who made him knight: but many a knight was slain; And many more, and all his kith and kin Clave to him, and abode in his own land. And many more when Modred raised revolt, Forgetful of their troth and fealty, clave To Modred, and a remnant stays with me. And of this remnant will I leave a part, True men who love me still, for whom I live, To guard thee in the wild hour coming on, Lest but a hair of this low head be harmed. Fear not: thou shalt be guarded till my death. Howbeit I know, if ancient prophecies Have erred not, that I march to meet my doom. Thou hast not made my life so sweet to me, That I the King should greatly care to live; For thou hast spoilt the purpose of my life. Bear with me for the last time while I show, Even for thy sake, the sin which thou hast sinned. For when the Roman left us, and their law Relaxed its hold upon us, and the ways Were filled with rapine, here and there a deed Of prowess done redressed a random wrong. But I was first of all the kings who drew The knighthood-errant of this realm and all The realms together under me, their Head, In that fair Order of my Table Round, A glorious company, the flower of men, To serve as model for the mighty world, And be the fair beginning of a time. I made them lay their hands in mine and swear To reverence the King, as if he were Their conscience, and their conscience as their King, To break the heathen and uphold the Christ, To ride abroad redressing human wrongs, To speak no slander, no, nor listen to it, To honour his own word as if his God's, To lead sweet lives in purest chastity, To love one maiden only, cleave to her, And worship her by years of noble deeds, Until they won her; for indeed I knew Of no more subtle master under heaven Than is the maiden passion for a maid, Not only to keep down the base in man, But teach high thought, and amiable words And courtliness, and the desire of fame, And love of truth, and all that makes a man. And all this throve before I wedded thee, Believing, "lo mine helpmate, one to feel My purpose and rejoicing in my joy." Then came thy shameful sin with Lancelot; Then came the sin of Tristram and Isolt; Then others, following these my mightiest knights, And drawing foul ensample from fair names, Sinned also, till the loathsome opposite Of all my heart had destined did obtain, And all through thee! so that this life of mine I guard as God's high gift from scathe and wrong, Not greatly care to lose; but rather think How sad it were for Arthur, should he live, To sit once more within his lonely hall, And miss the wonted number of my knights, And miss to hear high talk of noble deeds As in the golden days before thy sin. For which of us, who might be left, could speak Of the pure heart, nor seem to glance at thee? And in thy bowers of Camelot or of Usk Thy shadow still would glide from room to room, And I should evermore be vext with thee In hanging robe or vacant ornament, Or ghostly footfall echoing on the stair. For think not, though thou wouldst not love thy lord, Thy lord hast wholly lost his love for thee. I am not made of so slight elements. Yet must I leave thee, woman, to thy shame. I hold that man the worst of public foes Who either for his own or children's sake, To save his blood from scandal, lets the wife Whom he knows false, abide and rule the house: For being through his cowardice allowed Her station, taken everywhere for pure, She like a new disease, unknown to men, Creeps, no precaution used, among the crowd, Makes wicked lightnings of her eyes, and saps The fealty of our friends, and stirs the pulse With devil's leaps, and poisons half the young. Worst of the worst were that man he that reigns! Better the King's waste hearth and aching heart Than thou reseated in thy place of light, The mockery of my people, and their bane.' He paused, and in the pause she crept an inch Nearer, and laid her hands about his feet. Far off a solitary trumpet blew. Then waiting by the doors the warhorse neighed At a friend's voice, and he spake again: 'Yet think not that I come to urge thy crimes, I did not come to curse thee, Guinevere, I, whose vast pity almost makes me die To see thee, laying there thy golden head, My pride in happier summers, at my feet. The wrath which forced my thoughts on that fierce law, The doom of treason and the flaming death, (When first I learnt thee hidden here) is past. The pang--which while I weighed thy heart with one Too wholly true to dream untruth in thee, Made my tears burn--is also past--in part. And all is past, the sin is sinned, and I, Lo! I forgive thee, as Eternal God Forgives: do thou for thine own soul the rest. But how to take last leave of all I loved? O golden hair, with which I used to play Not knowing! O imperial-moulded form, And beauty such as never woman wore, Until it became a kingdom's curse with thee-- I cannot touch thy lips, they are not mine, But Lancelot's: nay, they never were the King's. I cannot take thy hand: that too is flesh, And in the flesh thou hast sinned; and mine own flesh, Here looking down on thine polluted, cries "I loathe thee:" yet not less, O Guinevere, For I was ever virgin save for thee, My love through flesh hath wrought into my life So far, that my doom is, I love thee still. Let no man dream but that I love thee still. Perchance, and so thou purify thy soul, And so thou lean on our fair father Christ, Hereafter in that world where all are pure We two may meet before high God, and thou Wilt spring to me, and claim me thine, and know I am thine husband--not a smaller soul, Nor Lancelot, nor another. Leave me that, I charge thee, my last hope. Now must I hence. Through the thick night I hear the trumpet blow: They summon me their King to lead mine hosts Far down to that great battle in the west, Where I must strike against the man they call My sister's son--no kin of mine, who leagues With Lords of the White Horse, heathen, and knights, Traitors--and strike him dead, and meet myself Death, or I know not what mysterious doom. And thou remaining here wilt learn the event; But hither shall I never come again, Never lie by thy side; see thee no more-- Farewell!' And while she grovelled at his feet, She felt the King's breath wander o'er her neck, And in the darkness o'er her fallen head, Perceived the waving of his hands that blest. Then, listening till those armed steps were gone, Rose the pale Queen, and in her anguish found The casement: 'peradventure,' so she thought, 'If I might see his face, and not be seen.' And lo, he sat on horseback at the door! And near him the sad nuns with each a light Stood, and he gave them charge about the Queen, To guard and foster her for evermore. And while he spake to these his helm was lowered, To which for crest the golden dragon clung Of Britain; so she did not see the face, Which then was as an angel's, but she saw, Wet with the mists and smitten by the lights, The Dragon of the great Pendragonship Blaze, making all the night a steam of fire. And even then he turned; and more and more The moony vapour rolling round the King, Who seemed the phantom of a Giant in it, Enwound him fold by fold, and made him gray And grayer, till himself became as mist Before her, moving ghostlike to his doom. Then she stretched out her arms and cried aloud 'Oh Arthur!' there her voice brake suddenly, Then--as a stream that spouting from a cliff Fails in mid air, but gathering at the base Re-makes itself, and flashes down the vale-- Went on in passionate utterance: 'Gone--my lord! Gone through my sin to slay and to be slain! And he forgave me, and I could not speak. Farewell? I should have answered his farewell. His mercy choked me. Gone, my lord the King, My own true lord! how dare I call him mine? The shadow of another cleaves to me, And makes me one pollution: he, the King, Called me polluted: shall I kill myself? What help in that? I cannot kill my sin, If soul be soul; nor can I kill my shame; No, nor by living can I live it down. The days will grow to weeks, the weeks to months The months will add themselves and make the years, The years will roll into the centuries, And mine will ever be a name of scorn. I must not dwell on that defeat of fame. Let the world be; that is but of the world. What else? what hope? I think there was a hope, Except he mocked me when he spake of hope; His hope he called it; but he never mocks, For mockery is the fume of little hearts. And blessed be the King, who hath forgiven My wickedness to him, and left me hope That in mine own heart I can live down sin And be his mate hereafter in the heavens Before high God. Ah great and gentle lord, Who wast, as is the conscience of a saint Among his warring senses, to thy knights-- To whom my false voluptuous pride, that took Full easily all impressions from below, Would not look up, or half-despised the height To which I would not or I could not climb-- I thought I could not breathe in that fine air That pure severity of perfect light-- I yearned for warmth and colour which I found In Lancelot--now I see thee what thou art, Thou art the highest and most human too, Not Lancelot, nor another. Is there none Will tell the King I love him though so late? Now--ere he goes to the great Battle? none: Myself must tell him in that purer life, But now it were too daring. Ah my God, What might I not have made of thy fair world, Had I but loved thy highest creature here? It was my duty to have loved the highest: It surely was my profit had I known: It would have been my pleasure had I seen. We needs must love the highest when we see it, Not Lancelot, nor another.' Here her hand Grasped, made her vail her eyes: she looked and saw The novice, weeping, suppliant, and said to her, 'Yea, little maid, for am I not forgiven?' Then glancing up beheld the holy nuns All round her, weeping; and her heart was loosed Within her, and she wept with these and said, 'Ye know me then, that wicked one, who broke The vast design and purpose of the King. O shut me round with narrowing nunnery-walls, Meek maidens, from the voices crying "shame." I must not scorn myself: he loves me still. Let no one dream but that he loves me still. So let me, if you do not shudder at me, Nor shun to call me sister, dwell with you; Wear black and white, and be a nun like you, Fast with your fasts, not feasting with your feasts; Grieve with your griefs, not grieving at your joys, But not rejoicing; mingle with your rites; Pray and be prayed for; lie before your shrines; Do each low office of your holy house; Walk your dim cloister, and distribute dole To poor sick people, richer in His eyes Who ransomed us, and haler too than I; And treat their loathsome hurts and heal mine own; And so wear out in almsdeed and in prayer The sombre close of that voluptuous day, Which wrought the ruin of my lord the King.' She said: they took her to themselves; and she Still hoping, fearing 'is it yet too late?' Dwelt with them, till in time their Abbess died. Then she, for her good deeds and her pure life, And for the power of ministration in her, And likewise for the high rank she had borne, Was chosen Abbess, there, an Abbess, lived For three brief years, and there, an Abbess, past To where beyond these voices there is peace. The Passing of Arthur That story which the bold Sir Bedivere, First made and latest left of all the knights, Told, when the man was no more than a voice In the white winter of his age, to those With whom he dwelt, new faces, other minds. For on their march to westward, Bedivere, Who slowly paced among the slumbering host, Heard in his tent the moanings of the King: 'I found Him in the shining of the stars, I marked Him in the flowering of His fields, But in His ways with men I find Him not. I waged His wars, and now I pass and die. O me! for why is all around us here As if some lesser god had made the world, But had not force to shape it as he would, Till the High God behold it from beyond, And enter it, and make it beautiful? Or else as if the world were wholly fair, But that these eyes of men are dense and dim, And have not power to see it as it is: Perchance, because we see not to the close;-- For I, being simple, thought to work His will, And have but stricken with the sword in vain; And all whereon I leaned in wife and friend Is traitor to my peace, and all my realm Reels back into the beast, and is no more. My God, thou hast forgotten me in my death; Nay--God my Christ--I pass but shall not die.' Then, ere that last weird battle in the west, There came on Arthur sleeping, Gawain killed In Lancelot's war, the ghost of Gawain blown Along a wandering wind, and past his ear Went shrilling, 'Hollow, hollow all delight! Hail, King! tomorrow thou shalt pass away. Farewell! there is an isle of rest for thee. And I am blown along a wandering wind, And hollow, hollow, hollow all delight.' And fainter onward, like wild birds that change Their season in the night and wail their way From cloud to cloud, down the long wind the dream Shrilled; but in going mingled with dim cries Far in the moonlit haze among the hills, As of some lonely city sacked by night, When all is lost, and wife and child with wail Pass to new lords; and Arthur woke and called, 'Who spake? A dream. O light upon the wind, Thine, Gawain, was the voice--are these dim cries Thine? or doth all that haunts the waste and wild Mourn, knowing it will go along with me?' This heard the bold Sir Bedivere and spake: 'O me, my King, let pass whatever will, Elves, and the harmless glamour of the field; But in their stead thy name and glory cling To all high places like a golden cloud For ever: but as yet thou shalt not pass. Light was Gawain in life, and light in death Is Gawain, for the ghost is as the man; And care not thou for dreams from him, but rise-- I hear the steps of Modred in the west, And with him many of thy people, and knights Once thine, whom thou hast loved, but grosser grown Than heathen, spitting at their vows and thee. Right well in heart they know thee for the King. Arise, go forth and conquer as of old.' Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere: 'Far other is this battle in the west Whereto we move, than when we strove in youth, And brake the petty kings, and fought with Rome, Or thrust the heathen from the Roman wall, And shook him through the north. Ill doom is mine To war against my people and my knights. The king who fights his people fights himself. And they my knights, who loved me once, the stroke That strikes them dead is as my death to me. Yet let us hence, and find or feel a way Through this blind haze, which ever since I saw One lying in the dust at Almesbury, Hath folded in the passes of the world.' Then rose the King and moved his host by night, And ever pushed Sir Modred, league by league, Back to the sunset bound of Lyonnesse-- A land of old upheaven from the abyss By fire, to sink into the abyss again; Where fragments of forgotten peoples dwelt, And the long mountains ended in a coast Of ever-shifting sand, and far away The phantom circle of a moaning sea. There the pursuer could pursue no more, And he that fled no further fly the King; And there, that day when the great light of heaven Burned at his lowest in the rolling year, On the waste sand by the waste sea they closed. Nor ever yet had Arthur fought a fight Like this last, dim, weird battle of the west. A deathwhite mist slept over sand and sea: Whereof the chill, to him who breathed it, drew Down with his blood, till all his heart was cold With formless fear; and even on Arthur fell Confusion, since he saw not whom he fought. For friend and foe were shadows in the mist, And friend slew friend not knowing whom he slew; And some had visions out of golden youth, And some beheld the faces of old ghosts Look in upon the battle; and in the mist Was many a noble deed, many a base, And chance and craft and strength in single fights, And ever and anon with host to host Shocks, and the splintering spear, the hard mail hewn, Shield-breakings, and the clash of brands, the crash Of battleaxes on shattered helms, and shrieks After the Christ, of those who falling down Looked up for heaven, and only saw the mist; And shouts of heathen and the traitor knights, Oaths, insults, filth, and monstrous blasphemies, Sweat, writhings, anguish, labouring of the lungs In that close mist, and cryings for the light, Moans of the dying, and voices of the dead. Last, as by some one deathbed after wail Of suffering, silence follows, or through death Or deathlike swoon, thus over all that shore, Save for some whisper of the seething seas, A dead hush fell; but when the dolorous day Grew drearier toward twilight falling, came A bitter wind, clear from the North, and blew The mist aside, and with that wind the tide Rose, and the pale King glanced across the field Of battle: but no man was moving there; Nor any cry of Christian heard thereon, Nor yet of heathen; only the wan wave Brake in among dead faces, to and fro Swaying the helpless hands, and up and down Tumbling the hollow helmets of the fallen, And shivered brands that once had fought with Rome, And rolling far along the gloomy shores The voice of days of old and days to be. Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere, And whiter than the mist that all day long Had held the field of battle was the King: 'Hearest thou this great voice that shakes the world, And wastes the narrow realm whereon we move, And beats upon the faces of the dead, My dead, as though they had not died for me?-- O Bedivere, for on my heart hath fallen Confusion, till I know not what I am, Nor whence I am, nor whether I be King. Behold, I seem but King among the dead.' Then spake the bold Sir Bedivere: 'My King, King everywhere! and so the dead have kings, There also will I worship thee as King. Yet still thy life is whole, and still I live Who love thee; but who hates thee, he that brought The heathen back among us, yonder stands, Modred, unharmed, the traitor of thine house.' Then spake the King: 'My house hath been my doom. But call not thou this traitor of my house Who hath but dwelt beneath one roof with me. My house are rather they who sware my vows, Yea, even while they brake them, owned me King. And well for thee, saying in my dark hour, When all the purport of my throne hath failed, That quick or dead thou holdest me for King. King am I, whatsoever be their cry; And one last act of kinghood shalt thou see Yet, ere I pass.' And uttering this the King Made at the man: then Modred smote his liege Hard on that helm which many a heathen sword Had beaten thin; while Arthur at one blow, Striking the last stroke with Excalibur, Slew him, and all but slain himself, he fell. So all day long the noise of battle rolled Among the mountains by the winter sea; Until King Arthur's Table, man by man, Had fallen in Lyonnesse about their lord, King Arthur. Then, because his wound was deep, The bold Sir Bedivere uplifted him, And bore him to a chapel nigh the field, A broken chancel with a broken cross, That stood on a dark strait of barren land: On one side lay the Ocean, and on one Lay a great water, and the moon was full. Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere: 'The sequel of today unsolders all The goodliest fellowship of famous knights Whereof this world holds record. Such a sleep They sleep--the men I loved. I think that we Shall never more, at any future time, Delight our souls with talk of knightly deeds, Walking about the gardens and the halls Of Camelot, as in the days that were. I perish by this people which I made,-- Though Merlin sware that I should come again To rule once more; but, let what will be, be, I am so deeply smitten through the helm That without help I cannot last till morn. Thou therefore take my brand Excalibur, Which was my pride: for thou rememberest how In those old days, one summer noon, an arm Rose up from out the bosom of the lake, Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful, Holding the sword--and how I rowed across And took it, and have worn it, like a king; And, wheresoever I am sung or told In aftertime, this also shall be known: But now delay not: take Excalibur, And fling him far into the middle mere: Watch what thou seest, and lightly bring me word.' To him replied the bold Sir Bedivere: 'It is not meet, Sir King, to leave thee thus, Aidless, alone, and smitten through the helm-- A little thing may harm a wounded man; Yet I thy hest will all perform at full, Watch what I see, and lightly bring thee word.' So saying, from the ruined shrine he stept, And in the moon athwart the place of tombs, Where lay the mighty bones of ancient men, Old knights, and over them the sea-wind sang Shrill, chill, with flakes of foam. He, stepping down By zigzag paths, and juts of pointed rock, Came on the shining levels of the lake. There drew he forth the brand Excalibur, And o'er him, drawing it, the winter moon, Brightening the skirts of a long cloud, ran forth And sparkled keen with frost against the hilt: For all the haft twinkled with diamond sparks, Myriads of topaz-lights, and jacinth-work Of subtlest jewellery. He gazed so long That both his eyes were dazzled as he stood, This way and that dividing the swift mind, In act to throw: but at the last it seemed Better to leave Excalibur concealed There in the many-knotted waterflags, That whistled stiff and dry about the marge. So strode he back slow to the wounded King. Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere: 'Hast thou performed my mission which I gave? What is it thou hast seen? or what hast heard?' And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere: 'I heard the ripple washing in the reeds, And the wild water lapping on the crag.' To whom replied King Arthur, faint and pale: 'Thou hast betrayed thy nature and thy name, Not rendering true answer, as beseemed Thy fealty, nor like a noble knight: For surer sign had followed, either hand, Or voice, or else a motion of the mere. This is a shameful thing for men to lie. Yet now, I charge thee, quickly go again, As thou art lief and dear, and do the thing I bade thee, watch, and lightly bring me word.' Then went Sir Bedivere the second time Across the ridge, and paced beside the mere, Counting the dewy pebbles, fixed in thought; But when he saw the wonder of the hilt, How curiously and strangely chased, he smote His palms together, and he cried aloud: 'And if indeed I cast the brand away, Surely a precious thing, one worthy note, Should thus be lost for ever from the earth, Which might have pleased the eyes of many men. What good should follow this, if this were done? What harm, undone? Deep harm to disobey, Seeing obedience is the bond of rule. Were it well to obey then, if a king demand An act unprofitable, against himself? The King is sick, and knows not what he does. What record, or what relic of my lord Should be to aftertime, but empty breath And rumours of a doubt? But were this kept, Stored in some treasure-house of mighty kings, Some one might show it at a joust of arms, Saying, "King Arthur's sword, Excalibur, Wrought by the lonely maiden of the Lake. Nine years she wrought it, sitting in the deeps Upon the hidden bases of the hills." So might some old man speak in the aftertime To all the people, winning reverence. But now much honour and much fame were lost.' So spake he, clouded with his own conceit, And hid Excalibur the second time, And so strode back slow to the wounded King. Then spoke King Arthur, breathing heavily: 'What is it thou hast seen? or what hast heard?' And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere: 'I heard the water lapping on the crag, And the long ripple washing in the reeds.' To whom replied King Arthur, much in wrath: 'Ah, miserable and unkind, untrue, Unknightly, traitor-hearted! Woe is me! Authority forgets a dying king, Laid widowed of the power in his eye That bowed the will. I see thee what thou art, For thou, the latest-left of all my knights, In whom should meet the offices of all, Thou wouldst betray me for the precious hilt; Either from lust of gold, or like a girl Valuing the giddy pleasure of the eyes. Yet, for a man may fail in duty twice, And the third time may prosper, get thee hence: But, if thou spare to fling Excalibur, I will arise and slay thee with my hands.' Then quickly rose Sir Bedivere, and ran, And, leaping down the ridges lightly, plunged Among the bulrush beds, and clutched the sword, And strongly wheeled and threw it. The great brand Made lightnings in the splendour of the moon, And flashing round and round, and whirled in an arch, Shot like a streamer of the northern morn, Seen where the moving isles of winter shock By night, with noises of the Northern Sea. So flashed and fell the brand Excalibur: But ere he dipt the surface, rose an arm Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful, And caught him by the hilt, and brandished him Three times, and drew him under in the mere. And lightly went the other to the King. Then spoke King Arthur, drawing thicker breath: 'Now see I by thine eyes that this is done. Speak out: what is it thou hast heard, or seen?' And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere: 'Sir King, I closed mine eyelids, lest the gems Should blind my purpose, for I never saw, Nor shall see, here or elsewhere, till I die, Not though I live three lives of mortal men, So great a miracle as yonder hilt. Then with both hands I flung him, wheeling him; But when I looked again, behold an arm, Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful, That caught him by the hilt, and brandished him Three times, and drew him under in the mere.' And answer made King Arthur, breathing hard: 'My end draws nigh; 'tis time that I were gone. Make broad thy shoulders to receive my weight, And bear me to the margin; yet I fear My wound hath taken cold, and I shall die.' So saying, from the pavement he half rose, Slowly, with pain, reclining on his arm, And looking wistfully with wide blue eyes As in a picture. Him Sir Bedivere Remorsefully regarded through his tears, And would have spoken, but he found not words; Then took with care, and kneeling on one knee, O'er both his shoulders drew the languid hands, And rising bore him through the place of tombs. But, as he walked, King Arthur panted hard, Like one that feels a nightmare on his bed When all the house is mute. So sighed the King, Muttering and murmuring at his ear, 'Quick, quick! I fear it is too late, and I shall die.' But the other swiftly strode from ridge to ridge, Clothed with his breath, and looking, as he walked, Larger than human on the frozen hills. He heard the deep behind him, and a cry Before. His own thought drove him like a goad. Dry clashed his harness in the icy caves And barren chasms, and all to left and right The bare black cliff clanged round him, as he based His feet on juts of slippery crag that rang Sharp-smitten with the dint of armed heels-- And on a sudden, lo! the level lake, And the long glories of the winter moon. Then saw they how there hove a dusky barge, Dark as a funeral scarf from stem to stern, Beneath them; and descending they were ware That all the decks were dense with stately forms, Black-stoled, black-hooded, like a dream--by these Three Queens with crowns of gold: and from them rose A cry that shivered to the tingling stars, And, as it were one voice, an agony Of lamentation, like a wind that shrills All night in a waste land, where no one comes, Or hath come, since the making of the world. Then murmured Arthur, 'Place me in the barge.' So to the barge they came. There those three Queens Put forth their hands, and took the King, and wept. But she, that rose the tallest of them all And fairest, laid his head upon her lap, And loosed the shattered casque, and chafed his hands, And called him by his name, complaining loud, And dropping bitter tears against a brow Striped with dark blood: for all his face was white And colourless, and like the withered moon Smote by the fresh beam of the springing east; And all his greaves and cuisses dashed with drops Of onset; and the light and lustrous curls-- That made his forehead like a rising sun High from the dais-throne--were parched with dust; Or, clotted into points and hanging loose, Mixed with the knightly growth that fringed his lips. So like a shattered column lay the King; Not like that Arthur who, with lance in rest, From spur to plume a star of tournament, Shot through the lists at Camelot, and charged Before the eyes of ladies and of kings. Then loudly cried the bold Sir Bedivere: 'Ah! my Lord Arthur, whither shall I go? Where shall I hide my forehead and my eyes? For now I see the true old times are dead, When every morning brought a noble chance, And every chance brought out a noble knight. Such times have been not since the light that led The holy Elders with the gift of myrrh. But now the whole Round Table is dissolved Which was an image of the mighty world, And I, the last, go forth companionless, And the days darken round me, and the years, Among new men, strange faces, other minds.' And slowly answered Arthur from the barge: 'The old order changeth, yielding place to new, And God fulfils himself in many ways, Lest one good custom should corrupt the world. Comfort thyself: what comfort is in me? I have lived my life, and that which I have done May He within himself make pure! but thou, If thou shouldst never see my face again, Pray for my soul. More things are wrought by prayer Than this world dreams of. Wherefore, let thy voice Rise like a fountain for me night and day. For what are men better than sheep or goats That nourish a blind life within the brain, If, knowing God, they lift not hands of prayer Both for themselves and those who call them friend? For so the whole round earth is every way Bound by gold chains about the feet of God. But now farewell. I am going a long way With these thou seest--if indeed I go (For all my mind is clouded with a doubt)-- To the island-valley of Avilion; Where falls not hail, or rain, or any snow, Nor ever wind blows loudly; but it lies Deep-meadowed, happy, fair with orchard lawns And bowery hollows crowned with summer sea, Where I will heal me of my grievous wound.' So said he, and the barge with oar and sail Moved from the brink, like some full-breasted swan That, fluting a wild carol ere her death, Ruffles her pure cold plume, and takes the flood With swarthy webs. Long stood Sir Bedivere Revolving many memories, till the hull Looked one black dot against the verge of dawn, And on the mere the wailing died away. But when that moan had past for evermore, The stillness of the dead world's winter dawn Amazed him, and he groaned, 'The King is gone.' And therewithal came on him the weird rhyme, 'From the great deep to the great deep he goes.' Whereat he slowly turned and slowly clomb The last hard footstep of that iron crag; Thence marked the black hull moving yet, and cried, 'He passes to be King among the dead, And after healing of his grievous wound He comes again; but--if he come no more-- O me, be yon dark Queens in yon black boat, Who shrieked and wailed, the three whereat we gazed On that high day, when, clothed with living light, They stood before his throne in silence, friends Of Arthur, who should help him at his need?' Then from the dawn it seemed there came, but faint As from beyond the limit of the world, Like the last echo born of a great cry, Sounds, as if some fair city were one voice Around a king returning from his wars. Thereat once more he moved about, and clomb Even to the highest he could climb, and saw, Straining his eyes beneath an arch of hand, Or thought he saw, the speck that bare the King, Down that long water opening on the deep Somewhere far off, pass on and on, and go From less to less and vanish into light. And the new sun rose bringing the new year. To the Queen O loyal to the royal in thyself, And loyal to thy land, as this to thee-- Bear witness, that rememberable day, When, pale as yet, and fever-worn, the Prince Who scarce had plucked his flickering life again From halfway down the shadow of the grave, Past with thee through thy people and their love, And London rolled one tide of joy through all Her trebled millions, and loud leagues of man And welcome! witness, too, the silent cry, The prayer of many a race and creed, and clime-- Thunderless lightnings striking under sea From sunset and sunrise of all thy realm, And that true North, whereof we lately heard A strain to shame us 'keep you to yourselves; So loyal is too costly! friends--your love Is but a burthen: loose the bond, and go.' Is this the tone of empire? here the faith That made us rulers? this, indeed, her voice And meaning, whom the roar of Hougoumont Left mightiest of all peoples under heaven? What shock has fooled her since, that she should speak So feebly? wealthier--wealthier--hour by hour! The voice of Britain, or a sinking land, Some third-rate isle half-lost among her seas? There rang her voice, when the full city pealed Thee and thy Prince! The loyal to their crown Are loyal to their own far sons, who love Our ocean-empire with her boundless homes For ever-broadening England, and her throne In our vast Orient, and one isle, one isle, That knows not her own greatness: if she knows And dreads it we are fallen. --But thou, my Queen, Not for itself, but through thy living love For one to whom I made it o'er his grave Sacred, accept this old imperfect tale, New-old, and shadowing Sense at war with Soul, Ideal manhood closed in real man, Rather than that gray king, whose name, a ghost, Streams like a cloud, man-shaped, from mountain peak, And cleaves to cairn and cromlech still; or him Of Geoffrey's book, or him of Malleor's, one Touched by the adulterous finger of a time That hovered between war and wantonness, And crownings and dethronements: take withal Thy poet's blessing, and his trust that Heaven Will blow the tempest in the distance back From thine and ours: for some are scared, who mark, Or wisely or unwisely, signs of storm, Waverings of every vane with every wind, And wordy trucklings to the transient hour, And fierce or careless looseners of the faith, And Softness breeding scorn of simple life, Or Cowardice, the child of lust for gold, Or Labour, with a groan and not a voice, Or Art with poisonous honey stolen from France, And that which knows, but careful for itself, And that which knows not, ruling that which knows To its own harm: the goal of this great world Lies beyond sight: yet--if our slowly-grown And crowned Republic's crowning common-sense, That saved her many times, not fail--their fears Are morning shadows huger than the shapes That cast them, not those gloomier which forego The darkness of that battle in the West, Where all of high and holy dies away. 
26646	----	[Illustration: LANCELOT BEARS OFF GUENEVERE (p. 153)] THE BOOK OF ROMANCE EDITED BY ANDREW LANG _WITH NUMEROUS ILLUSTRATIONS BY H. J. FORD_ LONGMANS, GREEN, AND CO. 39 PATERNOSTER ROW, LONDON NEW YORK AND BOMBAY 1902 Copyright 1902 BY LONGMANS, GREEN, & CO. * * * * * _PREFACE_ It is to be supposed that children do not read Prefaces; these are Bluebeard's rooms, which they are not curious to unlock. A few words may therefore be said about the Romances contained in this book. In the editor's opinion, romances are only fairy tales grown up. The whole mass of the plot and incident of romance was invented by nobody knows who, nobody knows when, nobody knows where. Almost every people has the Cinderella story, with all sorts of variations: a boy hero in place of a girl heroine, a beast in place of a fairy godmother, and so on. The Zuñis, an agricultural tribe of New Mexico, have a version in which the moral turns out to be against poor Cinderella, who comes to an ill end. The Red Indians have the tale of Orpheus and Eurydice, told in a very touching shape, but without the music. On the other hand, the negroes in the States have the Orpheus tale, adapted to plantation life, in a form which is certainly borrowed from Europeans. This version was sent to me some years ago, by Mr. Barnet Phillips, Brooklyn, New York, and I give it here for its curiosity. If the proper names, Jim Orpus and Dicey, had not been given, we might not feel absolutely certain that the story was borrowed. It is a good example of adaptation from the heroic age of Greece to the servile age of Africans. DICEY AND ORPUS Dat war eber so long ago, 'cause me granmammy tell me so. It h'aint no white-folks yarn--no Sah. Gall she war call Dicey, an' she war borned on de plantation. Whar Jim Orpus kum from, granmammy she disremember. He war a boss-fiddler, he war, an' jus' that powerful, dat when de mules in de cotton field listen to um, dey no budge in de furrer. Orpus he neber want no mess of fish, ketched wid a angle. He just take him fiddle an' fool along de branch, an' play a tune, an' up dey comes, an' he cotch 'em in he hans. He war mighty sot on Dicey, an' dey war married all proper an' reg'lar. Hit war so long ago, dat de railroad war a bran-new spick an' span ting in dose days. Dicey once she lounge 'round de track, 'cause she tink she hear Orpus a fiddlin' in de fur-fur-away. Onyways de hengine smash her. Den Jim Orpus he took on turrible, an' when she war buried, he sot him down on de grave, an' he fiddle an' he fiddle till most yo' heart was bruk. An' he play so long dat de groun' crummle (crumble) an' sink, an' nex' day, when de peoples look for Jim Orpus, dey no find um; oney big-hole in de lot, an' nobody never see Jim Orpus no mo'. An' dey do say, dat ef yo' go inter a darky's burial-groun', providin' no white man been planted thar, an' yo' clap yo' ear to de groun', yo' can hear Jim's fiddle way down deep belo', a folloin' Dicey fru' de lan' of de Golden Slippah.[1] [Footnote 1: Mr. Phillips, writing in 1896, says that the tale was told him by a plantation hand, thirty years ago, 'long before the Uncle Remus period.'] * * * * * The original touch, the sound of Orpus's fiddle heard only in the graveyards of the negroes (like the fairy music under the fairy hill at Ballachulish), is very remarkable. Now the Red Indian story has no harper, and no visit by the hero to the land of the dead. His grief brings his wife back to him, and he loses her again by breaking a taboo, as Orpheus did by looking back, a thing always forbidden. Thus we do not know whether or not the Red Indian version is borrowed from the European myth, probably enough it is not. But in no case--not even when the same plot and incidents occur among Egyptians and the Central Australian tribes, or among the frosty Samoyeds and Eskimo, the Samoans, the Andamanese, the Zulus, and the Japanese, as well as among Celts and ancient Greeks--can we be absolutely certain that the story has not been diffused and borrowed, in the backward of time. Thus the date and place of origin of these eternal stories, the groundwork of ballads and popular tales, can never be ascertained. The oldest known version may be found in the literature of Egypt or Chaldæa, but it is an obvious fallacy to argue that the place of origin must be the place where the tale was first written down in hieroglyph or cuneiform characters. There the stories are: they are as common among the remotest savages as among the peasants of Hungary, France, or Assynt. They bear all the birth-marks of an early society, with the usual customs and superstitions of man in such a stage of existence. Their oldest and least corrupted forms exist among savages, and people who do not read and write. But when reading and writing and a class of professional minstrels and tellers of tales arose, these men invented no new plots, but borrowed the plots and incidents of the world-old popular stories. They adapted these to their own condition of society, just as the plantation negroes adapted Orpheus and Eurydice. They elevated the nameless heroes and heroines into Kings, Queens, and Knights, Odysseus, Arthur, Charlemagne, Diarmid, and the rest. They took an ancient popular tale, known all over the earth, and attributed the adventures of the characters to historical persons, like Charlemagne and his family, or to Saints, for the legends of early Celtic Saints are full of fairy-tale materials. Characters half historic, half fabulous, like Arthur, were endowed with fairy gifts, and inherited the feats of nameless imaginary heroes. The results of this uncritical literary handling of elements really popular were the national romances of Arthur, of Charlemagne, of Sigurd, or of Etzel. The pagan legends were Christianised, like that of Beowulf; they were expanded into measureless length, whole cycles were invented about the heroic families; poets altered the materials each in his own way and to serve his own purpose, and often to glorify his own country. If the Saracens told their story of Roland at Roncevalles, it would be very different from that of the old Frankish _chansons de geste_. Thus the romances are a mixture of popular tales, of literary invention, and of history as transmitted in legend. To the charm of fairy tale they add the fascination of the age of chivalry, yet I am not sure but that children will prefer the fairy tale pure and simple, nor am I sure that their taste would be wrong, if they did. In the versions here offered, the story of Arthur is taken mainly from Malory's compilation, from sources chiefly French, but the opening of the Graal story is adapted from Mr. Sebastian Evans's 'High History of the Holy Graal,' a masterpiece of the translator's art. For permission to adapt this chapter I have to thank the kindness of Mr. Evans. The story of Roland is from the French Epic, probably of the eleventh century, but resting on earlier materials, legend and ballad. William Short Nose is also from the _chanson de geste_ of that hero. The story of Diarmid, ancient Irish and also current among the Dalriadic invaders of Argyle, is taken from the translations in the Transactions of the Ossianic Society. The story of Robin Hood is from the old English ballads of the courteous outlaw, whose feast, in Scotland, fell in the early days of May. His alleged date varies between the ages of Richard I. and Edward II., but all the labours of the learned have thrown no light on this popular hero. A child can see how _English_ Robin is, how human, and possible and good-humoured are his character and feats, while Arthur is half Celtic, half French and chivalrous, and while the deeds of the French Roland, and of the Celtic Diarmid, are exaggerated beyond the possible. There is nothing of the fairylike in Robin, and he has no thirst for the Ideal. Had we given the adventures of Sir William Wallace, from Blind Harry, it would have appeared that the Lowland Scots could exaggerate like other people. The story of Wayland the Smith is very ancient. An ivory in the British Museum, apparently of the eighth century, represents Wayland making the cups out of the skulls. As told here the legend is adapted from the amplified version by Oehlenschläger. Scott's use of the story in 'Kenilworth' will be remembered. All the romances are written by Mrs. Lang, except the story of Grettir the Strong, done by Mr. H. S. C. Everard from the saga translated by Mr. William Morris. A. LANG. * * * * * _CONTENTS_ PAGE _The Drawing of the Sword_ 3 _The Questing Beast_ 9 _The Sword Excalibur_ 14 _The Story of Sir Balin_ 16 _How the Round Table began_ 25 _The Passing of Merlin_ 31 _How Morgan Le Fay tried to kill King Arthur_ 33 _What Beaumains asked of the King_ 38 _The Quest of the Holy Graal_ 64 _The Fight for the Queen_ 102 _The Fair Maid of Astolat_ 113 _Lancelot and Guenevere_ 132 _The End of it All_ 160 _The Battle of Roncevalles_ 177 _The Pursuit of Diarmid_ 215 _Some Adventures of William Short Nose_ 253 _Wayland the Smith_ 293 _The Story of Robin Hood_ 323 _The Story of Grettir the Strong_ 359 * * * * * _ILLUSTRATIONS_ _COLOURED PLATES_ _Lancelot bears off Guenevere_ (p. 153) _Frontispiece_ _Arthur meets the Lady of the Lake_ _to face p_. 14 _Lancelot at the Chapel_ " 77 _Guenevere and Sir Bors_ " 106 _Lancelot brings Guenevere to Arthur_ " 132 _Alix kisses Rainouart_ " 275 _Slagfid pursues the Wraith over the Mountains_ " 301 _The Chariot of Freya_ " 318 _FULL-PAGE PLATES_ _How Arthur drew the Sword_ _to face p_. 4 _Arthur and the Questing Beast_ " 10 _The Death of Balin and Balan_ " 20 _Merlin and Vivien_ " 31 _Morgan Le Fay casts away the Scabbard_ " 34 _Gareth and Linet_ " 41 _Linet and the Black Knight_ " 46 _The Lady of Lyonesse sees Sir Gareth_ " 54 _Sir Galahad opens the Tomb_ " 72 _Sir Percivale slays the Serpent_ " 80 _Lancelot and the Dwarf_ " 96 _Arthur and Guenevere kiss before all the People_ " 108 _Elaine ties her Sleeve round Sir Lancelot's Helmet_ " 116 _The Black Barget_ " 127 _The Archers threaten Lancelot_ " 138 _Sir Mordred_ _to face p_. 164 _Excalibur returns to the Mere_ " 168 _Charlemagne_ " 178 _Marsile threatens Ganélon with a Javelin_ " 184 _Roland winds his horn in the Valley of Roncevalles_........ " 202 _Grania questions the Druid_ " 216 _Diarmid seizes the Giant's Club_ " 230 _Diarmid and Grania in the Quicken Tree_ " 236 _The Death of Diarmid_ " 242 _Vivian's last Confession_ " 256 _The Lady Alix stays the wrath of William Short Nose_ " 270 _The Lady Gibourc with Rainouart in the Kitchen_ " 278 _Rainouart stops the Cowards_ " 282 _The Three Women by the Stream_ " 294 _Wayland mocked by the Queen and Banvilda_ " 310 _The Merman warns Banvilda in vain_ " 314 _'There is pith in your arm,' said Robin Hood_ " 346 _Robin Hood shoots his last Arrow_ " 354 _Grettir feels Karr's grip_ " 362 _Grettir overthrows Thorir Redbeard_ " 372 IN TEXT PAGE _The Damsel warns Sir Balin_ 19 _How Sir Bors was saved from killing his Brother_ 88 _Sir Mador accuses Guenevere_ 104 _Guenevere sends her Page to Lancelot for help_ 136 _Lancelot comes out of Guenevere's room_ 148 _The Dream of Charlemagne_ 193 _The Captives: William Short Nose rides to the rescue_ 263 _The Witch Thurid cuts a charm on the log_ 381 * * * * * TALES OF THE ROUND TABLE _THE DRAWING OF THE SWORD_ Long, long ago, after Uther Pendragon died, there was no King in Britain, and every Knight hoped to seize the crown for himself. The country was like to fare ill when laws were broken on every side, and the corn which was to give the poor bread was trodden underfoot, and there was none to bring the evildoer to justice. Then, when things were at their worst, came forth Merlin the magician, and fast he rode to the place where the Archbishop of Canterbury had his dwelling. And they took counsel together, and agreed that all the lords and gentlemen of Britain should ride to London and meet on Christmas Day, now at hand, in the Great Church. So this was done. And on Christmas morning, as they left the church, they saw in the churchyard a large stone, and on it a bar of steel, and in the steel a naked sword was held, and about it was written in letters of gold, 'Whoso pulleth out this sword is by right of birth King of England.' They marvelled at these words, and called for the Archbishop, and brought him into the place where the stone stood. Then those Knights who fain would be King could not hold themselves back, and they tugged at the sword with all their might; but it never stirred. The Archbishop watched them in silence, but when they were faint from pulling he spoke: 'The man is not here who shall lift out that sword, nor do I know where to find him. But this is my counsel--that two Knights be chosen, good and true men, to keep guard over the sword.' Thus it was done. But the lords and gentlemen-at-arms cried out that every man had a right to try to win the sword, and they decided that on New Year's Day a tournament should be held, and any Knight who would, might enter the lists. So on New Year's Day, the Knights, as their custom was, went to hear service in the Great Church, and after it was over they met in the field to make ready for the tourney. Among them was a brave Knight called Sir Ector, who brought with him Sir Kay, his son, and Arthur, Kay's foster-brother. Now Kay had unbuckled his sword the evening before, and in his haste to be at the tourney had forgotten to put it on again, and he begged Arthur to ride back and fetch it for him. But when Arthur reached the house the door was locked, for the women had gone out to see the tourney, and though Arthur tried his best to get in he could not. Then he rode away in great anger, and said to himself, 'Kay shall not be without a sword this day. I will take that sword in the churchyard, and give it to him'; and he galloped fast till he reached the gate of the churchyard. Here he jumped down and tied his horse tightly to a tree, then, running up to the stone, he seized the handle of the sword, and drew it easily out; afterwards he mounted his horse again, and delivered the sword to Sir Kay. The moment Sir Kay saw the sword he knew it was not his own, but the sword of the stone, and he sought out his father Sir Ector, and said to him, 'Sir, this is the sword of the stone, therefore I am the rightful King.' Sir Ector made no answer, but signed to Kay and Arthur to follow him, and they all three went back to the church. Leaving their horses outside, they entered the choir, and here Sir Ector took a holy book and bade Sir Kay swear how he came by that sword. 'My brother Arthur gave it to me,' replied Sir Kay. 'How did you come by it?' asked Sir Ector, turning to Arthur. 'Sir,' said Arthur, 'when I rode home for my brother's sword I found no one to deliver it to me, and as I resolved he should not be swordless I thought of the sword in this stone, and I pulled it out.' 'Were any Knights present when you did this?' asked Sir Ector. 'No, none,' said Arthur. 'Then it is you,' said Sir Ector, 'who are the rightful King of this land.' 'But why am I the King?' inquired Arthur. 'Because,' answered Sir Ector, 'this is an enchanted sword, and no man could draw it but he who was born a King. Therefore put the sword back into the stone, and let me see you take it out.' 'That is soon done,' said Arthur replacing the sword, and Sir Ector himself tried to draw it, but he could not. 'Now it is your turn,' he said to Sir Kay, but Sir Kay fared no better than his father, though he tugged with all his might and main. 'Now you, Arthur,' and Arthur pulled it out as easily as if it had been lying in its sheath, and as he did so Sir Ector and Sir Kay sank on their knees before him. 'Why do you, my father and brother, kneel to me?' asked Arthur in surprise. 'Nay, nay, my lord,' answered Sir Ector, 'I was never your father, though till to-day I did not know who your father really was. You are the son of Uther Pendragon, and you were brought to me when you were born by Merlin himself, who promised that when the time came I should know from whom you sprang. And now it has been revealed to me.' But when Arthur heard that Sir Ector was not his father, he wept bitterly. 'If I am King,' he said at last, 'ask what you will, and I shall not fail you. For to you, and to my lady and mother, I owe more than to anyone in the world, for she loved me and treated me as her son.' 'Sir,' replied Sir Ector, I only ask that you will make your foster-brother, Sir Kay, Seneschal[2] of all your lands.' 'That I will readily,' answered Arthur, 'and while he and I live no other shall fill that office.' [Footnote 2: 'Seneschal' means steward.] [Illustration: HOW ARTHUR DREW THE SWORD] Sir Ector then bade them seek out the Archbishop with him, and they told him all that had happened concerning the sword, which Arthur had left standing in the stone. And on the Twelfth Day the Knights and Barons came again, but none could draw it out but Arthur. When they saw this, many of the Barons became angry and cried out that they would never own a boy for King whose blood was no better than their own. So it was agreed to wait till Candlemas, when more Knights might be there, and meanwhile the same two men who had been chosen before watched the sword night and day; but at Candlemas it was the same thing, and at Easter. And when Pentecost came, the common people who were present, and saw Arthur pull out the sword, cried with one voice that he was their King, and they would kill any man who said differently. Then rich and poor fell on their knees before him, and Arthur took the sword and offered it upon the altar where the Archbishop stood, and the best man that was there made him Knight. After that the crown was put on his head, and he swore to his lords and commons that he would be a true King, and would do them justice all the days of his life. _THE QUESTING BEAST_ But Arthur had many battles to fight and many Kings to conquer before he was acknowledged lord of them all, and often he would have failed had he not listened to the wisdom of Merlin, and been helped by his sword Excalibur, which in obedience to Merlin's orders he never drew till things were going ill with him. Later it shall be told how the King got the sword Excalibur, which shone so bright in his enemies' eyes that they fell back, dazzled by the brightness. Many Knights came to his standard, and among them Sir Ban, King of Gaul beyond the sea, who was ever his faithful friend. And it was in one of these wars, when King Arthur and King Ban and King Bors went to the rescue of the King of Cameliard, that Arthur saw Guenevere, the King's daughter, whom he afterwards wedded. By and by King Ban and King Bors returned to their own country across the sea, and the King went to Carlion, a town on the river Usk, where a strange dream came to him. He thought that the land was over-run with gryphons and serpents which burnt and slew his people, and he made war on the monsters, and was sorely wounded, though at last he killed them all. When he awoke the remembrance of his dream was heavy upon him, and to shake it off he summoned his Knights to hunt with him, and they rode fast till they reached a forest. Soon they spied a hart before them, which the King claimed as his game, and he spurred his horse and rode after him. But the hart ran fast and the King could not get near it, and the chase lasted so long that the King himself grew heavy and his horse fell dead under him. Then he sat under a tree and rested, till he heard the baying of hounds, and fancied he counted as many as thirty of them. He raised his head to look, and, coming towards him, saw a beast so strange that its like was not to be found throughout his kingdom. It went straight to the well and drank, making as it did so the noise of many hounds baying, and when it had drunk its fill the beast went its way. While the King was wondering what sort of a beast this could be, a Knight rode by, who, seeing a man lying under a tree, stopped and said to him: 'Knight full of thought and sleepy, tell me if a strange beast has passed this way?' 'Yes, truly,' answered Arthur, 'and by now it must be two miles distant. What do you want with it?' 'Oh sir, I have followed that beast from far,' replied he, 'and have ridden my horse to death. If only I could find another I would still go after it.' As he spoke a squire came up leading a fresh horse for the King, and when the Knight saw it he prayed that it might be given to him, 'for,' said he, 'I have followed this quest this twelvemonth, and either I shall slay him or he will slay me.' 'Sir Knight,' answered the King, 'you have done your part; leave now your quest, and let me follow the beast for the same time that you have done.' 'Ah, fool!' replied the Knight, whose name was Pellinore, 'it would be all in vain, for none may slay that beast but I or my next of kin'; and without more words he sprang into the saddle. 'You may take my horse by force,' said the King, 'but I should like to prove first which of us two is the better horseman.' [Illustration: ARTHUR AND THE QUESTING BEAST] 'Well,' answered the Knight, 'when you want me, come to this spring. Here you will always find me,' and, spurring his horse, he galloped away. The King watched him till he was out of sight, then turned to his squire and bade him bring another horse as quickly as he could. While he was waiting for it the wizard Merlin came along in the likeness of a boy, and asked the King why he was so thoughtful. 'I may well be thoughtful,' replied the King, 'for I have seen the most wonderful sight in all the world.' 'That I know well,' said Merlin, 'for I know all your thoughts. But it is folly to let your mind dwell on it, for thinking will mend nothing. I know, too, that Uther Pendragon was your father, and your mother was the Lady Igraine.' 'How can a boy like you know that?' cried Arthur, growing angry; but Merlin only answered, 'I know it better than any man living,' and passed, returning soon after in the likeness of an old man of fourscore, and sitting down by the well to rest. 'What makes you so sad?' asked he. 'I may well be sad,' replied Arthur, 'there is plenty to make me so. And besides, there was a boy here who told me things that he had no business to know, and among them the names of my father and mother.' 'He told you the truth,' said the old man, 'and if you would have listened he could have told you still more; how that your sister shall have a child who shall destroy you and all your Knights.' 'Who are you?' asked Arthur, wondering. 'I am Merlin, and it was I who came to you in the likeness of a boy. I know all things; how that you shall die a noble death, being slain in battle, while my end will be shameful, for I shall be put alive into the earth.' There was no time to say more, for the man brought up the King's horse, and he mounted, and rode fast till he came to Carlion. _THE SWORD EXCALIBUR_ King Arthur had fought a hard battle with the tallest Knight in all the land, and though he struck hard and well, he would have been slain had not Merlin enchanted the Knight and cast him into a deep sleep, and brought the King to a hermit who had studied the art of healing, and cured all his wounds in three days. Then Arthur and Merlin waited no longer, but gave the hermit thanks and departed. As they rode together Arthur said, 'I have no sword,' but Merlin bade him be patient and he would soon give him one. In a little while they came to a large lake, and in the midst of the lake Arthur beheld an arm rising out of the water, holding up a sword. 'Look!' said Merlin, 'that is the sword I spoke of.' And the King looked again, and a maiden stood upon the water. 'That is the Lady of the Lake,' said Merlin, 'and she is coming to you, and if you ask her courteously she will give you the sword.' So when the maiden drew near Arthur saluted her and said, 'Maiden, I pray you tell me whose sword is that which an arm is holding out of the water? I wish it were mine, for I have lost my sword.' 'That sword is mine, King Arthur,' answered she, 'and I will give it to you, if you in return will give me a gift when I ask you.' [Illustration: ARTHUR MEETS THE LADY OF THE LAKE AND GETS THE SWORD EXCALIBUR] 'By my faith,' said the King, 'I will give you whatever gift you ask.' 'Well,' said the maiden, 'get into the barge yonder, and row yourself to the sword, and take it and the scabbard with you.' For this was the sword Excalibur. 'As for _my_ gift, I will ask it in my own time.' Then King Arthur and Merlin dismounted from their horses and tied them up safely, and went into the barge, and when they came to the place where the arm was holding the sword Arthur took it by the handle, and the arm disappeared. And they brought the sword back to land. As they rode the King looked lovingly on his sword, which Merlin saw, and, smiling, said, 'Which do you like best, the sword or the scabbard?' 'I like the sword,' answered Arthur. 'You are not wise to say that,' replied Merlin, 'for the scabbard is worth ten of the sword, and as long as it is buckled on you you will lose no blood, however sorely you may be wounded.' So they rode into the town of Carlion, and Arthur's Knights gave them a glad welcome, and said it was a joy to serve under a King who risked his life as much as any common man. _THE STORY OF SIR BALIN_ In those days many Kings reigned in the Islands of the Sea, and they constantly waged war upon each other, and on their liege lord, and news came to Arthur that Ryons, King of North Wales, had collected a large host and had ravaged his lands and slain some of his people. When he heard this, Arthur rose in anger, and commanded that all lords, Knights, and gentlemen of arms should meet him at Camelot, where he would call a council, and hold a tourney. From every part the Knights flocked to Camelot, and the town was full to overflowing of armed men and their horses. And when they were all assembled, there rode in a damsel, who said she had come with a message from the great Lady Lile of Avelion, and begged that they would bring her before King Arthur. When she was led into his presence she let her mantle of fur slip off her shoulders, and they saw that by her side a richly wrought sword was buckled. The King was silent with wonder at the strange sight, but at last he said, 'Damsel, why do you wear this sword? for swords are not the ornaments of women.' 'Oh, my lord,' answered she, 'I would I could find some Knight to rid me of this sword, which weighs me down and causes me much sorrow. But the man who will deliver me of it must be one who is mighty of his hands, and pure in his deeds, without villainy, or treason. If I find a Knight such as this, he will draw this sword out of its sheath, and he only. For I have been at the Court of King Ryons, and he and his Knights tried with all their strength to draw the sword and they could not.' 'Let me see if I can draw it,' said Arthur, 'not because I think myself the best Knight, for well I know how far I am outdone by others, but to set them an example that they may follow me.' With that the King took the sword by the sheath and by the girdle, and pulled at it with all his force, but the sword stuck fast. 'Sir,' said the damsel, 'you need not pull half so hard, for he that shall pull it out shall do it with little strength.' 'It is not for me,' answered Arthur, 'and now, my Barons, let each man try his fortune.' So most of the Knights of the Round Table there present pulled, one after another, at the sword, but none could stir it from its sheath. 'Alas! alas!' cried the damsel in great grief, 'I thought to find in this Court Knights that were blameless and true of heart, and now I know not where to look for them.' 'By my faith,' said Arthur, 'there are no better Knights in the world than these of mine, but I am sore displeased that they cannot help me in this matter.' Now at that time there was a poor Knight at Arthur's Court who had been kept prisoner for a year and a half because he had slain the King's cousin. He was of high birth and his name was Balin, and after he had suffered eighteen months the punishment of his misdeed the Barons prayed the King to set him free, which Arthur did willingly. When Balin, standing apart beheld the Knights one by one try the sword, and fail to draw it, his heart beat fast, yet he shrank from taking his turn, for he was meanly dressed, and could not compare with the other Barons. But after the damsel had bid farewell to Arthur and his Court, and was setting out on her journey homewards, he called to her and said, 'Damsel, I pray you to suffer me to try your sword, as well as these lords, for though I am so poorly clothed, my heart is as high as theirs.' The damsel stopped and looked at him, and answered, 'Sir, it is not needful to put you to such trouble, for where so many have failed it is hardly likely that you will succeed.' 'Ah! fair damsel,' said Balin, 'it is not fine clothes that make good deeds.' 'You speak truly,' replied the damsel, 'therefore do what you can.' Then Balin took the sword by the girdle and sheath, and pulled it out easily, and when he looked at the sword he was greatly pleased with it. The King and the Knights were dumb with surprise that it was Balin who had triumphed over them, and many of them envied him and felt anger towards him. 'In truth,' said the damsel, 'this is the best Knight that I ever found, but, Sir, I pray you give me the sword again.' 'No,' answered Balin, 'I will keep it till it is taken from me by force.' 'It is for your sake, not mine, that I ask for it,' said the damsel, 'for with that sword you shall slay the man you love best, and it shall bring about your own ruin.' 'I will take what befalls me,' replied Balin, 'but the sword I will not give up, by the faith of my body.' So the damsel departed in great sorrow. The next day Sir Balin left the Court, and, armed with his sword, set forth in search of adventures, which he found in many places where he had not thought to meet with them. In all the fights that he fought, Sir Balin was the victor, and Arthur, and Merlin his friend, knew that there was no Knight living of greater deeds, or more worthy of worship. And he was known to all as Sir Balin le Savage, the Knight of the two swords. One day he was riding forth when at the turning of a road he saw a cross, and on it was written in letters of gold, 'Let no Knight ride towards this castle.' Sir Balin was still reading the writing when there came towards him an old man with white hair, who said, 'Sir Balin le Savage, this is not the way for you, so turn again and choose some other path.' And so he vanished, and a horn blew loudly, as a horn is blown at the death of a beast. 'That blast,' said Balin, 'is for me, but I am still alive,' and he rode to the castle, where a great company of knights and ladies met him and welcomed him, and made him a feast. Then the lady of the castle said to him, 'Knight with the two swords, you must now fight a Knight that guards an island, for it is our law that no man may leave us without he first fight a tourney.' [Illustration: The Damsel Warns Sir Balin.] 'That is a bad custom,' said Balin, 'but if I must I am ready; for though my horse is weary my heart is strong.' 'Sir,' said a Knight to him, 'your shield does not look whole to me; I will lend you another'; so Balin listened to him and took the shield that was offered, and left his own with his own coat of arms behind him. He rode down to the shore, and led his horse into a boat, which took them across. When he reached the other side, a damsel came to him crying, 'O Knight Balin, why have you left your own shield behind you? Alas! you have put yourself in great danger, for by your shield you should have been known. I grieve over your doom, for there is no man living that can rival you for courage and bold deeds.' 'I repent,' answered Balin, 'ever having come into this country, but for very shame I must go on. Whatever befalls me, either for life or death, I am ready to take it.' Then he examined his armour, and saw that it was whole, and mounted his horse. As he went along the path he beheld a Knight come out of a castle in front, clothed in red, riding a horse with red trappings. When this red Knight looked on the two swords, he thought for a moment it was Balin, but the shield did not bear Balin's device. So they rode at each other with their spears, and smote each other's shields so hard that both horses and men fell to the ground with the shock, and the Knights lay unconscious on the ground for some minutes. But soon they rose up again and began the fight afresh, and they fought till the place was red with their blood, and they had each seven great wounds. 'What Knight are you?' asked Balin le Savage, pausing for breath, 'for never before have I found any Knight to match me.' 'My name,' said he, 'is Balan, brother to the good Knight Balin.' [Illustration: The Death of Balin and Balan] 'Alas!' cried Balin, 'that I should ever live to see this day,' and he fell back fainting to the ground. At this sight Balan crept on his feet and hands, and pulled off Balin's helmet, so that he might see his face. The fresh air revived Balin, and he awoke and said: 'O Balan, my brother, you have slain me, and I you, and the whole world shall speak ill of us both.' 'Alas,' sighed Balan, 'if I had only known you! I saw your two swords, but from your shield I thought you had been another knight.' 'Woe is me!' said Balin, 'all this was wrought by an unhappy knight in the castle, who caused me to change my shield for his. If I lived, I would destroy that castle that he should not deceive other men.' 'You would have done well,' answered Balan, 'for they have kept me prisoner ever since I slew a Knight that guarded this island, and they would have kept you captive too.' Then came the lady of the castle and her companions, and listened as they made their moan. And Balan prayed that she would grant them the grace to lie together, there where they died, and their wish was given them, and she and those that were with her wept for pity. So they died; and the lady made a tomb for them, and put Balan's name alone on it, for Balin's name she knew not. But Merlin knew, and next morning he came and wrote it in letters of gold, and he ungirded Balin's sword, and unscrewed the pommel, and put another pommel on it, and bade a Knight that stood by handle it, but the Knight could not. At that Merlin laughed. 'Why do you laugh?' asked the Knight. 'Because,' said Merlin, 'no man shall handle this sword but the best Knight in the world, and that is either Sir Lancelot or his son Sir Galahad. With this sword Sir Lancelot shall slay the man he loves best, and Sir Gawaine is his name.' And this was later done, in a fight across the seas. All this Merlin wrote on the pommel of the sword. Next he made a bridge of steel to the island, six inches broad, and no man could pass over it that was guilty of any evil deeds. The scabbard of the sword he left on this side of the island, so that Galahad should find it. The sword itself he put in a magic stone, which floated down the stream to Camelot, that is now called Winchester. And the same day Galahad came to the river, having in his hand the scabbard, and he saw the sword and pulled it out of the stone, as is told in another place. _HOW THE ROUND TABLE BEGAN_ It was told in the story of the Questing Beast that King Arthur married the daughter of Leodegrance, King of Cameliard, but there was not space there to say how it came about. And as the tales of the Round Table are full of this lady, Queen Guenevere, it is well that anybody who reads this book should learn how she became Queen. After King Arthur had fought and conquered many enemies, he said one day to Merlin, whose counsel he took all the days of his life, 'My Barons will let me have no rest, but bid me take a wife, and I have answered them that I shall take none, except you advise me.' 'It is well,' replied Merlin, 'that you should take a wife, but is there any woman that you love better than another?' 'Yes,' said Arthur, 'I love Guenevere, daughter of Leodegrance, King of Cameliard, in whose house is the Round Table that my father gave him. This maiden is the fairest that I have ever seen, or ever shall see.' 'Sir,' answered Merlin, 'what you say as to her beauty is true, but, if your heart was not set on her, I could find you another as fair, and of more goodness, than she. But if a man's heart is once set it is idle to try to turn him.' Then Merlin asked the King to give him a company of knights and esquires, that he might go to the Court of King Leodegrance and tell him that King Arthur desired to wed his daughter, which Arthur did gladly. Therefore Merlin rode forth and made all the haste he could till he came to the Castle of Cameliard, and told King Leodegrance who had sent him and why. 'That is the best news I have ever had,' replied Leodegrance, 'for little did I think that so great and noble a King should seek to marry my daughter. As for lands to endow her with, I would give whatever he chose; but he has lands enough of his own, so I will give him instead something that will please him much more, the Round Table which Uther Pendragon gave me, where a hundred and fifty Knights can sit at one time. I myself can call to my side a hundred good Knights, but I lack fifty, for the wars have slain many, and some are absent.' And without more words King Leodegrance gave his consent that his daughter should wed King Arthur. And Merlin returned with his Knights and esquires, journeying partly by water and partly by land, till they drew near to London. When King Arthur heard of the coming of Merlin and of the Knights with the Round Table he was filled with joy, and said to those that stood about him, 'This news that Merlin has brought me is welcome indeed, for I have long loved this fair lady, and the Round Table is dearer to me than great riches.' Then he ordered that Sir Lancelot should ride to fetch the Queen, and that preparations for the marriage and her coronation should be made, which was done. 'Now, Merlin,' said the King, 'go and look about my kingdom and bring fifty of the bravest and most famous Knights that can be found throughout the land.' But no more than eight and twenty Knights could Merlin find. With these Arthur had to be content, and the Bishop of Canterbury was fetched, and he blessed the seats that were placed by the Round Table, and the Knights sat in them. 'Fair Sirs,' said Merlin, when the Bishop had ended his blessing, 'arise all of you, and pay your homage to the King.' So the Knights arose to do his bidding, and in every seat was the name of the Knight who had sat on it, written in letters of gold, but two seats were empty. After that young Gawaine came to the King, and prayed him to make him a Knight on the day that he should wed Guenevere. 'That I will gladly,' replied the King, 'for you are my sister's son.' As the King was speaking, a poor man entered the Court, bringing with him a youth about eighteen years old, riding on a lean mare, though it was not the custom for gentlemen to ride on mares. 'Where is King Arthur?' asked the man. 'Yonder,' answered the Knights. 'Have you business with him?' 'Yes,' said the man, and he went and bowed low before the King: 'I have heard, O King Arthur, flower of Knights and Kings, that at the time of your marriage you would give any man the gift he should ask for.' 'That is truth,' answered the King, 'as long as I do no wrong to other men or to my kingdom.' 'I thank you for your gracious words,' said the poor man; 'the boon I would ask is that you would make my son a Knight.' 'It is a great boon to ask,' answered the King. 'What is your name?' 'Sir, my name is Aries the cowherd.' 'Is it you or your son that has thought of this honour?' 'It is my son who desires it, and not I,' replied the man. 'I have thirteen sons who tend cattle, and work in the fields if I bid them; but this boy will do nothing but shoot and cast darts, or go to watch battles and look on Knights, and all day long he beseeches me to bring him to you, that he may be knighted also.' 'What is your name?' said Arthur, turning to the young man. 'Sir, my name is Tor.' 'Where is your sword that I may knight you?' said the King. 'It is here, my lord.' 'Take it out of its sheath,' said the King, 'and require me to make you a Knight.' Then Tor jumped off his mare and pulled out his sword, and knelt before the King, praying that he might be made a Knight and a Knight of the Round Table. 'As for a Knight, that I will make you,' said Arthur, smiting him in the neck with the sword, 'and if you are worthy of it you shall be a Knight of the Round Table.' And the next day he made Gawaine Knight also. [Illustration: MERLIN AND VIVIEN] _THE PASSING OF MERLIN._ Sir Tor proved before long by his gallant deeds that he was worthy to sit in one of the two empty seats of the Round Table. Many of the other Knights went out also in search of adventures, and one of them, Sir Pellinore, brought a damsel of the lake to Arthur's Court, and when Merlin saw her he fell in love with her, so that he desired to be always in her company. The damsel laughed in secret at Merlin, but made use of him to tell her all she would know, and the wizard had no strength to say her nay, though he knew what would come of it. For he told King Arthur that before long he should be put into the earth alive, for all his cunning. He likewise told the King many things that should befall him, and warned him always to keep the scabbard as well as the sword Excalibur, and foretold that both sword and scabbard should be stolen from him by a woman whom he most trusted. 'You will miss my counsel sorely,' added Merlin, 'and would give all your lands to have me back again.' 'But since you know what will happen,' said the King, 'you may surely guard against it.' 'No,' answered Merlin, 'that will not be.' So he departed from the King, and the maiden followed him whom some call Nimue and others Vivien, and wherever she went Merlin went also. They journeyed together to many places, both at home and across the seas, and the damsel was wearied of him, and sought by every means to be rid of him, but he would not be shaken off. At last these two wandered back to Cornwall, and one day Merlin showed Vivien a rock under which he said great marvels were hidden. Then Vivien put forth all her powers, and told Merlin how she longed to see the wonders beneath the stone, and, in spite of all his wisdom, Merlin listened to her and crept under the rock to bring forth the strange things that lay there. And when he was under the stone she used the magic he had taught her, and the rock rolled over him, and buried him alive, as he had told King Arthur. But the damsel departed with joy, and thought no more of him: now that she knew all the magic he could teach her. _HOW MORGAN LE FAY TRIED TO KILL_ _KING ARTHUR_ King Arthur had a sister called Morgan le Fay, who was skilled in magic of all sorts, and hated her brother because he had slain in battle a Knight whom she loved. But to gain her own ends, and to revenge herself upon the King, she kept a smiling face, and let none guess the passion in her heart. One day Morgan le Fay went to Queen Guenevere, and asked her leave to go into the country. The Queen wished her to wait till Arthur returned, but Morgan le Fay said she had had bad news and could not wait. Then the Queen let her depart without delay. Early next morning at break of day Morgan le Fay mounted her horse and rode all day and all night, and at noon next day reached the Abbey of nuns where King Arthur had gone to rest, for he had fought a hard battle, and for three nights had slept but little. 'Do not wake him,' said Morgan le Fay, who had come there knowing she would find him, 'I will rouse him myself when I think he has had enough sleep,' for she thought to steal his sword Excalibur from him. The nuns dared not disobey her, so Morgan le Fay went straight into the room where King Arthur was lying fast asleep in his bed, and in his right hand was grasped his sword Excalibur. When she beheld that sight, her heart fell, for she dared not touch the sword, knowing well that if Arthur waked and saw her she was a dead woman. So she took the scabbard, and went away on horseback. When the King awoke and missed his scabbard, he was angry, and asked who had been there; and the nuns told him that it was his sister Morgan le Fay, who had gone away with a scabbard under her mantle. 'Alas!' said Arthur, 'you have watched me badly!' 'Sir,' said they, 'we dared not disobey your sister.' 'Saddle the best horse that can be found,' commanded the King, 'and bid Sir Ontzlake take another and come with me.' And they buckled on their armour and rode after Morgan le Fay. They had not gone far before they met a cowherd, and they stopped to ask if he had seen any lady riding that way. 'Yes,' said the cowherd, 'a lady passed by here, with forty horses behind her, and went into the forest yonder.' Then they galloped hard till Arthur caught sight of Morgan le Fay, who looked back, and, seeing that it was Arthur who gave chase, pushed on faster than before. And when she saw she could not escape him, she rode into a lake that lay in the plain on the edge of the forest, and, crying out, 'Whatever may befall me, my brother shall not have the scabbard,' she threw the scabbard far into the water, and it sank, for it was heavy with gold and jewels. After that she fled into a valley full of great stones, and turned herself and her men and her horses into blocks of marble. Scarcely had she done this when the King rode up, but seeing her nowhere thought some evil must have befallen her in vengeance for her misdeeds. He then sought high and low for the scabbard, but could not find it, so he returned unto the Abbey. When Arthur was gone, Morgan le Fay turned herself and her horses and her men back into their former shapes and said, 'Now, Sirs, we may go where we will.' And she departed into the country of Gore, and made her towns and castles stronger than before, for she feared King Arthur greatly. Meanwhile King Arthur had rested himself at the Abbey, and afterwards he rode to Camelot, and was welcomed by his Queen and all his Knights. And when he told his adventures and how Morgan le Fay sought his death they longed to burn her for her treason. [Illustration: MORGAN LE FAY CASTS AWAY THE SCABBARD] The next morning there arrived a damsel at the Court with a message from Morgan le Fay, saying that she had sent the King her brother a rich mantle for a gift, covered with precious stones, and begged him to receive it and to forgive her in whatever she might have offended him. The King answered little, but the mantle pleased him, and he was about to throw it over his shoulders when the lady of the lake stepped forward, and begged that she might speak to him in private. 'What is it?' asked the King. 'Say on here, and fear nothing.' 'Sir,' said the lady, 'do not put on this mantle, or suffer your Knights to put it on, till the bringer of it has worn it in your presence.' 'Your words are wise,' answered the King, 'I will do as you counsel me. Damsel, I desire you to put on this mantle that you have brought me, so that I may see it.' 'Sir,' said she, 'it does not become me to wear a King's garment.' 'By my head,' cried Arthur, 'you shall wear it before I put it on my back, or on the back of any of my Knights,' and he signed to them to put it on her, and she fell down dead, burnt to ashes by the enchanted mantle. Then the King was filled with anger, more than he was before, that his sister should have dealt so wickedly by him. _WHAT BEAUMAINS ASKED OF THE KING_ As Pentecost drew near King Arthur commanded that all the Knights of the Round Table should keep the feast at a city called Kin-Kenadon, hard by the sands of Wales, where there was a great castle. Now it was the King's custom that he would eat no food on the day of Pentecost, which we call Whit Sunday, until he had heard or seen some great marvel. So on that morning Sir Gawaine was looking from the window a little before noon when he espied three men on horseback, and with them a dwarf on foot, who held their horses when they alighted. Then Sir Gawaine went to the King and said, 'Sir, go to your food, for strange adventures are at hand.' And Arthur called the other Kings that were in the castle, and all the Knights of the Round Table that were a hundred and fifty, and they sat down to dine. When they were seated there entered the hall two men well and richly dressed, and upon their shoulders leaned the handsomest young man that ever was seen of any of them, higher than the other two by a cubit. He was wide in the chest and large handed, but his great height seemed to be a burden and a shame to him, therefore it was he leaned on the shoulders of his friends. As soon as Arthur beheld him he made a sign, and without more words all three went up to the high daïs, where the King sat. Then the tall young man stood up straight, and said: 'King Arthur, God bless you and all your fair fellowship, and in especial the fellowship of the Table Round. I have come hither to pray you to give me three gifts, which you can grant me honourably, for they will do no hurt to you or to anyone.' 'Ask,' answered Arthur, 'and you shall have your asking.' 'Sir, this is my petition for this feast, for the other two I will ask after. Give me meat and drink for this one twelvemonth.' 'Well,' said the king, 'you shall have meat and drink enough, for that I give to every man, whether friend or foe. But tell me your name!' 'I cannot tell you that,' answered he. 'That is strange,' replied the King, 'but you are the goodliest young man I ever saw,' and, turning to Sir Kay, the steward, charged him to give the young man to eat and drink of the best, and to treat him in all ways as if he were a lord's son. 'There is little need to do that,' answered Sir Kay, 'for if he had come of gentlemen and not of peasants he would have asked of you a horse and armour. But as the birth of a man is so are his requests. And seeing he has no name I will give him one, and it shall be Beaumains, or Fair-hands, and he shall sit in the kitchen and eat broth, and at the end of a year he shall be as fat as any pig that feeds on acorns.' So the young man was left in charge of Sir Kay, that scorned and mocked him. Sir Lancelot and Sir Gawaine were wroth when they heard what Sir Kay said, and bade him leave off his mocking, for they believed the youth would turn out to be a man of great deeds; but Sir Kay paid no heed to them, and took him down to the great hall, and set him among the boys and lads, where he ate sadly. After he had finished eating both Sir Lancelot and Sir Gawaine bade him come to their room, and would have had him eat and drink there, but he refused, saying he was bound to obey Sir Kay, into whose charge the King had given him. So he was put into the kitchen by Sir Kay, and slept nightly with the kitchen boys. This he bore for a whole year, and was always mild and gentle, and gave hard words to no one. Only, whenever the Knights played at tourney he would steal out and watch them. And Sir Lancelot gave him gold to spend, and clothes to wear, and so did Gawaine. Also, if there were any games held whereat he might be, none could throw a bar nor cast a stone as far as he by two good yards. Thus the year passed by till the feast of Whitsuntide came again, and this time the king held it at Carlion. But King Arthur would eat no meat at Whitsuntide till some adventures were told him, and glad was he when a squire came and said to him, 'Sir you may go to your food, for here is a damsel with some strange tales.' At this the damsel was led into the hall, and bowed low before the King, and begged he would give her help. 'For whom?' asked the King, 'and what is the adventure?' 'Sir,' answered she, 'my sister is a noble lady of great fame, who is besieged by a tyrant, and may not get out of her castle. And it is because your Knights are said to be the noblest in all the world that I came to you for aid.' 'What is your sister's name, and where does she dwell? And who is the man that besieges her, and where does he come from?' 'Sir King,' answered she, 'as for my sister's name, I cannot tell it you now, but she is a lady of great beauty and goodness, and of many lands. As for the tyrant who besieges her, he is called the Red Knight of the Red Lawns.' 'I know nothing of him,' said the King. 'But I know him,' cried Sir Gawaine, 'and he is one of the most dangerous Knights in the world. Men say he has the strength of seven, and once when we had crossed swords I hardly escaped from him with my life.' 'Fair damsel,' then said the King, 'there are many Knights here who would go gladly to the rescue of your lady, but none of them shall do so with my consent unless you will tell us her name, and the place of her castle.' 'Then I must speak further,' said the damsel. But before she had made answer to the King up came Beaumains, and spoke to Arthur, saying, 'Sir King, I thank you that for this whole year I have lived in your kitchen, and had meat and drink, and now I will ask you for the two gifts that you promised me on this day.' 'Ask them,' answered the King. 'Sir, this shall be my two gifts. First grant me the adventure of this damsel, for it is mine by right.' 'You shall have it,' said the King. 'Then, Sir, you shall bid Sir Lancelot du Lake to make me Knight, for I will receive Knighthood at the hands of no other.' 'All this shall be done,' said the King. 'Fie on you,' cried the damsel, 'will you give me none but a kitchen boy to rescue my lady?' and she went away in a rage, and mounted her horse. No sooner had she left the hall than a page came to Beaumains and told him that a horse and fair armour had been brought for him, also there had arrived a dwarf carrying all things that a Knight needed. And when he was armed there were few men that were handsomer than he, and the Court wondered greatly whence these splendid trappings had come. Then Beaumains came into the hall, and took farewell of the King, and Sir Gawaine and Sir Lancelot, and prayed Sir Lancelot that he would follow after him. So he departed, and rode after the damsel. Many looked upon him and marvelled at the strength of his horse, and its golden trappings, and envied Beaumains his shining coat of mail; but they noted that he had neither shield nor spear. 'I will ride after him,' laughed Sir Kay, 'and see if my kitchen boy will own me for his better.' 'Leave him and stay at home,' said Sir Gawaine and Sir Lancelot, but Sir Kay would not listen and sprang upon his horse. Just as Beaumains came up with the damsel, Sir Kay reached Beaumains, and said, 'Beaumains, do you not know me?' Beaumains turned and looked at him, and answered, 'Yes, I know you for an ill-mannered Knight, therefore beware of me.' At this Sir Kay put his spear in rest and charged him, and Beaumains drew his sword and charged Sir Kay, and dashed aside the spear, and thrust him through the side, till Sir Kay fell down as if he had been dead, and Beaumains took his shield and spear for himself. Then he sprang on his own horse, bidding first his dwarf take Sir Kay's horse, and rode away. All this was seen by Sir Lancelot, who had followed him, and also by the damsel. In a little while Beaumains stopped, and asked Sir Lancelot if he would tilt with him, and they came together with such a shock that both the horses and their riders fell to the earth and were bruised sorely. Sir Lancelot was the first to rise, and he helped Beaumains from his horse, and Beaumains threw his shield from him, and offered to fight on foot. And they rushed together like wild boars, turning and thrusting and parrying for the space of an hour, and Sir Lancelot marvelled at the young man's strength, and thought he was more like a giant than a Knight, and dreading lest he himself should be put to shame, he said: 'Beaumains, do not fight so hard, we have no quarrel that forbids us to leave off.' 'That is true,' answered Beaumains, laying down his arms, 'but it does me good, my lord, to feel your might.' 'Well,' said Sir Lancelot, 'I promise you I had much ado to save myself from you unshamed, therefore have no fear of any other Knight.' 'Do you think I could really stand against a proved Knight?' asked Beaumains. 'Yes,' said Lancelot, 'if you fight as you have fought to-day I will be your warrant against anyone.' 'Then I pray you,' cried Beaumains, 'give me the order of knighthood.' 'You must first tell me your name,' replied Lancelot, 'and who are your kindred.' 'You will not betray me if I do?' asked Beaumains. 'No, that I will never do, till it is openly known,' said Lancelot. 'Then, Sir, my name is Gareth, and Sir Gawaine is my brother.' 'Ah, Sir,' cried Lancelot, 'I am gladder of you than ever I was, for I was sure you came of good blood, and that you did not come to the Court for meat and drink only.' And he bade him kneel, and gave him the order of knighthood. [Illustration: Faugh sir! You smell of ye Kitchen Gareth & Linet] After that Sir Gareth wished to go his own ways, and departed. When he was gone, Sir Lancelot went back to Sir Kay and ordered some men that were by to bear him home on a shield, and in time his wounds were healed; but he was scorned of all men, and especially of Sir Gawaine and Sir Lancelot, who told him it was no good deed to treat any young man so, and no one could tell what his birth might be, or what had brought him to the Court. Then Beaumains rode after the damsel, who stopped when she saw him coming. 'What are you doing here?' said she. 'Your clothes smell of the grease and tallow of the kitchen! Do you think to change my heart towards you because of yonder Knight whom you slew? No, truly! I know well who you are, you turner of spits! Go back to King Arthur's kitchen, which is your proper place.' 'Damsel,' replied Beaumains, 'you may say to me what you will, but I shall not quit you whatever you may do, for I have vowed to King Arthur to relieve the lady in the castle, and I shall set her free or die fighting for her.' 'Fie on you, Scullion,' answered she. 'You will meet with one who will make you such a welcome that you would give all the broth you ever cooked never to have seen his face.' 'I shall do my best to fight him,' said Beaumains, and held his peace. Soon they entered the wood, and there came a man flying towards them, galloping with all his might. 'Oh, help! help! lord,' cried he, 'for my master lies in a thicket, bound by six thieves, and I greatly fear they will slay him.' 'Show me the way,' said Sir Beaumains, and they rode together till they reached the place where the Knight lay bound. Then Sir Beaumains charged the six thieves, and struck one dead, and another, and another still, and the other three fled, not liking the battle. Sir Beaumains pursued them till they turned at bay, and fought hard for their lives; but in the end Sir Beaumains slew them, and returned to the Knight and unbound him. The Knight thanked Beaumains heartily for his deliverance, and prayed him to come to his castle, where he would reward him. 'Sir,' said Beaumains, 'I was this day made Knight by noble Sir Lancelot, and that is reward enough for anything I may do. Besides, I must follow this damsel.' But when he came near her she reviled him as before, and bade him ride far from her. 'Do you think I set store by what you have done? You will soon see a sight that will make you tell a very different tale.' At this the Knight whom Beaumains had rescued rode up to the damsel, and begged that she would rest in his castle that night, as the sun was now setting. The damsel agreed, and the Knight ordered a great supper, and gave Sir Beaumains a seat above the seat of the damsel, who rose up in anger. 'Fie! fie! Sir Knight,' cried she, 'you are uncourteous to set a mere kitchen page before me; he is not fit to be in the company of high-born people.' Her words struck shame into the Knight, and he took Beaumains and set him at a side table, and seated himself before him. In the early morning Sir Beaumains and the damsel bade farewell to the Knight, and rode through the forest till they came to a great river, where stood two Knights on the further side, guarding the passage. 'Well, what do you say now?' asked the damsel. 'Will you fight them or turn back?' 'I would not turn if there were six more of them,' answered Sir Beaumains, and he rushed into the water and so did one of the Knights. They came together in the middle of the stream, and their spears broke in two with the force of the charge, and they drew their swords, hitting hard at each other. At length Sir Beaumains dealt the other Knight such a blow that he fell from his horse, and was drowned in the river. Then Beaumains put his horse at the bank, where the second Knight was waiting for him, and they fought long together, till Sir Beaumains clave his helmet in two. So he left him dead, and rode after the damsel. 'Alas!' she cried, 'that even a kitchen page should have power to destroy two such Knights! You think you have done mighty things, but you are wrong! As to the first Knight, his horse stumbled, and he was drowned before you ever touched him. And the other you took from behind, and struck him when he was defenceless.' 'Damsel!' answered Beaumains, 'you may say what you will, I care not what it is, so I may deliver this lady.' 'Fie, foul kitchen knave, you shall see Knights that will make you lower your crest.' 'I pray you be more civil in your language,' answered Beaumains, 'for it matters not to me what Knights they be, I will do battle with them.' 'I am trying to turn you back for your own good,' answered she, 'for if you follow me you are certainly a dead man, as well I know all you have won before has been by luck.' 'Say what you will, damsel,' said he, 'but where you go I will follow you,' and they rode together till eventide, and all the way she chid him and gave him no rest. [Illustration: LINET AND THE BLACK KNIGHT] At length they reached an open space where there was a black lawn, and on the lawn a black hawthorn, whereon hung a black banner on one side, and a black shield and spear, big and long, on the other. Close by stood a black horse covered with silk, fastened to a black stone. A Knight, covered with black armour, sat on the horse, and when she saw him the damsel bade him ride away, as his horse was not saddled. But the Knight drew near and said to her, 'Damsel, have you brought this Knight from King Arthur's Court to be your champion?' 'No, truly,' answered she, 'this is but a kitchen boy, fed by King Arthur for charity.' 'Then why is he clad in armour?' asked the Knight; 'it is a shame that he should even bear you company.' 'I cannot be rid of him,' said she, 'he rides with me against my will. I would that you were able to deliver me from him! Either slay him or frighten him off, for by ill fortune he has this day slain the two Knights of the passage.' 'I wonder much,' said the Black Knight, 'that any man who is well born should consent to fight with him.' 'They do not know him,' replied the damsel, 'and they think he must be a famous Knight because he rides with me.' 'That may be,' said the Black Knight, 'but he is well made, and looks likely to be a strong man; still I promise you I will just throw him to the ground, and take away his horse and armour, for it would be a shame to me to do more.' When Sir Beaumains heard him talk thus he looked up and said, 'Sir Knight, you are lightly disposing of my horse and armour, but I would have you know that I will pass this lawn, against your will or not, and you will only get my horse and armour if you win them in fair fight. Therefore let me see what you can do.' 'Say you so?' answered the Knight, 'now give up the lady at once, for it ill becomes a kitchen page to ride with a lady of high degree.' 'It is a lie,' said Beaumains, 'I am a gentleman born, and my birth is better than yours, as I will prove upon your body.' With that they drew back their horses so as to charge each other hotly, and for the space of an hour and a half they fought fiercely and well, but in the end a blow from Beaumains threw the Knight from his horse, and he swooned and died. Then Beaumains jumped down, and seeing that the Knight's horse and armour were better than his own, he took them for himself, and rode after the damsel. While they were thus riding together, and the damsel was chiding him as ever she did, they saw a Knight coming towards them dressed all in green. 'Is that my brother the Black Knight who is with you?' asked he of the damsel. 'No, indeed,' she replied, 'this unhappy kitchen knave has slain your brother, to my great sorrow.' 'Alas!' sighed the Green Knight, 'that my brother should die so meanly at the hand of a kitchen knave. Traitor!' he added, turning to Beaumains, 'thou shalt die for slaying my brother, for he was a noble Knight, and his name was Sir Percard.' 'I defy you,' said Beaumains, 'for I slew him as a good Knight should.' Then the Green Knight seized a horn which hung from a horn tree, and blew three notes upon it, and two damsels came and armed him, and fastened on him a green shield and a green spear. So the fight began and raged long, first on horseback and then on foot, till both were sore wounded. At last the damsel came and stood beside them, and said, 'My lord the Green Knight, why for very shame do you stand so long fighting a kitchen knave? You ought never to have been made a Knight at all!' These scornful words stung the heart of the Green Knight, and he dealt a mighty stroke which cleft asunder the shield of Beaumains. And when Beaumains saw this, he struck a blow upon the Knight's helmet which brought him to his knees, and Beaumains leapt on him, and dragged him to the ground. Then the Green Knight cried for mercy, and offered to yield himself prisoner unto Beaumains. 'It is all in vain,' answered Beaumains, 'unless the damsel prays me for your life,' and therewith he unlaced his helmet as though he would slay him. 'Fie upon thee, false kitchen page!' said the damsel, 'I will never pray to save his life, for I am sure he is in no danger.' 'Suffer me not to die,' entreated the Knight, 'when a word may save me!' 'Fair Knight,' he went on, turning to Beaumains, 'save my life, and I will forgive you the death of my brother, and will do you service for ever, and will bring thirty of my Knights to serve you likewise.' 'It is a shame,' cried the damsel, 'that such a kitchen knave should have you and thirty Knights besides.' 'Sir Knight,' said Beaumains, 'I care nothing for all this, but if I am to spare your life the damsel must ask for it,' and he stepped forward as if to slay him. 'Let be, foul knave,' then said the damsel, 'do not slay him. If you do, you will repent it.' 'Damsel,' answered Beaumains, 'it is a pleasure to me to obey you, and at your wish I will save his life. Sir Knight with the green arms, I release you at the request of this damsel, and I will fulfil all she charges me.' Then the Green Knight kneeled down, and did him homage with his sword. 'I am sorry,' said the damsel, 'for the wounds you have received, and for your brother's death, for I had great need of you both, and have much dread of passing the forest.' 'Fear nothing,' answered the Green Knight, 'for this evening you shall lodge in my house, and to-morrow I will show you the way through the forest.' And they went with the Green Knight. But the damsel did not mend her ways with Beaumains, and ever more reviled him, till the Green Knight rebuked her, saying Beaumains was the noblest Knight that held a spear, and that in the end she would find he had sprung from some great King. And the Green Knight summoned the thirty Knights who did him service, and bade them henceforth do service to Beaumains, and keep him from treachery, and when he had need of them they would be ready to obey his orders. So they bade each other farewell, and Beaumains and the damsel rode forth anew. In like manner did Sir Beaumains overcome the Red Knight, who was the third brother, and the Red Knight cried for mercy, and offered to bring sixty Knights to do him service, and Beaumains spared his life at the request of the damsel, and likewise it so happened to Sir Persant of Inde. And this time the damsel prayed Beaumains to give up the fight, saying, 'Sir, I wonder who you are and of what kindred you have come. Boldly you speak, and boldly you have done; therefore I pray you to depart and save yourself while you may, for both you and your horse have suffered great fatigues, and I fear we delay too long, for the besieged castle is but seven miles from this place, and all the perils are past save this one only. I dread sorely lest you should get some hurt; yet this Sir Persant of Inde is nothing in might to the Knight who has laid siege to my lady.' But Sir Beaumains would not listen to her words, and vowed that by two hours after noon he would have overthrown him, and that it would still be daylight when they reached the castle. 'What sort of a man can you be?' answered the damsel, looking at him in wonder, 'for never did a woman treat a Knight as ill and shamefully as I have done you, while you have always been gentle and courteous to me, and no one bears himself like that save he who is of noble blood.' 'Damsel,' replied Beaumains, 'your hard words only drove me to strike the harder, and though I ate in King Arthur's kitchen, perhaps I might have had as much food as I wanted elsewhere. But all I have done was to make proof of my friends, and whether I am a gentleman or not, fair damsel, I have done you gentleman's service, and may perchance, do you greater service before we part from each other.' 'Alas, fair Beaumains, forgive me all that I have said and done against you.' 'With all my heart,' he answered, 'and since you are pleased now to speak good words to me, know that I hear them gladly, and there is no Knight living but I feel strong enough to meet him.' So Beaumains conquered Sir Persant of Inde, who brought a hundred Knights to be sworn into his service, and the next morning the damsel led him to the castle, where the Red Knight of the Red Lawn held fast the lady. 'Heaven defend you,' cried Sir Persant, when they told him where they were going; 'that is the most perilous Knight now living, for he has the strength of seven men. He has done great wrong to that lady, who is one of the fairest in all the world, and it seems to me as if this damsel must be her sister. Is not her name Linet?' 'Yes, Sir,' answered she, 'and my lady my sister's name is dame Lyonesse.' 'The Red Knight has drawn out the siege for two years,' said Sir Persant, 'though he might have forced an entrance many a time, but he hoped that Sir Lancelot du Lake or Sir Tristram or Sir Gawaine should come to do battle with him.' 'My Lord Sir Persant of Inde,' said the damsel, 'I bid you knight this gentleman before he fight with the Red Knight.' 'That I will gladly,' replied Sir Persant, 'if it please him to take the order of knighthood from so simple a man as I am.' 'Sir,' answered Beaumains, 'I thank you for your goodwill, but at the beginning of this quest I was made a Knight by Sir Lancelot. My name is Sir Gareth of Orkney and Sir Gawaine is my brother, though neither he nor King Arthur, whose sister is my mother, knows of it. I pray you to keep it close also.' Now word was brought unto the besieged lady by the dwarf that her sister was coming to her with a Knight sent by King Arthur. And when the lady heard all that Beaumains had done, and how he had overthrown all who stood in his way, she bade her dwarf take baked venison, and fat capons, and two silver flagons of wine and a gold cup, and put them into the hands of a hermit that dwelt in a hermitage close by. The dwarf did so, and the lady then sent him to greet her sister and Sir Beaumains, and to beg them to eat and drink in the hermit's cell, and rest themselves, which they did. When they drew near the besieged castle Sir Beaumains saw full forty Knights, with spurs on their heels and swords in their hands, hanging from the tall trees that stood upon the lawn. 'Fair Sir,' said the damsel, 'these Knights came hither to rescue my sister, dame Lyonesse; and if you cannot overthrow the Knight of the Red Lawn, you will hang there too.' 'Truly,' answered Beaumains, 'it is a marvel that none of King Arthur's Knights has dealt with the Knight of the Red Lawn ere this'; and they rode up to the castle, which had round it high walls and deep ditches, till they came to a great sycamore tree, where hung a horn. And whoso desired to do battle with the Red Knight must blow that horn loudly. [Illustration: The Lady of Lyonesse sees Sir Gareth] 'Sir, I pray you,' said Linet, as Beaumains bent forward to seize it, 'do not blow it till it is full noontide, for during three hours before that the Red Knight's strength so increases that it is as the strength of seven men; but when noon is come, he has the might of one man only.' 'Ah! for shame, damsel, to say such words. I will fight him as he is, or not at all,' and Beaumains blew such a blast that it rang through the castle. And the Red Knight buckled on his armour, and came to where Beaumains stood. So the battle began, and a fierce one it was, and much ado had Beaumains to last out till noon, when the Red Knight's strength began to wane; they rested, and came on again, and in the end the Red Knight yielded to Sir Beaumains, and the lords and barons in the castle did homage to the victor, and begged that the Red Knight's life might be spared on condition they all took service with Beaumains. This was granted to them, and Linet bound up his wounds and put ointment on them, and so she did likewise to Sir Beaumains. But the Red Knight was sent to the Court of King Arthur, and told him all that Sir Beaumains had done. And King Arthur and his Knights marvelled. Now Sir Beaumains had looked up at the windows of Castle Perilous before the fight, and had seen the face of the Lady Lyonesse, and had thought it the fairest in all the world. After he had subdued the Red Knight, he hasted into the castle, and the Lady Lyonesse welcomed him, and he told her he had bought her love with the best blood in his body. And she did not say him nay, but put him off for a time. Then the King sent letters to her to bid her, and likewise Sir Gareth, come to his Court, and by the counsel of Sir Gareth she prayed the King to let her call a tournament, and to proclaim that the Knight who bore himself best should, if he was unwedded, take her and all her lands. But if he had a wife already he should be given a white ger-falcon, and for his wife a crown of gold, set about with precious stones. So the Lady Lyonesse did as Sir Gareth had counselled her, and answered King Arthur that where Sir Gareth was she could not tell, but that if the King would call a tourney he might be sure that Sir Gareth would come to it. 'It is well thought of,' said Arthur, and the Lady Lyonesse departed unto Castle Perilous, and summoned all her Knights around her, and told them what she had done, and how they were to make ready to fight in the tournament. She began at once to set her castle in order, and to think what she should do with the great array of Knights that would ride hither from the furthest parts--from Scotland and Wales and Cornwall--and to lodge fitly the Kings, Dukes, Earls, and Barons that should come with Arthur. Queen Guenevere also she awaited, and the Queen of Orkney, Sir Gareth's mother. But Sir Gareth entreated the Lady Lyonesse and those Knights that were in the castle with him not to let his name be known, and this they agreed to. 'Sir Gareth,' said dame Lyonesse, 'I will lend you a ring, which I beseech you for the love you bear me to give me back when the tournament is done, for without it I have but little beauty. This ring is like no other ring, it will turn green red, and blue white, and the bearer shall lose no blood, however sore he may be wounded.' 'Truly, my own lady,' answered Sir Gareth, 'this ring will serve me well, and by its help I shall not fear that any man shall know me.' And Sir Gringamore, brother to the Lady Lyonesse, gave him a bay horse, and strong armour, and a sharp sword that had once belonged to his father. On the morning of the fifteenth of August, when the Feast of the Assumption was kept, the King commanded his heralds to blow loudly their trumpets, so that every Knight might know that he must enter the lists. It was a noble sight to see them flocking clad in shining armour, each man with his device upon his shield. And the heralds marked who bare them best, and who were overthrown. All marvelled as to who the Knight could be whose armour sometimes seemed green, and sometimes white, but no man knew it was Sir Gareth. And whosoever Sir Gareth tilted with was straightway overthrown. 'Of a truth,' cried King Arthur, 'that Knight with the many colours is a good Knight,' and he called Sir Lancelot and bade him to challenge that Knight to combat. But Sir Lancelot said that though the Knight had come off victor in every fight, yet his limbs must be weary, for he had fought as a man fights under the eyes of his lady, 'and for this day,' said Sir Lancelot, 'he shall have the honour. Though it lay in my power to put it from him, I would not.' Then they paused for a while to rest, and afterwards the tournament began again more fiercely than before, and Sir Lancelot was set upon by two Knights at once. When Sir Gareth saw that, he rode in between them, but no stroke would he deal Sir Lancelot, which Sir Lancelot noted, and guessed that it was the good Knight Sir Gareth. Sir Gareth went hither and thither, smiting anyone that came in his way, and by fortune he met with his brother Sir Gawaine, and knocked off his helmet. Now it happened that while he was fighting a Knight dealt Sir Gareth a fierce blow on his helm, and he rode off the field to mend it. Then his dwarf, who had been watching eagerly, cried out to Sir Gareth to leave the ring with him, lest he should lose it while he was drinking, which Sir Gareth did; and when he had drunk and mended his helm he forgot the ring, at which the dwarf was glad, for he knew his name could no longer be hid. And when Sir Gareth returned to the field, his armour shone yellow like gold, and King Arthur marvelled what Knight he was, for he saw by his hair that he was the same Knight who had worn the many colours. 'Go,' he said to his heralds, 'ride near him and see what manner of Knight he is, for none can tell me his name.' So a herald drew close to him, and saw that on his helm was written in golden letters 'This helm belongs to Sir Gareth of Orkney'; and the herald cried out and made proclamation, and the Kings and Knights pressed to behold him. And when Sir Gareth saw he was discovered, he struck more fiercely than before, and smote down Sir Sagramore, and his brother Sir Gawaine. 'O brother,' said Sir Gawaine, 'I did not think you would have smitten me!' When Sir Gareth heard him say that he rode out of the press, and cried to his dwarf, 'Boy, you have played me foul, for you have kept my ring. Give it to me now, that I may hide myself,' and he galloped swiftly into the forest, and no one knew where he had gone. 'What shall I do next?' asked he of the dwarf. 'Sir,' answered the dwarf, 'send the Lady Lyonesse back her ring.' 'Your counsel is good,' said Gareth; 'take it to her, and commend me to her grace, and say I will come when I may, and bid her to be faithful to me, as I am to her.' After that Sir Gareth rode deeper into the forest. Though Sir Gareth had left the tournament he found that there were as many fights awaiting him as if he had remained there. He overcame all his foes, and sent them and their followers to do homage to King Arthur, but he himself stayed behind. He was standing alone after they had gone, when he beheld an armed Knight coming towards him. Sir Gareth sprang on his horse, and without a word the two crashed together like thunder, and strove hard for two hours, till the ground was wet with blood. At that time the damsel Linet came riding by, and saw what was doing, and knew who were the fighters. And she cried 'Sir Gawaine, Sir Gawaine, leave fighting with your brother Sir Gareth.' Then he threw down his shield and sword, and ran to Sir Gareth, and first took him in his arms and next kneeled down and asked mercy of him. 'Why do you, who were but now so strong and mighty, so suddenly yield to me?' asked Sir Gareth, who had not perceived the damsel. 'O Gareth, I am your brother, and have had much sorrow for your sake.' At this Sir Gareth unlaced his helm and knelt before Sir Gawaine, and they rose and embraced each other. 'Ah, my fair brother,' said Sir Gawaine, 'I ought rightly to do you homage, even if you were not my brother, for in this twelvemonth you have sent King Arthur more Knights than any six of the best men of the Round Table.' While he was speaking there came the Lady Linet, and healed the wounds of Sir Gareth and of Sir Gawaine. 'What are you going to do now?' asked she. 'It is time that King Arthur had tidings of you both, and your horses are not fit to bear you.' 'Ride, I pray you,' said Sir Gawaine, 'to my uncle King Arthur, who is but two miles away, and tell him what adventure has befallen me.' So she mounted her mule, and when she had told her tale to King Arthur, he bade them saddle him a palfrey and invited all the Knights and ladies of his Court to ride with him. When they reached the place they saw Sir Gareth and Sir Gawaine sitting on the hill-side. The King jumped off his horse, and would have greeted them, but he swooned away for gladness, and they ran and comforted him, and also their mother. The two Knights stayed in King Arthur's Court for eight days, and rested themselves and grew strong. Then said the King to Linet, 'I wonder that your sister, dame Lyonesse, does not come here to visit me, or more truly to visit my nephew, Sir Gareth, who has worked so hard to win her love.' 'My lord,' answered Linet, 'you must, by your grace, hold her excused, for she does not know that Sir Gareth is here.' 'Go and fetch her, then,' said Arthur. 'That I will do quickly,' replied Linet, and by the next morning she had brought dame Lyonesse, and her brother Sir Gringamore, and forty Knights, but among the ladies dame Lyonesse was the fairest, save only Queen Guenevere. They were all welcomed of King Arthur, who turned to his nephew Sir Gareth and asked him whether he would have that lady to his wife. 'My lord,' replied Sir Gareth, 'you know well that I love her above all the ladies in the world.' 'And what say you, fair lady?' asked the King. 'Most noble King,' said dame Lyonesse, 'I would sooner have Sir Gareth as my husband than any King or Prince that may be christened, and if I may not have him I promise you I will have none. For he is my first love, and shall be my last. And if you will suffer him to have his will and choice, I dare say he will have me.' 'That is truth,' said Sir Gareth. 'What, nephew,' cried the King, 'sits the wind in that door? Then you shall have all the help that is in my power,' and so said Gareth's mother. And it was fixed that the marriage should be at Michaelmas, at Kin-Kenadon by the sea-shore, and thus it was proclaimed in all places of the realm. Then Sir Gareth sent his summons to all the Knights and ladies that he had won in battle that they should be present, and he gave a rich ring to the Lady Lyonesse, and she gave him one likewise. And before she departed she had from King Arthur a shining golden bee, as a token. After that Sir Gareth set her on her way towards her castle, and returned unto the King. But he would ever be in Sir Lancelot's company, for there was no Knight that Sir Gareth loved so well as Sir Lancelot. The days drew fast to Michaelmas, and there came the Lady Lyonesse with her sister Linet and her brother Sir Gringamore to Kin-Kenadon by the sea, and there were they lodged by order of King Arthur. And upon Michaelmas Day the Bishop of Canterbury wedded Sir Gareth and the Lady Lyonesse with great ceremonies, and King Arthur commanded that Sir Gawaine should be joined to the damsel Linet, and Sir Agrawaine to the niece of dame Lyonesse, whose name was Laurel. Then the Knights whom Sir Gareth had won in battle came with their followings and did homage to him, and the Green Knight besought him that he might act as chamberlain at the feast, and the Red Knight that he might be his steward. As soon as the feast was ended, they had all manner of minstrelsy and games and a great tournament that lasted three days, but at the prayer of dame Lyonesse the King would not suffer that any man who was wedded should fight at that feast. _THE QUEST OF THE HOLY GRAAL_ This is a mysterious part of the adventures of King Arthur's Knights. We must remember that parts of these stories are very old; they were invented by the heathen Welsh, or by the ancient Britons, from whom the Welsh are descended, and by the old pagan Irish, who spoke Gaelic, a language not very unlike Welsh. Then these ancient stories were translated by French and other foreign writers, and Christian beliefs and chivalrous customs were added in the French romances, and, finally, the French was translated into English about the time of Edward IV. by Sir Thomas Malory, who altered as he pleased. The Story of the Holy Graal, in this book, is mostly taken from Malory, but partly from 'The High History of the Holy Graal,' translated by Dr. Sebastian Evans from an old French book. What _was_ the Holy Graal? In the stories it is the holy vessel used by our Lord, and brought to Britain by Joseph of Arimathea. But in the older heathen Irish stories there is a mysterious vessel of a magical sort, full of miraculous food, and probably the French writers of the romances confused this with the sacred vessel brought from the Holy Land. On account of the sins of men this relic was made invisible, but now and then it appeared, borne by angels or floating in a heavenly light. The Knights, against King Arthur's wish, made a vow to find it, and gave up their duties of redressing wrongs and keeping order, to pursue the beautiful vision. But most of them, for their sins, were unsuccessful, like Sir Lancelot, and the Round Table was scattered and the kingdom was weakened by the neglect of ordinary duties in the search for what could never be gained by mortal men. This appears to be the moral of the story, if it has any moral. But the stories are confused almost like a dream, though it is a beautiful dream. I HOW THE KING WENT ON PILGRIMAGE, AND HIS SQUIRE WAS SLAIN IN A DREAM Now the King was minded to go on a pilgrimage, and he agreed with the Queen that he would set forth to seek the holy chapel of St. Augustine, which is in the White Forest, and may only be found by adventure. Much he wished to undertake the quest alone, but this the Queen would not suffer, and to do her pleasure he consented that a youth, tall and strong of limb, should ride with him as his squire. Chaus was the youth's name, and he was son to Gwain li Aoutres. 'Lie within to-night,' commanded the King, 'and take heed that my horse be saddled at break of day, and my arms ready.' 'At your pleasure, Sir,' answered the youth, whose heart rejoiced because he was going alone with the King. As night came on, all the Knights quitted the hall, but Chaus the squire stayed where he was, and would not take off his clothes or his shoes, lest sleep should fall on him and he might not be ready when the King called him. So he sat himself down by the great fire, but in spite of his will sleep fell heavily on him, and he dreamed a strange dream. In his dream it seemed that the King had ridden away to the quest, and had left his squire behind him, which filled the young man with fear. And in his dream he set the saddle and bridle on his horse, and fastened his spurs, and girt on his sword, and galloped out of the castle after the King. He rode on a long space, till he entered a thick forest, and there before him lay traces of the King's horse, and he followed till the marks of the hoofs ceased suddenly at some open ground and he thought that the King had alighted there. On the right stood a chapel, and about it was a graveyard, and in the graveyard many coffins, and in his dream it seemed as if the King had entered the chapel, so the young man entered also. But no man did he behold save a Knight that lay dead upon a bier in the midst of the chapel, covered with a pall of rich silk, and four tapers in golden candlesticks were burning round him. The squire marvelled to see the body lying there so lonely, with no one near it, and likewise that the King was nowhere to be seen. Then he took out one of the tall tapers, and hid the candlestick under his cloak, and rode away until he should find the King. On his journey through the forest he was stopped by a man black and ill-favoured, holding a large knife in his hand. 'Ho! you that stand there, have you seen King Arthur?' asked the squire. 'No, but I have met you, and I am glad thereof, for you have under your cloak one of the candlesticks of gold that was placed in honour of the Knight who lies dead in the chapel. Give it to me, and I will carry it back; and if you do not this of your own will, I will make you.' 'By my faith!' cried the squire, 'I will never yield it to you! Rather, will I carry it off and make a present of it to King Arthur.' 'You will pay for it dearly,' answered the man, 'if you yield it not up forthwith.' To this the squire did not make answer, but dashed forward, thinking to pass him by; but the man thrust at him with his knife, and it entered his body up to the hilt. And when the squire dreamed this, he cried, 'Help! help! for I am a dead man!' As soon as the King and the Queen heard that cry they awoke from their sleep, and the Chamberlain said, 'Sir, you must be moving, for it is day'; and the King rose and dressed himself, and put on his shoes. Then the cry came again: 'Fetch me a priest, for I die!' and the King ran at great speed into the hall, while the Queen and the Chamberlain followed him with torches and candles. 'What aileth you?' asked the King of his squire, and the squire told him of all that he had dreamed. 'Ha,' said the King, 'is it, then, a dream?' 'Yes, Sir,' answered the squire, 'but it is a right foul dream for me, for right foully it hath come true,' and he lifted his left arm, and said, 'Sir, look you here! Lo, here is the knife that was struck in my side up to the haft.' After that, he drew forth the candlestick, and showed it to the King. 'Sir, for this candlestick that I present to you was I wounded to the death!' The King took the candlestick in his hands and looked at it, and none so rich had he seen before, and he bade the Queen look also. 'Sir,' said the squire again, 'draw not forth the knife out of my body till I be shriven of the priest.' So the King commanded that a priest should be sent for, and when the squire had confessed his sins, the King drew the knife out of the body and the soul departed forthwith. Then the King grieved that the young man had come to his death in such strange wise, and ordered him a fair burial, and desired that the golden candlestick should be sent to the Church of Saint Paul in London, which at that time was newly built. After this King Arthur would have none to go with him on his quest, and many strange adventures he achieved before he reached the chapel of St. Augustine, which was in the midst of the White Forest. There he alighted from his horse, and sought to enter, but though there was neither door nor bar he might not pass the threshold. But from without he heard wondrous voices singing, and saw a light shining brighter than any that he had seen before, and visions such as he scarcely dared to look upon. And he resolved greatly to amend his sins, and to bring peace and order into his kingdom. So he set forth, strengthened and comforted, and after divers more adventures returned to his Court. II THE COMING OF THE HOLY GRAAL It was on the eve of Pentecost that all the Knights of the Table Round met together at Camelot, and a great feast was made ready for them. And as they sat at supper they heard a loud noise, as of the crashing of thunder, and it seemed as if the roof would fall on them. Then, in the midst of the thunder, there entered a sunbeam, brighter by seven times than the brightest day, and its brightness was not of this world. The Knights held their peace, but every man looked at his neighbour, and his countenance shone fairer than ever it had done before. As they sat dumb, for their tongues felt as if they could speak nothing, there floated in the hall the Holy Graal, and over it a veil of white samite, so that none might see it nor who bare it. But sweet odours filled the place, and every Knight had set before him the food he loved best; and after that the Holy Vessel departed suddenly, they wist not where. When it had gone their tongues were loosened, and the King gave thanks for the wonders that they had been permitted to see. After that he had finished, Sir Gawaine stood up and vowed to depart the next morning in quest of the Holy Graal, and not to return until he had seen it. 'But if after a year and a day I may not speed in my quest,' said he, 'I shall come again, for I shall know that the sight of it is not for me.' And many of the Knights there sitting swore a like vow. But King Arthur, when he heard this, was sore displeased. 'Alas!' cried he unto Sir Gawaine, 'you have undone me by your vow. For through you is broken up the fairest fellowship, and the truest of knighthood, that ever the world saw, and when they have once departed they shall meet no more at the Table Round, for many shall die in the quest. It grieves me sore, for I have loved them as well as my own life.' So he spoke, and paused, and tears came into his eyes. 'Ah, Gawaine, Gawaine! you have set me in great sorrow.' 'Comfort yourself,' said Sir Lancelot, 'for we shall win for ourselves great honour, and much more than if we had died in any other wise, since die we must.' But the King would not be comforted, and the Queen and all the Court were troubled also for the love which they had to these Knights. Then the Queen came to Sir Galahad, who was sitting among those Knights though younger he was than any of them, and asked him whence he came, and of what country, and if he was son to Sir Lancelot. And King Arthur did him great honour, and he rested him in his own bed. And next morning the King and Queen went into the Minster, and the Knights followed them, dressed all in armour, save only their shields and their helmets. When the service was finished the King would know how many of the fellowship had sworn to undertake the quest of the Graal, and they were counted, and found to number a hundred and fifty. They bade farewell, and mounted their horses, and rode through the streets of Camelot, and there was weeping of both rich and poor, and the King could not speak for weeping. And at sunrise they all parted company with each other, and every Knight took the way he best liked. III THE ADVENTURE OF SIR GALAHAD Now Sir Galahad had as yet no shield, and he rode four days without meeting any adventure, till at last he came to a White Abbey, where he dismounted and asked if he might sleep there that night. The brethren received him with great reverence, and led him to a chamber, where he took off his armour, and then saw that he was in the presence of two Knights. 'Sirs,' said Sir Galahad, 'what adventure brought you hither?' 'Sir,' replied they, 'we heard that within this Abbey is a shield that no man may hang round his neck without being dead within three days, or some mischief befalling him. And if we fail in the adventure, you shall take it upon you.' 'Sirs,' replied Sir Galahad, 'I agree well thereto, for as yet I have no shield.' So on the morn they arose and heard Mass, and then a monk led them behind an altar where hung a shield white as snow, with a red cross in the middle of it. 'Sirs,' said the monk, 'this shield cannot be hung round no Knight's neck, unless he be the worthiest Knight in the world, and therefore I counsel you to be well advised.' 'Well,' answered one of the Knights, whose name was King Bagdemagus, 'I know truly that I am not the best Knight in the world, but yet shall I try to bear it,' and he bare it out of the Abbey. Then he said to Sir Galahad, 'I pray you abide here still, till you know how I shall speed,' and he rode away, taking with him a squire to send tidings back to Sir Galahad. After King Bagdemagus had ridden two miles he entered a fair valley, and there met him a goodly Knight seated on a white horse and clad in white armour. And they came together with their spears, and Sir Bagdemagus was borne from his horse, for the shield covered him not at all. Therewith the strange Knight alighted and took the white shield from him, and gave it to the squire, saying, 'Bear this shield to the good Knight Sir Galahad that thou hast left in the Abbey, and greet him well from me.' 'Sir,' said the squire, 'what is your name?' 'Take thou no heed of my name,' answered the Knight, 'for it is not for thee to know, nor for any earthly man.' 'Now, fair Sir,' said the squire, 'tell me for what cause this shield may not be borne lest ill befalls him who bears it.' 'Since you have asked me,' answered the Knight, 'know that no man shall bear this shield, save Sir Galahad only.' Then the squire turned to Bagdemagus, and asked him whether he were wounded or not. 'Yes, truly,' said he, 'and I shall hardly escape from death'; and scarcely could he climb on to his horse's back when the squire brought it near him. But the squire led him to a monastery that lay in the valley, and there he was treated of his wounds, and after long lying came back to life. After the squire had given the Knight into the care of the monks, he rode back to the Abbey, bearing with him the shield. 'Sir Galahad,' said he, alighting before him, 'the Knight that wounded Bagdemagus sends you greeting, and bids you bear this shield, which shall bring you many adventures.' 'Now blessed be God and fortune,' answered Sir Galahad, and called for his arms, and mounted his horse, hanging the shield about his neck. Then, followed by the squire, he set out. They rode straight to the hermitage, where they saw the White Knight who had sent the shield to Sir Galahad. The two Knights saluted each other courteously, and then the White Knight told Sir Galahad the story of the shield, and how it had been given into his charge. Afterwards they parted, and Sir Galahad and his squire returned unto the Abbey whence they came. [Illustration: SIR GALAHAD OPENS THE TOMB] The monks made great joy at seeing Sir Galahad again, for they feared he was gone for ever; and as soon as he was alighted from his horse they brought him unto a tomb in the churchyard where there was night and day such a noise that any man who heard it should be driven nigh mad, or else lose his strength. 'Sir,' they said, 'we deem it a fiend.' Sir Galahad drew near, all armed save his helmet, and stood by the tomb. 'Lift up the stone,' said a monk, and Galahad lifted it, and a voice cried, 'Come thou not nigh me, Sir Galahad, for thou shalt make me go again where I have been so long.' But Galahad took no heed of him, and lifted the stone yet higher, and there rushed from the tomb a foul smoke, and in the midst of it leaped out the foulest figure that ever was seen in the likeness of a man. 'Galahad,' said the figure, 'I see about thee so many angels that my power dare not touch thee.' Then Galahad, stooping down, looked into the tomb, and he saw a body all armed lying there, with a sword by his side. 'Fair brother,' said Galahad, 'let us remove this body, for he is not worthy to be in this churchyard, being a false Christian man.' This being done they all departed and returned unto the monastery, where they lay that night, and the next morning Sir Galahad knighted Melias his squire, as he had promised him aforetime. So Sir Galahad and Sir Melias departed thence, in quest of the Holy Graal, but they soon went their different ways and fell upon different adventures. In his first encounter Sir Melias was sore wounded, and Sir Galahad came to his help, and left him to an old monk who said that he would heal him of his wounds in the space of seven weeks, and that he was thus wounded because he had not come clean to the quest of the Graal, as Sir Galahad had done. Sir Galahad left him there, and rode on till he came to the Castle of Maidens, which he alone might enter who was free from sin. There he chased away the Knights who had seized the castle seven years agone, and restored all to the Duke's daughter, who owned it of right. Besides this he set free the maidens who were kept in prison, and summoned all those Knights in the country round who had held their lands of the Duke, bidding them do homage to his daughter. And in the morning one came to him and told him that as the seven Knights fled from the Castle of Maidens they fell upon the path of Sir Gawaine, Sir Gareth, and Sir Lewaine, who were seeking Sir Galahad, and they gave battle; and the seven Knights were slain by the three Knights. 'It is well,' said Galahad, and he took his armour and his horse and rode away. So when Sir Galahad left the Castle of Maidens he rode till he came to a waste forest, and there he met with Sir Lancelot and Sir Percivale; but they knew him not, for he was now disguised. And they fought together, and the two Knights were smitten down out of the saddle. 'God be with thee, thou best Knight in the world,' cried a nun who dwelt in a hermitage close by; and she said it in a loud voice, so that Lancelot and Percivale might hear. But Sir Galahad feared that she would make known who he was, so he spurred his horse and struck deep into the forest before Sir Lancelot and Sir Percivale could mount again. They knew not which path he had taken, so Sir Percivale turned back to ask advice of the nun, and Sir Lancelot pressed forward. [Illustration: LANCELOT AT THE CHAPEL] IV HOW SIR LANCELOT SAW A VISION, AND REPENTED OF HIS SINS He halted when he came to a stone cross, which had by it a block of marble, while nigh at hand stood an old chapel. He tied his horse to a tree, and hung his shield on a branch, and looked into the chapel, for the door was waste and broken. And he saw there a fair altar covered with a silken cloth, and a candlestick which had six branches, all of shining silver. A great light streamed from it, and at this sight Sir Lancelot would fain have entered in, but he could not. So he turned back sorrowful and dismayed, and took the saddle and bridle off his horse, and let him pasture where he would, while he himself unlaced his helm, and ungirded his sword, and lay down to sleep upon his shield, at the foot of the cross. As he lay there, half waking and half sleeping, he saw two white palfreys come by, drawing a litter, wherein lay a sick Knight. When they reached the cross they paused, and Sir Lancelot heard the Knight say, 'O sweet Lord, when shall this sorrow leave me, and when shall the Holy Vessel come by me, through which I shall be blessed? For I have endured long, though my ill deeds were few.' Thus he spoke, and Sir Lancelot heard it, and of a sudden the great candlestick stood before the cross, though no man had brought it. And with it was a table of silver and the Holy Vessel of the Graal, which Lancelot had seen aforetime. Then the Knight rose up, and on his hands and knees he approached the Holy Vessel, and prayed, and was made whole of his sickness. After that the Graal went back into the chapel, and the light and the candlestick also, and Sir Lancelot would fain have followed, but could not, so heavy was the weight of his sins upon him. And the sick Knight arose and kissed the cross, and saw Sir Lancelot lying at the foot with his eyes shut. 'I marvel greatly at this sleeping Knight,' he said to his squire, 'that he had no power to wake when the Holy Vessel was brought hither.' 'I dare right well say,' answered the squire, 'that he dwelleth in some deadly sin, whereof he was never confessed.' 'By my faith,' said the Knight, 'he is unhappy, whoever he is, for he is of the fellowship of the Round Table, which have undertaken the quest of the Graal.' 'Sir,' replied the squire, 'you have all your arms here, save only your sword and your helm. Take therefore those of this strange Knight, who has just put them off.' And the Knight did as his squire said, and took Sir Lancelot's horse also, for it was better than his own. After they had gone Sir Lancelot waked up wholly, and thought of what he had seen, wondering if he were in a dream or not. Suddenly a voice spoke to him, and it said, 'Sir Lancelot, more hard than is the stone, more bitter than is the wood, more naked and barren than is the leaf of the fig tree, art thou; therefore go from hence and withdraw thee from this holy place.' When Sir Lancelot heard this, his heart was passing heavy, and he wept, cursing the day when he had been born. But his helm and sword had gone from the spot where he had lain them at the foot of the cross, and his horse was gone also. And he smote himself and cried, 'My sin and my wickedness have done me this dishonour; for when I sought worldly adventures for worldly desires I ever achieved them and had the better in every place, and never was I discomfited in any quarrel, were it right or wrong. And now I take upon me the adventures of holy things, I see and understand that my old sin hinders me, so that I could not move nor speak when the Holy Graal passed by.' Thus he sorrowed till it was day, and he heard the birds sing, and at that he felt comforted. And as his horse was gone also, he departed on foot with a heavy heart. V THE ADVENTURE OF SIR PERCIVALE All this while Sir Percivale had pursued adventures of his own, and came nigh unto losing his life, but he was saved from his enemies by the good Knight, Sir Galahad, whom he did not know, although he was seeking him, for Sir Galahad now bore a red shield, and not a white one. And at last the foes fled deep into the forest, and Sir Galahad followed; but Sir Percivale had no horse and was forced to stay behind. Then his eyes were opened, and he knew it was Sir Galahad who had come to his help, and he sat down under a tree and grieved sore. While he was sitting there a Knight passed by riding a black horse, and when he was out of sight a yeoman came pricking after as fast as he might, and, seeing Sir Percivale, asked if he had seen a Knight mounted on a black horse. 'Yes, Sir, forsooth,' answered Sir Percivale, 'why do you want to know?' 'Ah, Sir, that is my steed which he has taken from me, and wherever my lord shall find me, he is sure to slay me.' 'Well,' said Sir Percivale, 'thou seest that I am on foot, but had I a good horse I would soon come up with him.' 'Take my hackney,' said the yeoman, 'and do the best you can, and I shall follow you on foot to watch how you speed.' So Sir Percivale rode as fast as he might, and at last he saw that Knight, and he hailed him. The Knight turned and set his spear against Sir Percivale, and smote the hackney in the breast, so that he fell dead to the earth, and Sir Percivale fell with him; then the Knight rode away. But Sir Percivale was mad with wrath, and cried to the Knight to return and fight with him on foot, and the Knight answered not and went on his way. When Sir Percivale saw that he would not turn, he threw himself on the ground, and cast away his helm and sword, and bemoaned himself for the most unhappy of all Knights; and there he abode the whole day, and, being faint and weary, slept till it was midnight. And at midnight he waked and saw before him a woman, who said to him right fiercely, 'Sir Percivale, what doest thou here?' 'Neither good nor great ill,' answered he. 'If thou wilt promise to do my will when I call upon you,' said she, 'I will lend you my own horse, and he shall bear thee whither thou shalt choose.' This Sir Percivale promised gladly, and the woman went and returned with a black horse, so large and well-apparelled that Sir Percivale marvelled. But he mounted him gladly, and drove in his spurs, and within an hour and less the horse bare him four days' journey hence, and would have borne him into a rough water that roared, had not Sir Percivale pulled at his bridle. The Knight stood doubting, for the water made a great noise, and he feared lest his horse could not get through it. Still, wishing greatly to pass over, he made himself ready, and signed the sign of the cross upon his forehead. [Illustration: SIR PERCIVALE SLAYS THE SERPENT] At that the fiend which had taken the shape of a horse shook off Sir Percivale and dashed into the water, crying and making great sorrow; and it seemed to him that the water burned. Then Sir Percivale knew that it was not a horse but a fiend, which would have brought him to perdition, and he gave thanks and prayed all that night long. As soon as it was day he looked about him, and saw he was in a wild mountain, girt round with the sea and filled with wild beasts. Then he rose and went into a valley, and there he saw a young serpent bring a young lion by the neck, and after that there passed a great lion, crying and roaring after the serpent, and a fierce battle began between them. Sir Percivale thought to help the lion, as he was the more natural beast of the twain, and he drew his sword and set his shield before him, and gave the serpent a deadly buffet. When the lion saw that, he made him all the cheer that a beast might make a man, and fawned about him like a spaniel, and stroked him with his paws. And about noon the lion took his little whelp, and placed him on his back, and bare him home again, and Sir Percivale, being left alone, prayed till he was comforted. But at eventide the lion returned, and couched down at his feet, and all night long he and the lion slept together. VI AN ADVENTURE OF SIR LANCELOT As Lancelot went his way through the forest he met with many hermits who dwelled therein, and had adventure with the Knight who stole his horse and his helm, and got them back again. And he learned from one of the hermits that Sir Galahad was his son, and that it was he who at the Feast of Pentecost had sat in the Siege Perilous, which it was ordained by Merlin that none should sit in save the best Knight in the world. All that night Sir Lancelot abode with the hermit and laid him to rest, a hair shirt always on his body, and it pricked him sorely, but he bore it meekly and suffered the pain. When the day dawned he bade the hermit farewell. As he rode he came to a fair plain, in which was a great castle set about with tents and pavilions of divers hues. Here were full five hundred Knights riding on horseback, and those near the castle were mounted on black horses with black trappings, and they that were without were on white horses and their trappings white. And the two sides fought together, and Sir Lancelot looked on. At last it seemed to him that the black Knights nearest the castle fared the worst, so, as he ever took the part of the weaker, he rode to their help and smote many of the white Knights to the earth and did marvellous deeds of arms. But always the white Knights held round Sir Lancelot to tire him out. And as no man may endure for ever, in the end Sir Lancelot waxed so faint of fighting that his arms would not lift themselves to deal a stroke; then they took him, and led him away into the forest and made him alight from his horse and rest, and when he was taken the fellowship of the castle were overcome for want of him. 'Never ere now was I at tournament or jousts but I had the best,' moaned Sir Lancelot to himself, as soon as the Knights had left him and he was alone. 'But now am I shamed, and I am persuaded that I am more sinful than ever I was.' Sorrowfully he rode on till he passed a chapel, where stood a nun, who called to him and asked him his name and what he was seeking. So he told her who he was, and what had befallen him at the tournament, and the vision that had come to him in his sleep. 'Ah, Lancelot,' said she, 'as long as you were a knight of earthly knighthood you were the most wonderful man in the world and the most adventurous. But now, since you are set among Knights of heavenly adventures, if you were worsted at that tournament it is no marvel. For the tournament was meant for a sign, and the earthly Knights were they who were clothed in black in token of the sins of which they were not yet purged. And the white Knights were they who had chosen the way of holiness, and in them the quest has already begun. Thus you beheld both the sinners and the good men, and when you saw the sinners overcome you went to their help, as they were your fellows in boasting and pride of the world, and all that must be left in that quest. And that caused your misadventure. Now that I have warned you of your vain-glory and your pride, beware of everlasting pain, for of all earthly Knights I have pity of you, for I know well that among earthly sinful Knights you are without peer.' VII AN ADVENTURE OF SIR GAWAINE Sir Gawaine rode long without meeting any adventure, and from Pentecost to Michaelmas found none that pleased him. But at Michaelmas he met Sir Ector de Maris and rejoiced greatly. As they sat talking there appeared before them a hand showing unto the elbow covered with red samite, and holding a great candle that burned right clear; and the hand passed into the chapel and vanished, they knew not where. Then they heard a voice which said, 'Knights full of evil faith and poor belief, these two things have failed you, and therefore you may not come to the adventure of the Holy Graal.' And this same told them a holy man to whom they confessed their sins, 'for,' said he, 'you have failed in three things, charity, fasting, and truth, and have been great murderers. But sinful as Sir Lancelot was, since he went into the quest he never slew man, nor shall, till he come into Camelot again. For he has taken upon him to forsake sin. And were he not so unstable, he should be the next to achieve it, after Galahad his son. Yet shall he die an holy man, and in earthly sinful men he has no fellow.' 'Sir,' said Gawaine, 'by your words it seems that our sins will not let us labour in that quest?' 'Truly,' answered the hermit, 'there be an hundred such as you to whom it will bring naught but shame.' So Gawaine departed and followed Sir Ector, who had ridden on before. VIII THE ADVENTURE OF SIR BORS When Sir Bors left Camelot on his quest he met a holy man riding on an ass, and Sir Bors saluted him. Then the good man knew him to be one of the Knights who were in quest of the Holy Graal. 'What are you?' said he, and Sir Bors answered, 'I am a Knight that fain would be counselled in the quest of the Graal, for he shall have much earthly worship that brings it to an end.' 'That is true,' said the good man, 'for he will be the best Knight in the world, but know well that there shall none attain it but by holiness and by confession of sin.' So they rode together till they came to the hermitage, and the good man led Sir Bors into the chapel, where he made confession of his sins, and they ate bread and drank water together. 'Now,' said the hermit, 'I pray you that you eat none other till you sit at the table where the Holy Graal shall be.' 'Sir,' answered Sir Bors, 'I agree thereto, but how know you that I shall sit there?' 'That know I,' said the holy man, 'but there will be but few of your fellows with you. Also instead of a shirt you shall wear this garment until you have achieved your quest,' and Sir Bors took off his clothes, and put on instead a scarlet coat. Then the good man questioned him, and marvelled to find him pure in life, and he armed him and bade him go. After this Sir Bors rode through many lands, and had many adventures, and was often sore tempted, but remembered the words of the holy man and kept his life clean of wrong. And once he had by mischance almost slain his own brother, but a voice cried, 'Flee, Bors, and touch him not,' and he hearkened and stayed his hand. And there fell between them a fiery cloud, which burned up both their shields, and they two fell to the earth in a great swoon; but when they awakened out of it Bors saw that his brother had no harm. With that the voice spoke to him saying, 'Bors, go hence and bear your brother fellowship no longer; but take your way to the sea, where Sir Percivale abides till you come.' Then Sir Bors prayed his brother to forgive him all he had unknowingly done, and rode straight to the sea. On the shore he found a vessel covered with white samite, and as soon as he stepped in the vessel it set sail so fast it might have been flying, and Sir Bors lay down and slept till it was day. When he waked he saw a Knight lying in the midst of the ship, all armed save for his helm, and he knew him for Sir Percivale, and welcomed him with great joy; and they told each other of their adventures and of their temptations, and had great happiness in each other's company. 'We lack nothing but Galahad, the good Knight,' Sir Percivale said. [Illustration: HOW SIR BORS WAS SAVED FROM KILLING HIS BROTHER] IX ADVENTURE OF SIR GALAHAD Sir Galahad rested one evening at a hermitage. And while he was resting, there came a gentlewoman and asked leave of the hermit to speak with Sir Galahad, and would not be denied, though she was told he was weary and asleep. Then the hermit waked Sir Galahad and bade him rise, as a gentlewoman had great need of him, so Sir Galahad rose and asked her what she wished. 'Galahad,' said she, 'I will that you arm yourself, and mount your horse and follow me, and I will show you the highest adventure that ever any Knight saw.' And Sir Galahad bade her go, and he would follow wherever she led. In three days they reached the sea, where they found the ship where Sir Bors and Sir Percivale were lying. And the lady bade him leave his horse behind and said she would leave hers also, but their saddles and bridles they would take on board the ship. This they did, and were received with great joy by the two Knights; then the sails were spread, and the ship was driven before the wind at a marvellous pace till they reached the land of Logris, the entrance to which lies between two great rocks with a whirlpool in the middle. Their own ship might not get safely through; but they left it and went into another ship that lay there, which had neither man nor woman in it. At the end of the ship was written these words: 'Thou man which shalt enter this ship beware thou be in steadfast belief; if thou fail, I shall not help thee.' Then the gentlewoman turned and said, 'Percivale, do you know who I am?' 'No, truly,' answered he. 'I am your sister, and therefore you are the man in the world that I most love. If you are without faith, or have any hidden sin, beware how you enter, else you will perish.' 'Fair sister,' answered he, 'I shall enter therein, for if I am an untrue Knight then shall I perish.' So they entered the ship, and it was rich and well adorned, that they all marvelled. In the midst of it was a fair bed, and Sir Galahad went thereto and found on it a crown of silk, and a sword drawn out of its sheath half a foot and more. The sword was of divers fashions, and the pommel of stone, wrought about with colours, and every colour with its own virtue, and the handle was of the ribs of two beasts. The one was the bone of a serpent, and no hand that handles it shall ever become weary or hurt; and the other is a bone of a fish that swims in Euphrates, and whoso handles it shall not think on joy or sorrow that he has had, but only on that which he beholds before him. And no man shall grip this sword but one that is better than other men. So first Sir Percivale stepped forward and set his hand to the sword, but he might not grasp it. Next Sir Bors tried to seize it, but he also failed. When Sir Galahad beheld the sword, he saw that there was written on it, in letters of blood, that he who tried to draw it should never fail of shame in his body or be wounded to the death. 'By my faith,' said Galahad, 'I would draw this sword out of its sheath, but the offending is so great I shall not lay my hand thereto.' 'Sir,' answered the gentlewoman, 'know that no man can draw this sword save you alone'; and she told him many tales of the Knights who had set their hands to it, and of the evil things that had befallen them. And they all begged Sir Galahad to grip the sword, as it was ordained that he should. 'I will grip it,' said Galahad, 'to give you courage, but it belongs no more to me than it does to you.' Then he gripped it tight with his fingers, and the gentlewoman girt him about the middle with the sword, and after that they left that ship and went into another, which brought them to land, where they fell upon many strange adventures. And when they had wrought many great deeds, they departed from each other. But first Sir Percivale's sister died, being bled to death, so that another lady might live, and she prayed them to lay her body in a boat and leave the boat to go as the winds and waves carried it. And so it was done, and Sir Percivale wrote a letter telling how she had helped them in all their adventures; and he put it in her right hand, and laid her in a barge, and covered it with black silk. And the wind arose and drove it from their sight. X SIR LANCELOT MEETS SIR GALAHAD, AND THEY PART FOR EVER Now we must tell what happened to Sir Lancelot. When he was come to a water called Mortoise he fell asleep, awaiting for the adventure that should be sent to him, and in his sleep a voice spoke to him, and bade him rise and take his armour, and enter the first ship he should find. So he started up and took his arms and made him ready, and on the strand he found a ship that was without sail or oar. As soon as he was within the ship, he felt himself wrapped round with a sweetness such as he had never known before, as if all that he could desire was fulfilled. And with this joy and peace about him he fell asleep. When he woke he found near him a fair bed, with a dead lady lying on it, whom he knew to be Sir Percivale's sister, and in her hand was the tale of her adventures, which Sir Lancelot took and read. For a month or more they dwelt in that ship together, and one day, when it had drifted near the shore, he heard a sound as of a horse; and when the steps came nearer he saw that a Knight was riding him. At the sight of the ship the Knight alighted and took the saddle and bridle, and entered the ship. 'You are welcome,' said Lancelot, and the Knight saluted him and said, 'What is your name? for my heart goeth out to you.' 'Truly,' answered he, 'my name is Sir Lancelot du Lake.' 'Sir,' said the new Knight, 'you are welcome, for you were the beginner of me in the world.' 'Ah,' cried Sir Lancelot, 'is it you, then, Galahad?' 'Yes, in sooth,' said he, and kneeled down and asked Lancelot's blessing, and then took off his helm and kissed him. And there was great joy between them, and they told each other all that had befallen them since they left King Arthur's Court. Then Galahad saw the gentlewoman dead on the bed, and he knew her, and said he held her in great worship, and that she was the best maid in the world, and how it was great pity that she had come to her death. But when Lancelot heard that Galahad had won the marvellous sword he prayed that he might see it, and kissed the pommel and the hilt, and the scabbard. 'In truth,' he said, 'never did I know of adventures so wonderful and strange.' So dwelled Lancelot and Galahad in that ship for half a year, and served God daily and nightly with all their power. And after six months had gone it befell that on a Monday they drifted to the edge of the forest, where they saw a Knight with white armour bestriding one horse and holding another all white, by the bridle. And he came to the ship, and saluted the two Knights and said, 'Galahad, you have been long enough with your father, therefore leave that ship and start upon this horse, and go on the quest of the Holy Graal.' So Galahad went to his father and kissed him, saying, 'Fair sweet father, I know not if I shall see you more till I have beheld the Holy Graal.' Then they heard a voice which said, 'The one shall never see the other till the day of doom.' 'Now, Galahad,' said Lancelot, 'since we are to bid farewell for ever now, I pray to the great Father to preserve me and you both.' 'Sir,' answered Galahad, 'no prayer availeth so much as yours.' The next day Sir Lancelot made his way back to Camelot, where he found King Arthur and Guenevere; but many of the Knights of the Round Table were slain and destroyed, more than the half. All the Court was passing glad to see Sir Lancelot, and the King asked many tidings of his son Sir Galahad. XI HOW SIR GALAHAD FOUND THE GRAAL AND DIED OF THAT FINDING Sir Galahad rode on till he met Sir Percivale and afterwards Sir Bors, whom they greeted most gladly, and they bare each other company. First they came to the Castle of Carbonek, where dwelled King Pelles, who welcomed them with joy, for he knew by their coming that they had fulfilled the quest of the Graal. They then departed on other adventures, and with the blood out of the Holy Lance Galahad anointed the maimed King and healed him. That same night at midnight a voice bade them arise and quit the castle, which they did, followed by three Knights of Gaul. Then Galahad prayed every one of them that if they reached King Arthur's Court they should salute Sir Lancelot his father, and those Knights of the Round Table that were present, and with that he left them, and Sir Bors and Sir Percivale with him. For three days they rode till they came to a shore, and found a ship awaiting them. And in the midst of it was the table of silver, and the Holy Graal which was covered with red samite. Then were their hearts right glad, and they made great reverence thereto, and Galahad prayed that at what time he asked, he might depart out of this world. So long he prayed that at length a voice said to him, 'Galahad, thou shalt have thy desire, and when thou askest the death of the body thou shalt have it, and shalt find the life of the soul.' Percivale likewise heard the voice, and besought Galahad to tell him why he asked such things. And Galahad answered, 'The other day when we saw a part of the adventures of the Holy Graal, I was in such a joy of heart that never did man feel before, and I knew well that when my body is dead my soul shall be in joy of which the other was but a shadow.' [Illustration: LANCELOT & THE DWARF.] Some time were the three Knights in that ship, till at length they saw before them the city of Sarras. Then they took from the ship the table of silver, and Sir Percivale and Sir Bors went first, and Sir Galahad followed after to the gate of the city, where sat an old man that was crooked. At the sight of the old man Sir Galahad called to him to help them carry the table, for it was heavy. 'Truly,' answered the old man, 'it is ten years since I have gone without crutches.' 'Care not for that,' said Galahad, 'but rise up and show your good will.' So he arose and found himself as whole as ever he was, and he ran to the table and held up the side next Galahad. And there was much noise in the city that a cripple was healed by three Knights newly entered in. This reached the ears of the King, who sent for the Knights and questioned them. And they told him the truth, and of the Holy Graal; but the King listened nothing to all they said, but put them into a deep hole in the prison. Even here they were not without comfort, for a vision of the Holy Graal sustained them. And at the end of a year the King lay sick and felt he should die, and he called the three Knights and asked forgiveness of the evil he had done to them, which they gave gladly. Then he died, and the whole city was afraid and knew not what to do, till while they were in counsel a voice came to them and bade them choose the youngest of the three strange Knights for their King. And they did so. After Galahad was proclaimed King, he ordered that a coffer of gold and precious stones should be made to encompass the table of silver, and every day he and the two Knights would kneel before it and make their prayers. Now at the year's end, and on the selfsame day that Galahad had been crowned King, he arose up early and came with the two Knights to the Palace; and he saw a man in the likeness of a Bishop, encircled by a great crowd of angels, kneeling before the Holy Vessel. And he called to Galahad and said to him, 'Come forth, thou servant of Christ, and thou shalt see what thou hast much desired to see.' Then Galahad began to tremble right hard, when the flesh first beheld the things of the spirit, and he held up his hands to heaven and said, 'Lord, I thank thee, for now I see that which hath been my desire for many a day. Now, blessed Lord, I would no longer live, if it might please Thee.' Then Galahad went to Percivale and kissed him, and commended him to God; and he went to Sir Bors and kissed him, and commended him to God, and said, 'Fair lord, salute me to my lord Sir Lancelot, my father, and bid him remember this unstable world.' Therewith he kneeled down before the table and made his prayers, and while he was praying his soul suddenly left the body and was carried by angels up into heaven, which the two Knights right well beheld. Also they saw come from heaven a hand, but no body behind it, and it came unto the Vessel, and took it and the spear, and bare them back to heaven. And since then no man has dared to say that he has seen the Holy Graal. When Percivale and Bors saw Galahad lying dead they made as much sorrow as ever two men did, and the people of the country and of the city were right heavy. And they buried him as befitted their King. As soon as Galahad was buried, Sir Percivale sought a hermitage outside the city, and put on the dress of a hermit, and Sir Bors was always with him, but kept the dress that he wore at Court. When a year and two months had passed Sir Percivale died also, and was buried by the side of Galahad; and Sir Bors left that land, and after long riding came to Camelot. Then was there great joy made of him in the Court, for they had held him as dead; and the King ordered great clerks to attend him, and to write down all his adventures and those of Sir Percivale and Sir Galahad. Next, Sir Lancelot told the adventures of the Graal which he had seen, and this likewise was written and placed with the other in almonries at Salisbury. And by and by Sir Bors said to Sir Lancelot, 'Galahad your son saluteth you by me, and after you King Arthur and all the Court, and so did Sir Percivale; for I buried them with mine own hands in the City of Sarras. Also, Sir Lancelot, Galahad prayeth you to remember of this uncertain world, as you promised when you were together!' 'That is true,' said Sir Lancelot, 'and I trust his prayer may avail me.' But the prayer but little availed Sir Lancelot, for he fell to his old sins again. And now the Knights were few that survived the search for the Graal, and the evil days of Arthur began. THE FIGHT FOR THE QUEEN So the quest of the Holy Graal had been fulfilled, and the few Knights that had been left alive returned to the Round Table, and there was great joy in the Court. To do them honour the Queen made them a dinner; and there were four and twenty Knights present, and among them Sir Patrise of Ireland, and Sir Gawaine and his brethren, the King's nephews, which were Sir Agrawaine, Sir Gaheris, Sir Gareth, and Sir Mordred. Now it was the custom of Sir Gawaine daily at dinner and supper to eat all manner of fruit, and especially pears and apples, and this the Queen knew, and set fruit of all sorts before him. And there was present at the dinner one Sir Pinel le Savage, who hated Sir Gawaine because he and his brethren had slain Sir Lamorak du Galis, cousin to Sir Pinel; so he put poison into some of the apples, hoping that Sir Gawaine would eat one and die. But by ill fortune it befell that the good Knight Sir Patrise took a poisoned apple, and in a few moments he lay dead and stark in his seat. At this sight all the Knights leapt to their feet, but said nothing, for they bethought them that Queen Guenevere had made them the dinner, and feared that she had poisoned the fruit. 'My lady, the Queen,' said Sir Gawaine, who was the first to speak, 'this fruit was brought for me, for all know how well I love it; therefore, Madam, the shame of this ill deed is yours.' The Queen stood still, pale and trembling, but kept silence, and next spoke Sir Mador de la Porte. 'This shall not be ended so,' said he, 'for I have lost a noble Knight of my blood, and I will be avenged of the person who has wrought this evil.' And he turned to the Queen and said 'Madam, it is you who have brought about the death of my cousin Sir Patrise!' The Knights round listened in silence, for they too thought Sir Mador spake truth. And the Queen still said nothing, but fell to weeping bitterly, till King Arthur heard and came to look into the matter. And when they told him of their trouble his heart was heavy within him. 'Fair lords,' said the King at last, 'I grieve for this ill deed; but I cannot meddle therein, or do battle for my wife, for I have to judge justly. Sure I am that this deed is none of hers, therefore many a good Knight will stand her champion that she be not burned to death in a wrong quarrel. And, Sir Mador, hold not your head so high, but fix the day of battle, when you shall find a Knight to answer you, or else it were great shame to all my Court.' 'My gracious lord,' said Sir Mador, 'you must hold me excused. But though you are a King you are also a Knight, and must obey the laws of Knighthood. Therefore I beseech your forgiveness if I declare that none of the four and twenty Knights here present will fight that battle. What say you, my lords?' Then the Knights answered that they could not hold the Queen guiltless, for as the dinner was made by her either she or her servants must have done this thing. 'Alas!' said the Queen, 'no evil was in my heart when I prepared this feast, for never have I done such foul deeds.' 'My lord the King,' cried Sir Mador, 'I require of you, as you are a just King, to fix a day that I may get ready for the fight!' 'Well,' answered the King, 'on the fifteenth day from this come on horseback to the meadow that is by Westminster. And if it happens that there be a Knight to fight with you, strike as hard as you will, God will speed the right. But if no Knight is there, then must my Queen be burned, and a fire shall be made in the meadow.' [Illustration: SIR MADOR ACCUSES GUENEVERE] 'I am answered,' said Sir Mador, and he and the rest of the Knights departed. When the King and Queen were left alone he asked her what had brought all this about. 'God help me, that I know not,' said the Queen, 'nor how it was done.' 'Where is Sir Lancelot?' said King Arthur, looking round. 'If he were here he would not grudge to do battle for you.' 'Sir,' replied the Queen, 'I know not where he is, but his brother and his kinsmen think he is not in this realm.' 'I grieve for that,' said the King, 'for he would soon stop this strife. But I counsel you, ask Sir Bors, and he will not refuse you. For well I see that none of the four and twenty Knights who were with you at dinner will be your champion, and none will say well of you, but men will speak evil of you at the Court.' 'Alas!' sighed the Queen, 'I do indeed miss Sir Lancelot, for he would soon ease my heart.' 'What ails you?' asked the King, 'that you cannot keep Sir Lancelot at your side, for well you know that he who Sir Lancelot fights for has the best Knight in the world for his champion. Now go your way, and command Sir Bors to do battle with you for Sir Lancelot's sake.' So the Queen departed from the King, and sent for Sir Bors into her chamber, and when he came she besought his help. 'Madam,' said he, 'what can I do? for I may not meddle in this matter lest the Knights who were at the dinner have me in suspicion, for I was there also. It is now, Madam, that you miss Sir Lancelot, whom you have driven away, as he would have done battle for you were you right or wrong, and I wonder how for shame's sake you can ask me, knowing how I love and honour him.' 'Alas,' said the Queen, 'I throw myself on your grace,' and she went down on her knees and besought Sir Bors to have mercy on her, 'else I shall have a shameful death, and one I have never deserved.' At that King Arthur came in, and found her kneeling before Sir Bors. 'Madam! you do me great dishonour,' said Sir Bors, raising her up. 'Ah, gentle Knight,' cried the King, 'have mercy on my Queen, for I am sure that they speak falsely. And I require by the love of Sir Lancelot that you do battle for her instead of him.' 'My lord,' answered Sir Bors, 'you require of me the hardest thing that ever anyone asked of me, for well you know that if I fight for the Queen I shall anger all my companions of the Round Table; but I will not say nay, my lord, for Sir Lancelot's sake and for your sake! On that day I will be the Queen's champion, unless a better Knight is found to do battle for her.' 'Will you promise me this?' asked the King. 'Yes,' answered Sir Bors, 'I will not fail you nor her, unless there should come a better Knight than I, then he shall have the battle.' Then the King and Queen rejoiced greatly, and thanked Sir Bors with all their hearts. So Sir Bors departed and rode unto Sir Lancelot, who was with the hermit Sir Brasias, and told him of this adventure. 'Ah,' said Sir Lancelot, 'this has befallen as I would have it, and therefore I pray you make ready to do battle, but delay the fight as long as you can that I may appear. For I am sure that Sir Mador is a hot Knight, and the longer he waits the more impatient he will be for the combat.' 'Sir,' answered Sir Bors, 'let me deal with him. Doubt not you shall have all your will.' And he rode away, and came again to the Court. It was soon noised about that Sir Bors would be the Queen's champion, and many Knights were displeased with him; but there were a few who held the Queen to be innocent. Sir Bors spoke unto them all and said, 'It were shameful, my fair lords, if we suffered the most noble Queen in the world to be disgraced openly, not only for her sake, but for the King's.' But they answered him: 'As for our lord King Arthur, we love him and honour him as much as you; but as for Queen Guenevere, we love her not, for she is the destroyer of good Knights.' [Illustration: GUENEVERE & SIR BORS] 'Fair lords,' said Sir Bors, 'you shall not speak such words, for never yet have I heard that she was the destroyer of good Knights. But at all times, as far as I ever knew, she maintained them and gave them many gifts. And therefore it were a shame to us all if we suffered our noble King's wife to be put to death, and I will not suffer it. So much I will say, that the Queen is not guilty of Sir Patrise's death; for she owed him no ill will, and bade him and us to the dinner for no evil purpose, which will be proved hereafter. And in any case there was foul dealing among us.' 'We may believe your words,' said some of the Knights, but others held that he spoke falsely. The days passed quickly by until the evening before the battle, when the Queen sent for Sir Bors and asked him if he was ready to keep his promise. 'Truly, Madam,' answered he, 'I shall not fail you, unless a better Knight than I am come to do battle for you. Then, Madam, I am discharged of my promise.' 'Shall I tell this to my lord Arthur?' said the Queen. 'If it pleases you, Madam,' answered Sir Bors. So the Queen went to the King, and told him what Sir Bors had said, and the King bade her to be comforted, as Sir Bors was one of the best Knights of the Round Table. The next morning the King and Queen, and all manner of Knights, rode into the meadow of Westminster, where the battle was to be; and the Queen was put into the Guard of the High Constable, and a stout iron stake was planted, and a great fire made about it, at which the Queen should be burned if Sir Mador de la Porte won the fight. For it was the custom in those days that neither fear nor favour, love nor kinship, should hinder right judgment. Then came Sir Mador de la Porte, and made oath before the King that the Queen had done to death his cousin Sir Patrise, and he would prove it on her Knight's body, let who would say the contrary. Sir Bors likewise made answer that Queen Guenevere had done no wrong, and that he would make good with his two hands. 'Then get you ready,' said Sir Mador. 'Sir Mador,' answered Sir Bors, 'I know you for a good Knight, but I trust to be able to withstand your malice; and I have promised King Arthur and my Lady the Queen that I will do battle for her to the uttermost, unless there come forth a better Knight than I am.' 'Is that all?' asked Sir Mador; 'but you must either fight now or own that you are beaten.' 'Take your horse,' said Sir Bors, 'for I shall not tarry long,' and Sir Mador forthwith rode into the field with his shield on his shoulder, and his spear in his hand, and he went up and down crying unto King Arthur, 'Bid your champion come forth if he dare.' At that Sir Bors was ashamed, and took his horse, and rode to the end of the lists. But from a wood hard by appeared a Knight riding fast on a white horse, bearing a shield full of strange devices. When he reached Sir Bors he drew rein and said, 'Fair Knight, be not displeased, but this battle must be to a better Knight than you. For I have come a great journey to fight this fight, as I promised when I spoke with you last, and I thank you heartily for your goodwill.' So Sir Bors went to King Arthur and told him that a Knight had come who wished to do battle for the Queen. 'What Knight is he?' asked the King. 'That I know not,' said Sir Bors; 'but he made a covenant with me to be here this day, and now I am discharged,' said Sir Bors. Then the King called to that Knight and asked him if he would fight for the Queen. 'For that purpose I came hither,' replied he, 'and therefore, Sir King, delay me no longer, for as soon as I have ended this battle I must go hence, as I have many matters elsewhere. And I would have you know that it is a dishonour to all the Knights of the Round Table to let so noble a lady and so courteous a Queen as Queen Guenevere be shamed amongst you.' [Illustration: ARTHUR AND GUENEVERE KISS BEFORE ALL THE PEOPLE] The Knights who were standing round looked at each other at these words, and wondered much what man this was who took the battle upon him, for none knew him save Sir Bors. 'Sir,' said Sir Mador de la Porte unto the King, 'let me know the name of him with whom I have to do.' But the King answered nothing, and made a sign for the fight to begin. They rode to the end of the lists, and couched their spears and rushed together with all their force, and Sir Mador's spear broke in pieces. But the other Knight's spear held firm, and he pressed on Sir Mador's horse till it fell backward with a great fall. Sir Mador sprang from his horse, and, placing his shield before him, drew his sword, and bade his foe dismount from his horse also, and do battle with him on foot, which the unknown Knight did. For an hour they fought thus, as Sir Mador was a strong man, and had proved himself the victor in many combats. At last the Knight smote Sir Mador grovelling to his knees, and the Knight stepped forward to have struck him flat upon the ground. Therewith Sir Mador suddenly rose, and smote the Knight upon the thigh, so that the blood ran out fiercely. But when the Knight felt himself wounded, and saw his blood, he let Sir Mador rise to his feet, and then he gave him such a buffet on the helm that this time Sir Mador fell his length on the earth, and the Knight sprang to him, to unloose his helm. At this Sir Mador prayed for his life, acknowledging that he was overcome, and confessed that the Queen's innocence had been proved. 'I will only grant you your life,' said the Knight, 'if you will proclaim publicly that you have foully slandered the Queen, and that you make no mention, on the tomb of Sir Patrise, that ever Queen Guenevere consented to his murder.' 'All that will I do,' said Sir Mador, and some Knights took him up, and carried him away to heal his wounds. And the other Knight went straight to the foot of the steps where sat King Arthur, and there the Queen had just come, and the King and the Queen kissed each other before all the people. When King Arthur saw the Knight standing there he stooped down to him and thanked him, and so likewise did the Queen; and they prayed him to put off his helmet, and commanded wine to be brought, and when he unlaced his helmet to drink they knew him to be Sir Lancelot du Lake. Then Arthur took the Queen's hand and led her to Sir Lancelot and said, 'Sir, I give you the most heartfelt thanks of the great deed you have done this day for me and my Queen.' 'My lord,' answered Sir Lancelot, 'you know well that I ought of right ever to fight your battles, and those of my lady the Queen. For it was you who gave me the high honour of Knighthood, and that same day my lady the Queen did me a great service, else I should have been put to shame before all men. Because in my hastiness I lost my sword, and my lady the Queen found it and gave it to me when I had sore need of it. And therefore, my lord Arthur, I promised her that day that I would be her Knight in right or in wrong.' 'I owe you great thanks,' said the King, 'and some time I hope to repay you.' The Queen, beholding Sir Lancelot, wept tears of joy for her deliverance, and felt bowed to the ground with sorrow at the thought of what he had done for her, when she had sent him away with unkind words. Then all the Knights of the Round Table and his kinsmen drew near to him and welcomed him, and there was great mirth in the Court. _THE FAIR MAID OF ASTOLAT_ Soon after this it befell that the damsel of the lake, called by some Nimue and by others Vivien, wedded Sir Pelleas, and came to the Court of King Arthur. And when she heard the talk of the death of Sir Patrise and how the Queen had been accused of it, she found out by means of her magic that the tale was false, and told it openly that the Queen was innocent and that it was Sir Pinel who had poisoned the apple. Then he fled into his own country, where none might lay hands on him. So Sir Patrise was buried in the Church of Westminster, and on his tomb was written, 'Here lieth Sir Patrise of Ireland, slain by Sir Pinel le Savage, that empoisoned apples to have slain Sir Gawaine, and by misfortune Sir Patrise ate one of those apples and then suddenly he burst.' Also there was put upon the tomb that Queen Guenevere was accused of the death of Sir Patrise by Sir Mador de la Porte, and how Sir Lancelot fought with him and overcame him in battle. All this was written on the tomb. And daily Sir Mador prayed to have the Queen's grace once more, and by means of Sir Lancelot he was forgiven. It was now the middle of the summer, and King Arthur proclaimed that in fifteen days a great tourney should be held at Camelot, which is now called Winchester, and many Knights and Kings made ready to do themselves honour. But the Queen said she would stay behind, for she was sick, and did not care for the noise and bustle of a tourney. 'It grieves me you should say that,' said the King, for you will not have seen so noble a company gathered together this seven years past, save at the Whitsuntide when Galahad departed from the Court.' 'Truly,' answered the Queen, 'the sight will be grand. Nevertheless you must hold me excused, for I cannot be there.' Sir Lancelot likewise declared that his wounds were not healed and that he could not bear himself in a tourney as he was wont to do. At this the King was wroth, that he might not have either his Queen or his best Knight with him, and he departed towards Winchester and by the way lodged in a town now called Guildford, but then Astolat. And when the King had set forth, the Queen sent for Sir Lancelot, and told him he was to blame for having excused himself from going with the King, who set such store by his company; and Sir Lancelot said he would be ruled by her, and would ride forth next morning on his way to Winchester; 'but I should have you know,' said he, 'that at the tourney I shall be against the King and his Knights.' 'You must do as you please,' replied the Queen, 'but if you will be ruled by my counsel, you will fight on his side.' 'Madam,' said Sir Lancelot, 'I pray you not to be displeased with me. I will take the adventure as it comes,' and early next morning he rode away till at eventide he reached Astolat. He went through the town till he stopped before the house of an old Baron, Sir Bernard of Astolat, and as he dismounted from his horse, the King spied him from the gardens of the castle. 'It is well,' he said smiling to the Knights that were beside him, 'I see one man who will play his part in the jousts, and I will undertake that he will do marvels.' 'Who is that?' asked they all. 'You must wait to know that,' replied the King, and went into the castle. Meantime Sir Lancelot had entered his lodging, and the old Baron bade him welcome, but he knew not it was Sir Lancelot. 'Fair Sir,' said Sir Lancelot, 'I pray you lend me, if you can, a shield with a device which no man knows, for mine they know well.' 'Sir,' answered Sir Bernard, 'you shall have your wish, for you seem one of the goodliest Knights in the world. And, Sir, I have two sons, both but lately knighted, Sir Tirre who was wounded on the day of his Knighthood, and his shield you shall have. My youngest son, Sir Lavaine, shall ride with you, if you will have his company, to the jousts. For my heart is much drawn to you, and tell me, I beseech you, what name I shall call you by.' 'You must hold me excused as to that, just now,' said Sir Lancelot, 'but if I speedwell at the jousts, I will come again and tell you. But let me have Sir Lavaine with me, and lend me, as you have offered, his brother's shield.' 'This shall be done,' replied Sir Bernard. Besides these two sons, Sir Bernard had a daughter whom everyone called The Fair Maid of Astolat, though her real name was Elaine le Blanc. And when she looked on Sir Lancelot, her love went forth to him and she could never take it back, and in the end it killed her. As soon as her father told her that Sir Lancelot was going to the tourney she besought him to wear her token in the jousts, but he was not willing. 'Fair damsel,' he said, 'if I did that, I should have done more for your love than ever I did for lady or damsel.' But then he remembered that he was to go disguised to the tourney, and because he had before never worn any manner of token of any damsel, he bethought him that, if he should take one of hers, none would know him. So he said to her, 'Fair damsel, I will wear your token on my helmet, if you will show me what it is.' 'Sir,' she answered, 'it is a red sleeve, embroidered in great pearls,' and she brought it to him. 'Never have I done so much for any damsel,' said he, and gave his own shield into her keeping, till he came again. Sir Arthur had waited three days in Astolat for some Knights who were long on the road, and when they had arrived they all set forth, and were followed by Sir Lancelot and Sir Lavaine, both with white shields, and Sir Lancelot bore besides the red sleeve that was a token. Now Camelot was filled with a great number of Kings and Lords and Knights, but Sir Lavaine found means to lodge both himself and Sir Lancelot secretly with a rich burgess, and no man knew who they were or whence they came. And there they stayed till the day of the tourney. At earliest dawn the trumpets blew, and King Arthur took his seat upon a high scaffold, so that he might see who had done best; but he would not suffer Sir Gawaine to go from his side, for Sir Gawaine never won the prize when Sir Lancelot was in the field, and as King Arthur knew, Sir Lancelot oftentimes disguised himself. Then the Knights formed into two parties and Sir Lancelot made him ready, and fastened the red sleeve upon his helmet, and he and Sir Lavaine rode into a little wood that lay behind the Knights who should fight against those of the Round Table. 'Sir,' said Sir Lancelot, 'yonder is a company of good Knights and they hold together as boars that are vexed with dogs.' 'That is truth,' said Sir Lavaine. 'Now,' said Sir Lancelot, 'if you will help me a little, you shall see King Arthur's side, which is winning, driven back as fast as they came.' 'Spare not, Sir,' answered Sir Lavaine, 'for I shall do what I may.' So they rode into the thickest of the press, and smote so hard both with spear and sword that the Knights of the Round Table fell back. 'O mercy!' cried Sir Gawaine, 'what Knight is that yonder who does such marvellous deeds?' 'I know well who it is,' said King Arthur, 'but I will not tell you yet.' 'Sir,' answered Sir Gawaine, 'I should say it was Sir Lancelot by the blows he deals and the manner that he rides, but it cannot be he, for this man has a red sleeve upon his helmet, and Sir Lancelot has never borne the token of any lady.' [Illustration: ELAINE TIES HER SLEEVE ROUND SIR LANCELOT'S HELMET] 'Let him be,' said Sir Arthur, 'you will find out his name, and see him do greater deeds yet, before he departs.' And the Knights that were fighting against the King's party took heart again, for before they feared they would be beaten. But when Sir Bors saw this, he called unto him the Knights that were of kin to Sir Lancelot, and they banded together to make a great charge, and threw Sir Lancelot's horse to the ground, and by misfortune the spear of Sir Bors broke, and its head was left in Sir Lancelot's side. When Sir Lavaine saw that, he unhorsed the King of Scots, and brought his horse to Sir Lancelot, and helped him mount thereon and gave him a spear, with which Sir Lancelot smote Sir Bors to the earth and Sir Ector de Maris, the foster-father of King Arthur, and buffeted sorely the Knights that were with them. Afterward he hurled himself into the thick _mêlée_ of them all, and did the most wonderful deeds that ever were heard of. And Sir Lavaine likewise did well that day, for he smote down full two Knights of the Round Table. 'Mercy,' again cried Sir Gawaine to Arthur, 'I marvel what Knight that is with the red sleeve.' 'That you shall know soon,' said King Arthur, and commanded that the trumpets should be blown, and declared that the prize belonged to the Knight with the white shield, who bare the red sleeve, for he had unhorsed more than thirty Knights. And the Kings and Lords who were of his party came round him and thanked him for the help he had given them, by which means the honours of the day had been theirs. 'Fair Lords,' said Sir Lancelot, 'if I have deserved thanks, I have paid for them sorely, for I shall hardly escape with my life, therefore I pray you let me depart, for my hurt is grievous.' Then he groaned piteously, and galloped from them to a wood's side, followed by Sir Lavaine. 'Oh help me, Sir Lavaine,' said he, 'to get this spear's head out of my side, for it is killing me.' But Sir Lavaine feared to touch it, lest Sir Lancelot should bleed to death. 'I charge you,' said Sir Lancelot, 'if you love me draw out the head,' so Sir Lavaine drew it out. And Sir Lancelot gave a great shriek, and a marvellous grisly groan, and his blood flowed out so fast, that he fell into a swoon. 'Oh what shall I do?' cried Sir Lavaine, and he loosed Sir Lancelot's helm and coat of mail, and turned him so that the wind might blow on him, but for full half an hour he lay as if he had been dead. And at last Sir Lancelot opened his eyes, and said, 'O Lavaine, help me on my horse, for two miles from this place there lives a hermit who once was a Knight of the Round Table, and he can heal my wounds.' Then Sir Lavaine, with much ado, helped him on his horse, and brought him bleeding to the hermit. The hermit looked at him as he rode up, leaning piteously on his saddle-bow, and he thought that he should know him, but could not tell who he was for the paleness of his face, till he saw by a wound on his cheek that it was Sir Lancelot. 'You cannot hide your name from me,' said the hermit, 'for you are the noblest Knight in the world, and well I know you to be Sir Lancelot.' 'Since you know me, Sir,' said he, 'help me for God's sake, and for death or life put me out of this pain.' 'Fear nothing,' answered the hermit, 'your pain will soon be gone,' and he called his servants to take the armour off the Knight, and laid him in bed. After that he dressed the wound, and gave him good wine to drink, and Sir Lancelot slept and awoke free of his pain. So we will leave him to be healed of his wound, under the care of the hermit, and go back to King Arthur. Now it was the custom in those days that after a tourney was finished, a great feast should be held at which both parties were assembled, so King Arthur sent to ask the King of Northgalis, where was the Knight with the red sleeve, who had fought on his side. 'Bring him before me,' he said, 'that he may have the prize he has won, which is his right.' Then answered the King with the hundred Knights, 'we fear the Knight must have been sore hurt, and that neither you nor we are ever like to see him again, which is grievous to think of.' 'Alas!' said King Arthur, 'is he then so badly wounded? What is his name?' 'Truly,' said they all, 'we know not his name, nor whence he came, nor whither he went.' 'As for me,' answered King Arthur, 'these tidings are the worst that I have heard these seven years, for I would give all the lands I hold that no harm had befallen this Knight.' 'Do you know him?' asked they all. 'Whether I know him or not,' said King Arthur, 'I shall not tell you, but may Heaven send me good news of him.' 'Amen,' answered they. 'By my head,' said Sir Gawaine, 'if this good Knight is really wounded unto death, it is a great evil for all this land, for he is one of the noblest that ever I saw for handling a sword or spear. And if he may be found, I shall find him, for I am sure he is not far from this town,' so he took his Squire with him, and they rode all round Camelot, six or seven miles on every side, but nothing could they hear of him. And he returned heavily to the Court of King Arthur. Two days after the King and all his company set out for London, and by the way, it happened to Sir Gawaine to lodge with Sir Bernard at Astolat. And when he was in his chamber, Sir Bernard and his daughter Elaine came unto Sir Gawaine, to ask him tidings of the Court, and who did best in the tourney at Winchester. 'Truly,' said Sir Gawaine, 'there were two Knights that bare white shields, but one of them had a red sleeve upon his helm, and he was one of the best Knights that ever I saw joust in the field, for I dare say he smote down forty Knights of the Table Round.' 'Now blessed be God,' said the Maid of Astolat, 'that that Knight sped so well, for he is the man in the world that I loved first, and he will also be the last that ever I shall love.' 'Fair Maid,' asked Sir Gawaine, 'is that Knight your love?' 'Certainly he is my love,' said she. 'Then you know his name?' asked Sir Gawaine. 'Nay, truly,' answered the damsel, 'I know neither his name, nor whence he cometh, but I love him for all that.' 'How did you meet him first?' asked Sir Gawaine. At that she told him the whole story, and how her brother went with Sir Lancelot to do him service, and lent him the white shield of her brother Sir Tirre and left his own shield with her. 'Why did he do that?' asked Sir Gawaine. 'For this cause,' said the damsel, 'his shield was too well known among many noble Knights.' 'Ah, fair damsel,' said Sir Gawaine, 'I beg of you to let me have a sight of that shield.' 'Sir,' answered she, 'it is in my chamber covered with a case, and if you will come with me, you shall see it.' 'Not so,' said Sir Bernard, and sent his Squire for it. And when Sir Gawaine took off the case and beheld the shield, and saw the arms, he knew it to be Sir Lancelot's. 'Ah mercy,' cried he, 'my heart is heavier than ever it was before!' 'Why?' asked Elaine. 'I have great cause,' answered Sir Gawaine. 'Is that Knight who owns this shield your love?' 'Yes, truly,' said she; 'I would I were his love.' 'You are right, fair damsel,' replied Gawaine, 'for if you love him, you love the most honourable Knight in the world. I have known him for four-and-twenty years, and never did I or any other Knight see him wear a token of either lady or damsel at a tournament. Therefore, damsel, he has paid you great honour. But I fear that I may never behold him again upon earth, and that is grievous to think of.' 'Alas!' she said, 'how may this be? Is he slain?' 'I did not say that,' replied Sir Gawaine, 'but he is sorely wounded, and is more likely to be dead than alive. And, maiden, by this shield I know that he is Sir Lancelot.' 'How can this be?' said the Maid of Astolat, 'and what was his hurt?' 'Truly,' answered Sir Gawaine, 'it was the man that loved him best who hurt him so, and I am sure that if that man knew that it was Sir Lancelot whom he had wounded, he would think it was the darkest deed that ever he did.' 'Now, dear father,' said Elaine, 'give me leave to ride and to seek him, for I shall go out of my mind unless I find him and my brother.' 'Do as you will,' answered her father, 'for I am grieved to hear of the hurt of that noble Knight.' So the damsel made ready. On the morn Sir Gawaine came to King Arthur and told him how he had found the shield in the keeping of the Maid of Astolat. 'All that I knew beforehand,' said the King, 'and that was why I would not suffer you to fight at the tourney, for I had espied him when he entered his lodging the night before. But this is the first time that ever I heard of his bearing the token of some lady, and much I marvel at it.' 'By my head,' answered Sir Gawaine, 'the Fair Maiden of Astolat loves him wondrous well. What it all means, or what will be the end, I cannot say, but she has ridden after him to seek him.' So the King and his company came to London, and everyone in the Court knew that it was Sir Lancelot who had jousted the best. And when the tidings came to Sir Bors, his heart grew heavy, and also the hearts of his kinsmen. But when the Queen heard that Sir Lancelot bore the red sleeve of the Fair Maid of Astolat, she was nearly mad with wrath and summoned Sir Bors before her in haste. 'Ah, Sir Bors,' she cried when he was come, 'have the tidings reached you that Sir Lancelot has been a false Knight to me?' 'Madam,' answered Sir Bors, 'I pray you say not so, for I cannot hear such language of him.' 'Why, is he not false and a traitor when, after swearing that for right or wrong he would be my Knight and mine only, he bore the red sleeve upon his helm at the great jousts at Camelot?' 'Madam,' said Sir Bors, 'I grieve bitterly as to that sleeve-bearing, but I think he did it that none of his kin should know him. For no man before that had seen him bear the token of any lady, be she what she may.' 'Fie on him!' said the Queen, 'I myself heard Sir Gawaine tell my lord Arthur of the great love that is between the Fair Maiden of Astolat and him.' 'Madam,' answered Sir Bors, 'I cannot hinder Sir Gawaine from saying what he pleases, but as for Sir Lancelot, I am sure that he loves no one lady or maiden better than another. And therefore I will hasten to seek him wherever he be.' Meanwhile fair Elaine came to Winchester to find Sir Lancelot, who lay in peril of his life in the hermit's dwelling. And when she was riding hither and thither, not knowing where she should turn, she fell on her brother Sir Lavaine, who was exercising his horse. 'How doth my lord Sir Lancelot?' asked she. 'Who told you, sister, that my lord's name was Sir Lancelot?' answered Sir Lavaine. 'Sir Gawaine, who came to my father's house to rest after the tourney, knew him by his shield,' said she, and they rode on till they reached the hermitage, and Sir Lavaine brought her to Sir Lancelot. And when she saw him so pale, and in such a plight, she fell to the earth in a swoon, but by-and-bye she opened her eyes and said, 'My lord Sir Lancelot, what has brought you to this?' and swooned again. When she came to herself and stood up, Sir Lancelot prayed her to be of good cheer, for if she had come to comfort him she was right welcome, and that his wound would soon heal. 'But I marvel,' said he, 'how you know my name.' Then the maiden told him how Sir Gawaine had been at Astolat and had seen his shield. 'Alas!' sighed Sir Lancelot, 'it grieves me that my name is known, for trouble will come of it.' For he knew full well that Sir Gawaine would tell Queen Guenevere, and that she would be wroth. And Elaine stayed and tended him, and Sir Lancelot begged Sir Lavaine to ride to Winchester and ask if Sir Bors was there, and said that he should know him by token of a wound which Sir Bors had on his forehead. 'For well I am sure,' said Sir Lancelot, 'that Sir Bors will seek me, as he is the same good Knight that hurt me.' Therefore as Sir Lancelot commanded, Sir Lavaine rode to Winchester and inquired if Sir Bors had been seen there, so that when he entered the town Sir Lavaine readily found him. Sir Bors was overjoyed to hear good tidings of Sir Lancelot, and they rode back together to the hermitage. At the sight of Sir Lancelot lying in his bed, pale and thin, Sir Bors' heart gave way, and he wept long without speaking. 'Oh, my lord Sir Lancelot,' he said at last, 'God send you hasty recovery; great is my shame for having wounded you thus, you who are the noblest Knight in the world. I wonder that my arm would lift itself against you, and I ask your mercy.' 'Fair cousin,' answered Sir Lancelot, 'such words please me not at all, for it is the fault of my pride which would overcome you all, that I lie here to-day. We will not speak of it any more, for what is done cannot be undone, but let us find a cure so that I may soon be whole.' Then Sir Bors leaned upon his bed, and told him how the Queen was filled with anger against him, because he wore the red sleeve at the jousts. 'I am sorrowful at what you tell me,' replied Sir Lancelot, 'for all I did was to hinder my being known.' 'That I said to excuse you,' answered Sir Bors, 'though it was all in vain. But is this damsel that is so busy about you the Fair Maid of Astolat?' 'She it is, and she will not go from me!' 'Why should she go from you?' asked Sir Bors. 'She is a passing fair damsel, and of gentle breeding, and I would that you could love her, for it is easy to see by her bearing that she loves you entirely.' 'It grieves me to hear that,' said Sir Lancelot. After this they talked of other things, till in a few days Sir Lancelot's wounds were whole again. When Sir Lancelot felt his strength return, Sir Bors made him ready, and departed for the Court of King Arthur, and told them how he had left Sir Lancelot. And there was on All Hallows a great tournament, and Sir Bors won the prize for the unhorsing of twenty Knights, and Sir Gareth did great deeds also, but vanished suddenly from the field, and no man knew where he had gone. After the tourney was over, Sir Bors rode to the hermitage to see Sir Lancelot, whom he found walking on his feet, and on the next morning they bade farewell to the hermit, taking with them Elaine le Blanc. They went first to Astolat, where they were well lodged in the house of Sir Bernard, but when the morrow came, and Sir Lancelot would have departed from them, Elaine called to her father and to her brothers Sir Tirre and Sir Lavaine, and thus she said: 'My lord Sir Lancelot, fair Knight, leave me not, I pray you, but have mercy upon me, and suffer me not to die of love of thee.' 'What do you wish me to do?' asked Sir Lancelot. 'I would have you for my husband,' answered she. 'Fair damsel, I thank you,' said Sir Lancelot, 'but truly I shall never have a wife. But in token and thanks of all your good will towards me, gladly will I give a thousand pounds yearly when you set your heart upon some other Knight.' 'Of such gifts I will have none,' answered Elaine, 'and I would have you know, Sir Lancelot, that if you refuse to wed me, my good days are done.' 'Fair damsel,' said Sir Lancelot, 'I cannot do the thing that you ask.' At these words she fell down in a swoon, and her maids bore her to her chamber, where she made bitter sorrow. Sir Lancelot thought it would be well for him to depart before she came to her senses again, and he asked Sir Lavaine what he would do. 'What should I do?' asked Sir Lavaine, 'but follow you if you will have me.' Then Sir Bernard came and said to Sir Lancelot, 'I see well that my daughter Elaine will die for your sake.' 'I cannot marry her,' answered Sir Lancelot, 'and it grieves me sorely, for she is a good maiden, fair and gentle.' 'Father,' said Sir Lavaine, 'she is as pure and good as Sir Lancelot has said, and she is like me, for since first I saw him I can never leave him.' And after that they bade the old man farewell and came unto Winchester, where the King and all the Knights of the Round Table made great joy of him, save only Sir Agrawaine and Sir Mordred. But the Queen was angry and would not speak to him, though he tried by all means to make her. Now when the Fair Maid of Astolat knew he was gone, she would neither eat nor sleep, but cried after Sir Lancelot all the day long. And when she had spent ten days in this manner, she grew so weak that they thought her soul must quit this world, and the priest came to her, and bade her dwell no more on earthly things. She would not listen to him, but cried ever after Sir Lancelot, and how she had loved none other, no, nor ever would, and that her love would be her death. Then she called her father Sir Bernard, and her brother Sir Tirre, and begged her brother to write her a letter as she should tell him, and her father that he would have her watched till she was dead. 'And while my body is warm,' said she, 'let this letter be put in my right hand, and my hand bound fast with the letter until I be cold, and let me be dressed in my richest clothes and be lain on a fair bed, and driven in a chariot to the Thames. There let me be put on a barge, and a dumb man with me, to steer the barge, which shall be covered over with black samite. Thus, father, I beseech you, let it be done.' And her father promised her faithfully that so it should be done to her when she was dead. Next day she died, and her body was lain on the bed, and placed in a chariot, and driven to the Thames, where the man awaited her with the barge. When she was put on board, he steered the barge to Westminster and rowed a great while to and fro, before any espied it. At last King Arthur and Queen Guenevere withdrew into a window to speak together, and espied the black barge and wondered greatly what it meant. The King summoned Sir Kay, and bade him take Sir Brandiles and Sir Agrawaine, and find out who was lying there, and they ran down to the river side, and came and told the King. 'That fair corpse will I see,' returned the King, and he took the Queen's hand and led her thither. Then he ordered the barge to be made fast, and he entered it, and the Queen likewise, and certain Knights with them. And there he saw a fair woman on a rich bed, and her clothing was of cloth of gold, and she lay smiling. While they looked, all being silent, the Queen spied a letter in her right hand, and pointed it out to the King, who took it saying, 'Now I am sure this letter will tell us what she was, and why she came hither.' So leaving the barge in charge of a trusty man, they went into the King's chamber, followed by many Knights, for the King would have the letter read openly. He then broke the seal himself, and bade a clerk read it, and this was what it said: 'Most noble Knight Sir Lancelot, I was your lover, whom men called the Fair Maid of Astolat: therefore unto all ladies I make my moan; yet pray for my soul, and bury me. This is my last request. Pray for my soul, Sir Lancelot, as thou art peerless.' [Illustration: THE BLACK BARGET] This was all the letter, and the King and Queen and all the Knights wept when they heard it. 'Let Sir Lancelot be sent for,' presently said the King, and when Sir Lancelot came the letter was read to him also. 'My lord Arthur,' said he, after he had heard it all, 'I am right grieved at the death of this damsel. God knows I was not, of my own will, guilty of her death, and that I will call on her brother, Sir Lavaine, to witness. She was both fair and good, and much was I beholden to her, but she loved me out of measure.' 'You might have been a little gentle with her,' answered the Queen, 'and have found some way to save her life.' 'Madam,' said Sir Lancelot, 'she would have nothing but my love, and that I could not give her, though I offered her a thousand pounds yearly if she should set her heart on any other Knight. For, Madam, I love not to be forced to love; love must arise of itself, and not by command.' 'That is truth,' replied the King, 'love is free in himself, and never will be bounden; for where he is bounden he looseth himself. But, Sir Lancelot, be it your care to see that the damsel is buried as is fitting.' _LANCELOT AND GUENEVERE_ Now we come to the sorrowful tale of Lancelot and Guenevere, and of the death of King Arthur. Already it has been told that King Arthur had wedded Guenevere, the daughter of Leodegrance, King of Cornwall, a damsel who seemed made of all the flowers, so fair was she, and slender, and brilliant to look upon. And the Knights in her father's Court bowed down before her, and smote their hardest in the jousts where Guenevere was present, but none dared ask her in marriage till Arthur came. Like the rest he saw and loved her, but, unlike them, he was a King, and might lift his eyes even unto Guenevere. The maiden herself scarcely saw or spoke to him, but did her father's bidding in all things, and when he desired her to make everything ready to go clothed as beseemed a Princess to King Arthur's Court, her heart beat with joy at the sight of rich stuffs and shining jewels. Then one day there rode up to the Castle a band of horsemen sent by the King to bring her to his Court, and at the head of them Sir Lancelot du Lake, friend of King Arthur, and winner of all the jousts and tournaments where Knights meet to gain honour. Day by day they rode together apart and he told her tales of gallant deeds done for love of beautiful ladies, and they passed under trees gay with the first green of spring, and over hyacinths covering the earth with sheets of blue, till at sunset they drew rein before the silken pavilion, with the banner of Uther Pendragon floating on the top. And Guenevere's heart went out to Lancelot before she knew. One evening she noted, far across the plain, towers and buildings shining in the sun, and an array of horsemen ride forth to meet her. One stopped before her dazzled eyes, and leaping from his horse bowed low. Arthur had come to welcome her, and do her honour, and to lead her home. But looking up at him, she thought him cold, and, timid and alone, her thoughts turned again to Lancelot. After that the days and years slipped by, and these two were ever nearest the King, and in every time of danger the King cried for Lancelot, and trusted his honour and the Queen's to him. Sir Lancelot spoke truly when he told Elaine that he had never worn the badge of lady or maiden, but for all that every one looked on Sir Lancelot as the Queen's Knight, who could do no worship to any other woman. The King likewise held Sir Lancelot bound to fight the Queen's battles, and if he was absent on adventures of his own, messengers hastened to bring him back, as in the fight with Sir Mador. So things went on for many years, and the King never guessed that the Queen loved Lancelot best. [Illustration: LANCELOT BRINGS GUENEVERE TO ARTHUR] It befell one spring, in the month of May, that Queen Guenevere bethought herself that she would like to go a-maying in the woods and fields that lay round the City of Westminster on both sides of the river. To this intent she called her own especial Knights, and bade them be ready the next morning clothed all in green, whether of silk or cloth, 'and,' said she, 'I shall bring with me ten ladies, and every Knight shall have a lady behind him, and be followed by a Squire and two yeomen, and I will that you shall all be well horsed.' Thus it was done, and the ten Knights, arrayed in fresh green, the emblem of the spring, rode with the Queen and her ladies in the early dawn, and smelt the sweet of the year, and gathered flowers which they stuck in their girdles and doublets. The Queen was as happy and light of heart as the youngest maiden, but she had promised to be with the King at the hour of ten, and gave the signal for departure unwillingly. The Knights were mounting their horses, when suddenly out of a wood on the other side rode Sir Meliagraunce, who for many years had loved the Queen, and had sought an occasion to carry her off, but found none so fair as this. Out of the forest he rode, with two score men in armour, and a hundred archers behind him, and bade the Queen and her followers stay where they were, or they would fare badly. 'Traitor,' cried the Queen, 'what evil deed would you do? You are a King's son and a Knight of the Round Table, yet you seek to shame the man who gave you knighthood. But I tell you that you may bring dishonour on yourself, but you will bring none on me, for rather would I cut my throat in twain.' 'As for your threats, Madam, I pay them no heed,' returned Sir Meliagraunce; 'I have loved you many a year, and never could I get you at such an advantage as I do now, and therefore I will take you as I find you.' Then all the Knights spoke together saying, 'Sir Meliagraunce, bethink yourself that in attacking men who are unarmed you put not only our lives in peril but your own honour. Rather than allow the Queen to be shamed we will each one fight to the death, and if we did aught else we should dishonour our knighthood for ever.' 'Fight as well as you can,' answered Sir Meliagraunce, 'and keep the Queen if you may.' So the Knights of the Round Table drew their swords, and the men of Sir Meliagraunce ran at them with spears; but the Knights stood fast, and clove the spears in two before they touched them. Then both sides fought with swords, and Sir Kay and five other Knights were felled to the ground with wounds all over their bodies. The other four fought long, and slew forty of the men and archers of Sir Meliagraunce; but in the end they too were overcome. When the Queen saw that she cried out for pity and sorrow, 'Sir Meliagraunce, spare my noble Knights and I will go with you quietly on this condition, that their lives be saved, and that wherever you may carry me they shall follow. For I give you warning that I would rather slay myself than go with you without my Knights, whose duty it is to guard me.' 'Madam,' replied Sir Meliagraunce, 'for your sake they shall be led with you into my own castle, if you will consent to ride with me.' So the Queen prayed the four Knights to fight no more, and she and they would not part, and to this, though their hearts were heavy, they agreed. The fight being ended the wounded Knights were placed on horseback, some sitting, some lying across the saddle, according as they were hurt, and Sir Meliagraunce forbade anyone to leave the castle (which had been a gift to him from King Arthur), for sore he dreaded the vengeance of Sir Lancelot if this thing should reach his ears. But the Queen knew well what was passing in his mind, and she called a little page who served her in her chamber and desired him to take her ring and hasten with all speed to Sir Lancelot, 'and pray him, if he loves me, to rescue me. Spare not your horse, neither for water nor for land.' And the boy bided his time, then mounted his horse, and rode away as fast as he might. Sir Meliagraunce spied him as he flew, and knew whither he went, and who had sent him; and he commanded his best archers to ride after him and shoot him ere he reached Sir Lancelot. But the boy escaped their arrows, and vanished from their sight. Then Sir Meliagraunce said to the Queen, 'You seek to betray me, Madam; but Sir Lancelot shall not so lightly come at you.' And he bade his men follow him to the castle in haste, and left an ambush of thirty archers in the road, charging them that if a Knight mounted on a white horse came along that way they were to slay the horse but to leave the man alone, as he was hard to overcome. After Sir Meliagraunce had given these orders his company galloped fast to the castle; but the Queen would listen to nothing that he said, demanding always that her Knights and ladies should be lodged with her, and Sir Meliagraunce was forced to let her have her will. [Illustration: GUENEVERE SENDS HER PAGE TO LANCELOT FOR HELP] The castle of Sir Meliagraunce was distant seven miles from Westminster, so it did not take long for the boy to find Sir Lancelot, and to give him the Queen's ring and her message. 'I am shamed for ever,' said Sir Lancelot, 'unless I can rescue that noble lady,' and while he put on his armour, he called to the boy to tell him the whole adventure. When he was armed and mounted, he begged the page to warn Sir Lavaine where he had gone, and for what cause. 'And pray him, as he loves me, that he follow me to the castle of Sir Meliagraunce, for if I am a living man, he will find me there.' Sir Lancelot put his horse into the water at Westminster, and he swam straight over to Lambeth, and soon after he landed he found traces of the fight. He rode along the track till he came to the wood, where the archers were lying waiting for him, and when they saw him, they bade him on peril of his life to go no further along that path. 'Why should I, who am a Knight of the Round Table, turn out of any path that pleases me?' asked Sir Lancelot. 'Either you will leave this path or your horse will be slain,' answered the archers. 'You may slay my horse if you will,' said Sir Lancelot, 'but when my horse is slain I shall fight you on foot, and so would I do, if there were five hundred more of you.' With that they smote the horse with their arrows, but Sir Lancelot jumped off, and ran into the wood, and they could not catch him. He went on some way, but the ground was rough, and his armour was heavy, and sore he dreaded the treason of Sir Meliagraunce. His heart was near to fail him, when there passed by a cart with two carters that came to fetch wood. 'Tell me, carter,' asked Sir Lancelot, 'what will you take to suffer me to go in your cart till we are within two miles of the castle of Sir Meliagraunce?' 'I cannot take you at all,' answered the carter, 'for I am come to fetch wood for my lord Sir Meliagraunce.' 'It is with him that I would speak.' 'You shall not go with me,' said the carter, but hardly had he uttered the words when Sir Lancelot leapt up into the cart, and gave him such a buffet that he fell dead on the ground. At this sight the other carter cried that he would take the Knight where he would if he would only spare his life. 'Then I charge you,' said Sir Lancelot, 'that you bring me to the castle gate.' So the carter drove at a great gallop, and Sir Lancelot's horse, who had espied his master, followed the cart, though more than fifty arrows were standing in his body. In an hour and a half they reached the castle gate, and were seen of Guenevere and her ladies, who were standing in a window. 'Look, Madam,' cried one of her ladies, 'in that cart yonder is a goodly armed Knight. I suppose he is going to his hanging.' 'Where?' asked the Queen, and as she spoke she espied that it was Sir Lancelot, and that his horse was following riderless. 'Well is he that has a trusty friend,' said she, 'for a noble Knight is hard pressed when he rides in a cart,' and she rebuked the lady who had declared he was going to his hanging. 'It was foul talking, to liken the noblest Knight in the world to one going to a shameful death.' By this Sir Lancelot had come to the gate of the castle, and he got down and called till the castle rang with his voice. 'Where is that false traitor Sir Meliagraunce, Knight of the Round Table? Come forth, you and your company, for I, Sir Lancelot du Lake, am here to do battle with you.' Then he burst the gate open wide, and smote the porter who tried to hold it against him. When Sir Meliagraunce heard Sir Lancelot's voice, he ran into Queen Guenevere's chamber, and fell on his knees before her: 'Mercy, Madam, mercy! I throw myself upon your grace.' 'What ails you now?' said she; 'of a truth I might well expect some good Knight to avenge me, though my lord Arthur knew not of your work.' [Illustration: THE ARCHERS THREATEN LANCELOT] 'Madam, I will make such amends as you yourself may desire,' pleaded Sir Meliagraunce, 'and I trust wholly to your grace.' 'What would you have me do?' asked the Queen. 'Rule in this castle as if it were your own, and give Sir Lancelot cheer till to-morrow, and then you shall all return to Westminster.' 'You say well,' answered the Queen. 'Peace is ever better than war, and I take no pleasure in fighting.' So she went down with her ladies to Sir Lancelot, who still stood full of rage in the inner court, calling as before, 'Traitor Knight, come forth!' 'Sir Lancelot,' asked the Queen, 'what is the cause of all this wrath?' 'Madam,' replied Sir Lancelot, 'does such a question come from you? Methinks your wrath should be greater than mine, for all the hurt and the dishonour have fallen upon you. My own hurt is but little, but the shame is worse than any hurt.' 'You say truly,' replied the Queen, 'but you must come in with me peaceably, as all is put into my hand, and the Knight repents bitterly of his adventure.' 'Madam,' said Sir Lancelot, 'since you have made agreement with him, it is not my part to say nay, although Sir Meliagraunce has borne himself both shamefully and cowardly towards me. But had I known you would have pardoned him so soon, I should not have made such haste to come to you.' 'Why do you say that?' asked the Queen; 'do you repent yourself of your good deeds? I only made peace with him to have done with all this noise of slanderous talk, and for the sake of my Knights.' 'Madam,' answered Sir Lancelot, 'you understand full well that I was never glad of slander nor noise, but there is neither King, Queen nor Knight alive, save yourself, Madam, and my lord Arthur, that should hinder me from giving Sir Meliagraunce a cold heart before I departed hence.' 'That I know well,' said the Queen, 'but what would you have more? Everything shall be ordered as you will.' 'Madam,' replied Sir Lancelot, 'as long as you are pleased, that is all I care for,' so the Queen led Sir Lancelot into her chamber, and commanded him to take off his armour, and then took him to where her ten Knights were lying sore wounded. And their souls leapt with joy when they saw him, and he told them how falsely Sir Meliagraunce had dealt with him, and had set archers to slay his horse, so that he was fain to place himself in a cart. Thus they complained each to the other, and would have avenged themselves on Sir Meliagraunce but for the peace made by the Queen. And in the evening came Sir Lavaine, riding in great haste, and Sir Lancelot was glad that he was come. Now Sir Lancelot was right when he feared to trust Sir Meliagraunce, for that Knight only sought to work ill both to him and to the Queen, for all his fair words. And first he began to speak evil of the Queen to Sir Lancelot, who dared him to prove his foul words, and it was settled between them that a combat should take place in eight days in the field, near Westminster. 'And now,' said Sir Meliagraunce, 'since it is decided that we must fight together, I beseech you, as you are a noble Knight, do me no treason nor villainy in the meantime.' 'Any Knight will bear me witness,' answered Sir Lancelot, 'that never have I broken faith with any man, nor borne fellowship with those that have done so.' 'Then let us go to dinner,' said Sir Meliagraunce, 'and afterwards you may all ride to Westminster. Meanwhile would it please you to see the inside of this castle?' 'That I will gladly,' said Sir Lancelot, and they went from chamber to chamber, till they reached the floor of the castle, and as he went Sir Lancelot trod on a trap, and the board rolled, and he fell down in a cave which was filled with straw, and Sir Meliagraunce departed and no man knew where Sir Lancelot might be. The Queen bethought herself that he was wont to disappear suddenly, and as Sir Meliagraunce had first removed Sir Lavaine's horse from the place where it had been tethered, the Knights agreed with her. So time passed till dinner had been eaten, and then Sir Lavaine demanded litters for the wounded Knights, that they might be carried to Westminster with as little hurt as might be. And the Queen and her ladies followed. When they arrived, the Knights told of their adventure, and how Sir Meliagraunce had accused the Queen of treason, and how he and Sir Lancelot were to fight for her good name in eight days. 'Sir Meliagraunce has taken a great deal upon him,' said the King, 'but where is Sir Lancelot?' 'Sir,' answered they all, 'we know not, but we think he has ridden to some adventure.' 'Well, leave him alone,' said the King. 'He will be here when the day comes, unless some treason has befallen him.' All this while Sir Lancelot was lying in great pain within the cave, and he would have died for lack of food had not one of the ladies in the castle found out the place where he was held captive, and brought him meat and drink, and hoped that he might be brought to love her. But he would not. 'Sir Lancelot,' said she, 'you are not wise, for without my help you will never get out of this prison, and if you do not appear on the day of battle, your lady, Queen Guenevere, will be burnt in default.' 'If I am not there,' replied Sir Lancelot, 'the King and the Queen and all men of worship will know that I am either dead or in prison. And sure I am that there is some good Knight who loves me or is of my kin, that will take my quarrel in hand, therefore you cannot frighten me by such words as these. If there was not another woman in the world, I could give you no different answer.' 'Then you will be shamed openly,' replied the lady, and left the dungeon. But on the day that the battle was to be fought she came again, and said, 'Sir Lancelot, if you will only kiss me once, I will deliver you, and give you the best horse in Sir Meliagraunce's stable.' 'Yes, I will kiss you,' answered Sir Lancelot, 'since I may do that honourably; but if I thought it were any shame to kiss you, I would not do it, whatever the cost.' So he kissed her, and she brought him his armour, and led him to a stable where twelve noble horses stood, and bade him choose the best. He chose a white courser, and bade the keepers put on the best saddle they had, and with his spear in his hand and his sword by his side, he rode away, thanking the lady for all she had done for him, which some day he would try to repay. As the hours passed on and Sir Lancelot did not come, Sir Meliagraunce called ever on King Arthur to burn the Queen, or else bring forth Sir Lancelot, for he deemed full well that he had Sir Lancelot safe in his dungeon. The King and Queen were sore distressed that Sir Lancelot was missing, and knew not where to look for him, and what to do. Then stepped forth Sir Lavaine and said, 'My lord Arthur, you know well that some ill-fortune has happened to Sir Lancelot, and if he is not dead, he is either sick or in prison. Therefore I beseech you, let me do battle instead of my lord and master for my lady the Queen.' 'I thank you heartily, gentle Knight,' answered Arthur, 'for I am sure that Sir Meliagraunce accuses the Queen falsely, and there is not one of the ten Knights who would not fight for her were it not for his wounds. So do your best, for it is plain that some evil has been wrought on Sir Lancelot.' Sir Lavaine was filled with joy when the King gave him leave to do battle with Sir Meliagraunce, and rode swiftly to his place at the end of the lists. And just as the heralds were about to cry 'Lesses les aler!' Sir Lancelot dashed into the middle on his white horse. 'Hold and abide!' commanded the King, and Sir Lancelot rode up before him, and told before them all how Sir Meliagraunce had treated him. When the King and Queen and all the Lords heard Sir Lancelot's tale, their hearts stirred within them with anger, and the Queen took her seat by the King, in great trust of her champion. Sir Lancelot and Sir Meliagraunce prepared themselves for battle, and took their spears, and came together as thunder, and Sir Lancelot bore Sir Meliagraunce right over his horse. Then Sir Lancelot jumped down, and they fought on foot, till in the end Sir Meliagraunce was smitten to the ground by a blow on his head from his enemy. 'Most noble Knight, save my life,' cried he, 'for I yield myself unto you, and put myself into the King's hands and yours.' Sir Lancelot did not know what to answer, for he longed above anything in the world to have revenge upon him; so he looked at the Queen to see whether she would give him any sign of what she would have done. The Queen wagged her head in answer, and Sir Lancelot knew by that token that she would have him dead, and he understood, and bade Sir Meliagraunce get up, and continue the fight. 'Nay,' said Sir Meliagraunce, 'I will never rise till you accept my surrender.' 'Listen,' answered Sir Lancelot. 'I will leave my head and left side bare, and my left arm shall be bound behind me, and in this guise I will fight with you.' At this Sir Meliagraunce started to his feet, and cried, 'My lord Arthur, take heed to this offer, for I will take it, therefore let him be bound and unarmed as he has said.' So the Knights disarmed Sir Lancelot, first his head and then his side, and his left hand was bound behind his back, in such a manner that he could not use his shield, and full many a Knight and lady marvelled that Sir Lancelot would risk himself so. And Sir Meliagraunce lifted his sword on high and would have smitten Sir Lancelot on his bare head, had he not leapt lightly to one side, and, before Sir Meliagraunce could right himself, Sir Lancelot had struck him so hard upon his helmet that his skull split in two, and there was nothing left to do but to carry his dead body from the field. And because the Knights of the Round Table begged to have him honourably buried, the King agreed thereto, and on his tomb mention was made of how he came by his death, and who slew him. After this Sir Lancelot was more cherished by the King and Queen than ever he was before. Among the many Knights at Arthur's Court who owned kings for their fathers were Sir Mordred and Sir Agrawaine, who had for brothers, Sir Gawaine, Sir Gaheris and Sir Gareth. And their mother was Queen of Orkney, sister to King Arthur. Now Sir Agrawaine and Sir Mordred had evil natures, and loved both to invent slanders and to repeat them. And at this time they were full of envy of the noble deeds Sir Lancelot had done, and how men called him the bravest Knight of the Table Round, and said that he was the friend of the King, and the sworn defender of the Queen. So they cast about how they might ruin him, and found the way by putting jealous thoughts into the mind of Arthur. As was told in the tale of the marriage of Arthur, Queen Guenevere's heart had gone out to Lancelot, on the journey to the Court, and ever she loved to have him with her. This was known well to Sir Mordred, who watched eagerly for a chance to work her ill. It came one day when Arthur proclaimed a hunt, and Sir Mordred guessed that Sir Lancelot, who did not love hunting, would stay behind, and would spend the time holding talk with the Queen. Therefore he went to the King and began to speak evil of the Queen and Sir Lancelot. At first King Arthur would listen to nothing, but slowly his jealousy burned within him, and he let the ill words that accused the Queen of loving Sir Lancelot the best, sink into his mind, and told Sir Mordred and Sir Agrawaine that they might do their worst, and he would not meddle with them. But they let so many of their fellowship into the secret of their foul plot, that at last it came to the ears of Sir Bors, who begged Sir Lancelot not to go near the Queen that day, or harm would come of it. But Sir Lancelot answered that the Queen had sent for him, and that she was his liege lady, and never would he hold back when she summoned him to her presence. Therefore Sir Bors went heavily away. By ill fortune, Sir Lancelot only wore his sword under his great mantle, and scarcely had he passed inside the door when Sir Agrawaine and Sir Mordred, and twelve other Knights of the Table Round, all armed and ready for battle, cried loudly upon Sir Lancelot, that all the Court might hear. 'Madam,' said Sir Lancelot, 'is there any armour within your chamber that I might cover my body withal, for if I was armed as they are I would soon crush them?' 'Alas!' replied the Queen, 'I have neither sword nor spear nor armour, and how can you resist them? You will be slain and I shall be burnt. If you could only escape their hands, I know you would deliver me from danger.' 'It is grievous,' said Sir Lancelot, 'that I who was never conquered in all my life should be slain for lack of armour.' 'Traitor Knight,' cried Sir Mordred again, 'come out and fight us, for you are so sore beset that you cannot escape us.' 'Oh, mercy,' cried Sir Lancelot, 'I may not suffer longer this shame and noise! For better were death at once than to endure this pain.' Then he took the Queen in his arms and kissed her, and said, 'Most noble Christian Queen, I beseech you, as you have ever been my special good lady, and I at all times your true poor Knight, and as I never failed you in right or in wrong, since the first day that King Arthur made me Knight, that you will pray for my soul, if I be here slain. For I am well assured that Sir Bors, my nephew, and Sir Lavaine and many more, will rescue you from the fire, and therefore, mine own lady, comfort yourself whatever happens to me, and go with Sir Bors, my nephew, and you shall live like a Queen on my lands.' [Illustration: LANCELOT COMES OUT OF GUENEVERE'S ROOM] 'Nay, Lancelot,' said the Queen, 'I will never live after your days, but if you are slain I will take my death as meekly as ever did any Christian Queen.' 'Well, Madam,' answered Lancelot, 'since it is so I shall sell my life as dear as I may, and a thousandfold I am more heavy for you than for myself.' Therewith Sir Lancelot wrapped his mantle thickly round his arm, and stood beside the door, which the Knights without were trying to break in by aid of a stout wooden form. 'Fair Lords,' said Sir Lancelot, 'leave this noise, and I will open the door, and you may do with me what you will.' 'Open it then,' answered they, 'for well you know you cannot escape us, and we will save your life and bring you before King Arthur.' So Sir Lancelot opened the door and held it with his left hand, so that but one man could come in at once. Then came forward a strong Knight, Sir Colgrevance of Gore, who struck fiercely at Lancelot with his sword. But Sir Lancelot stepped on one side, that the blow fell harmless, and with his arm he gave Sir Colgrevance a buffet on the head so that he fell dead. And Sir Lancelot drew him into the chamber, and barred the door. Hastily he unbuckled the dead Knight's armour, and the Queen and her ladies put it on him, Sir Agrawaine and Sir Mordred ever calling to him the while, 'Traitor Knight, come out of that chamber!' But Sir Lancelot cried to them all to go away and he would appear next morning before the King, and they should accuse him of what they would, and he would answer them, and prove his words in battle. 'Fie on you, traitor,' said Sir Agrawaine, 'we have you in our power, to save or to slay, for King Arthur will listen to our words, and will believe what we tell him.' 'As you like,' answered Sir Lancelot, 'look to yourself,' and he flung open the chamber door, and strode in amongst them and killed Sir Agrawaine with his first blow, and in a few minutes the bodies of the other twelve Knights lay on the ground beside his, for no man ever withstood that buffet of Sir Lancelot's. He wounded Sir Mordred also, so that he fled away with all his might. When the clamour of the battle was still, Sir Lancelot turned back to the Queen and said, 'Alas, Madam, they will make King Arthur my foe, and yours also, but if you will come with me to my castle, I will save you from all dangers.' 'I will not go with you now,' answered the Queen, 'but if you see to-morrow that they will burn me to death, then you may deliver me as you shall think best.' 'While I live I will deliver you,' said Sir Lancelot, and he left her and went back to his lodging. When Sir Bors, who was awaiting him, saw Sir Lancelot, he was gladder than he ever had been in his whole life before. 'Mercy!' cried Sir Lancelot, 'why you are all armed!' 'Sir,' answered Sir Bors, 'after you had left us I and your friends and your kinsmen were so troubled that we felt some great strife was at hand, and that perchance some trap had been laid for you. So we put on armour that we might help you whatever need you were in.' 'Fair nephew,' said Lancelot, 'but now I have been more hardly beset than ever I was in my life, and yet I escaped,' and he told them all that had happened. 'I pray you, my fellows, that you will be of good courage and stand by me in my need, for war is come to us all.' 'Sir,' answered Sir Bors, 'all is welcome that God sends us, and we have had much good with you and much fame, so now we will take the bad as we have taken the good.' And so said they all. 'I thank you for your comfort in my great distress,' replied Sir Lancelot, 'and you, fair nephew, haste to the Knights which be in this place, and find who is with me and who is against me, for I would know my friends from my foes.' 'Sir,' said Sir Bors, 'before seven of the clock in the morning you shall know.' By seven o'clock, as Sir Bors had promised, many noble Knights stood before Sir Lancelot, and were sworn to his cause. 'My lords,' said he, 'you know well that since I came into this country I have given faithful service unto my lord King Arthur and unto my lady Queen Guenevere. Last evening my lady, the Queen, sent for me to speak to her, and certain Knights that were lying in wait for me cried "Treason," and much ado I had to escape their blows. But I slew twelve of them, and Sir Agrawaine, who is Sir Gawaine's brother; and for this cause I am sure of mortal war, as these Knights were ordered by King Arthur to betray me, and therefore the Queen will be judged to the fire, and I may not suffer that she should be burnt for my sake.' And Sir Bors answered Sir Lancelot that it was truly his part to rescue the Queen, as he had done so often before, and that if she was burned the shame would be his. Then they all took counsel together how the thing might best be done, and Sir Bors deemed it wise to carry her off to the Castle of Joyous Gard, and counselled that she should be kept there, a prisoner, till the King's anger was past and he would be willing to welcome her back again. To this the other Knights agreed, and by the advice of Sir Lancelot they hid themselves in a wood close by the town till they saw what King Arthur would do. Meanwhile Sir Mordred, who had managed to escape the sword of Sir Lancelot, rode, wounded and bleeding, unto King Arthur, and told the King all that had passed, and how, of the fourteen Knights, he only was left alive. The King grieved sore at his tale, which Sir Mordred had made to sound as ill as was possible; for, in spite of all, Arthur loved Sir Lancelot. 'It is a bitter blow,' he said, 'that Sir Lancelot must be against me, and the fellowship of the Table Round is broken for ever, as many a noble Knight will go with him. And as I am the judge, the Queen will have to die, as she is the cause of the death of these thirteen Knights.' 'My lord Arthur,' said Sir Gawaine, 'be not over-hasty; listen not to the foul tongue of Sir Mordred, who laid this trap for Sir Lancelot, that we all know to be the Queen's own Knight, who has done battle for her when none else would. As for Sir Lancelot, he will prove the right on the body of any Knight living that shall accuse him of wrong--either him, or my lady Guenevere.' 'That I believe well,' said King Arthur, 'for he trusts so much in his own might that he fears no man; and never more shall he fight for the Queen, for she must suffer death by the law. Put on, therefore, your best armour, and go with your brothers, Sir Gaheris and Sir Gareth, and bring the Queen to the fire, there to have her judgment and suffer her death.' 'Nay, my lord, that I will never do,' cried Sir Gawaine; 'my heart will never serve me to see her die, and I will never stand by and see so noble a lady brought to a shameful end.' 'Then,' said the King, 'let your brothers Sir Gaheris and Sir Gareth be there.' 'My lord,' replied Sir Gawaine, 'I know well how loth they will be, but they are young and unable to say you nay.' At this Sir Gaheris and Sir Gareth spoke to King Arthur: 'Sir, if you command us we will obey, but it will be sore against our will. And if we go we shall be dressed as men of peace, and wear no armour.' 'Make yourselves ready, then,' answered the King, 'for I would delay no longer in giving judgment.' 'Alas!' cried Sir Gawaine, 'that I should have lived to see this day'; and he turned and wept bitterly, and went into his chamber. So the Queen was led outside the gates, and her rich dress was taken off, while her lords and ladies wrung their hands in grief, and few men wore armour, for in that day it was held that the presence of mail-clad Knights made death more shameful. Now among those present was one sent by Sir Lancelot, and when he saw the Queen's dress unclasped, and the priest step forth to listen to her confession, he rode to warn Sir Lancelot that the hour had come. And suddenly there was heard a sound as of rushing horses, and Sir Lancelot dashed up to the fire, and all the Knights that stood around were slain, for few men wore armour. Sir Lancelot looked not where he struck, and Sir Gaheris and Sir Gareth were found in the thickest of the throng. At last he reached the Queen, and, throwing a mantle over her, he caught her on to his saddle and rode away with her. Right thankful was the Queen at being snatched from the fire, and her heart was grateful to Sir Lancelot, who took her to his Castle of Joyous Gard, and many noble Knights and Kings had fellowship with them. After King Arthur had given judgment for the Queen to die he went back into his Palace of Westminster, where men came and told him how Sir Lancelot had delivered her, and of the death of his Knights, and in especial of Sir Gaheris and Sir Gareth, and he swooned away from sorrow. 'Alas!' he cried, when he recovered from his swoon, 'alas! that a crown was ever on my head, for in these two days I have lost forty Knights and the fellowship of Sir Lancelot and his kinsmen, and never more will they be of my company. But I charge you that none tell Sir Gawaine of the death of his brothers, for I am sure that when he hears of Sir Gareth he will go out of his mind. Oh, why did Sir Lancelot slay them? for Sir Gareth loved Sir Lancelot more than any other man.' 'That is true,' answered some of the Knights, 'but Sir Lancelot saw not whom he smote, and therefore were they slain.' 'The death of those two,' said Arthur, 'will cause the greatest mortal war that ever was. I am sure that when Sir Gawaine knows Sir Gareth is slain he will never suffer me to rest till I have destroyed Sir Lancelot and all his kin, or till they have destroyed me. My heart was never so heavy as it is now, and far more grievous to me is the loss of my good Knights than of my Queen; for Queens I might have in plenty, but no man had ever such a company of Knights, and it hurts me sore that Sir Lancelot and I should be at war. It is the ill will borne by Sir Agrawaine and Sir Mordred to Sir Lancelot that has caused all this sorrow.' Then one came to Sir Gawaine and told him that Sir Lancelot had borne off the Queen, and that twenty-four Knights had been slain in the combat. 'I knew well he would deliver her,' said Sir Gawaine, 'and in that, he has but acted as a Knight should and as I would have done myself. But where are my brethren? I marvel they have not been to seek me.' 'Truly,' said the man, 'Sir Gaheris and Sir Gareth are slain.' 'Heaven forbid any such thing,' returned Sir Gawaine. 'I would not for all the world that that had happened, especially to my brother Sir Gareth.' 'He is slain,' said the man, 'and it is grievous news.' 'Who slew him?' asked Sir Gawaine. 'Sir Lancelot slew them both,' answered the man. 'He cannot have slain Sir Gareth,' replied Sir Gawaine, 'for my brother Gareth loved him better than me and all his brethren, and King Arthur too. And had Sir Lancelot desired my brother to go with him, he would have turned his back on us all. Therefore I can never believe that Sir Lancelot slew my brother.' 'Sir, it is in everyone's mouth,' said the man. At this Sir Gawaine fell back in a swoon and lay long as if he were dead. Then he ran to the King, crying, 'O King Arthur, mine uncle, my good brother Sir Gareth is slain, and Sir Gaheris also,' and the King wept with him. At length Sir Gawaine said, 'Sir, I will go and see my brother Sir Gareth.' 'You cannot do that,' returned the King, 'for I have caused him to be buried with Sir Gaheris, as I knew well that the sight would cause you overmuch sorrow.' 'How came he, Sir Lancelot, to slay Sir Gareth?' asked Sir Gawaine; 'mine own good lord, I pray you tell me, for neither Sir Gareth nor Sir Gaheris bore arms against him.' 'It is said,' answered the King, 'that Sir Lancelot slew them in the thickest of the press and knew them not. Therefore let us think upon a plan to avenge their deaths.' 'My King, my lord and mine uncle,' said Sir Gawaine, 'I swear to you by my knighthood that from this day I will never rest until Sir Lancelot or I be slain. And I will go to the world's end till I find him.' 'You need not seek him so far,' answered the King, 'for I am told that Sir Lancelot will await me and you in the Castle of Joyous Gard, and many people are flocking to him. But call your friends together, and I will call mine,' and the King ordered letters to be sent throughout all England summoning his Knights and vassals to the siege of Joyous Gard. The Castle of Joyous Gard was strong, and after fifteen weeks had passed no breach had been made in its walls. And one day, at the time of harvest, Sir Lancelot came forth on a truce, and the King and Sir Gawaine challenged him to do battle. 'Nay,' answered Sir Lancelot, 'with yourself I will never strive, and I grieve sorely that I have slain your Knights. But I was forced to it, for the saving of my life and that of my lady the Queen. And except yourself, my lord, and Sir Gawaine, there is no man that shall call me traitor but he shall pay for it with his body. As to Queen Guenevere, oft times, my lord, you have consented in the heat of your passion that she should be burnt and destroyed, and it fell to me to do battle for her, and her enemies confessed their untruth, and acknowledged her innocent. And at such times, my lord Arthur, you loved me and thanked me when I saved your Queen from the fire, and promised ever to be my good lord, for I have fought for her many times in other quarrels than my own. Therefore, my gracious lord, take your Queen back into your grace again.' To these words of Sir Lancelot's, King Arthur answered nothing, but in his heart he would fain have made peace with Sir Lancelot, but Sir Gawaine would not let him. He reproached Sir Lancelot bitterly for the deaths of his brothers and kinsmen, and called Sir Lancelot a craven and other ill names that he would not fight with King Arthur. So at the last Sir Lancelot's patience and courtesy failed him, and he told them that the next morning he would give them battle. The heart of Sir Gawaine leaped with joy when he heard these words of Sir Lancelot, and he summoned all his friends and his kinsfolk, and bade them watch well Sir Lancelot, and to slay him if a chance offered. But he knew not that Sir Lancelot had bidden the Knights of his following in no wise to touch King Arthur or Sir Gawaine. And when the dawn broke a great host marched out of the Castle of Joyous Gard, with Sir Lancelot at the head, and Sir Bors and Sir Lionel commanding on either side. All that day they fought, and sometimes one army seemed to be gaining, and sometimes the other. Many times King Arthur drew near Sir Lancelot, and would have slain him, and Sir Lancelot suffered him, and would not strike again. But the King was unhorsed by Sir Bors, and would have been slain but for Sir Lancelot, who stayed his hand. 'My lord Arthur,' he said, 'for God's love stop this strife. I cannot strike you, so you will gain no fame by it, though your friends never cease from trying to slay me. My lord, remember what I have done in many places and how evil is now my reward.' Then when King Arthur was on his horse again he looked on Sir Lancelot, and tears burst from his eyes, thinking of the great courtesy that was in Sir Lancelot more than in any other man. He sighed to himself, saying softly, 'Alas! that ever this war began,' and rode away, while the battle ended for that time and the dead were buried. But Sir Gawaine would not suffer the King to make peace, and they fought on, now in one place, and now in another, till the Pope heard of the strife and sent a noble clerk, the Bishop of Rochester, to charge the King to make peace with Sir Lancelot, and to take back unto him his Queen, the Lady Guenevere. Now the King, as has been said, would fain have followed the Pope's counsel and have accorded with Sir Lancelot, but Sir Gawaine would not suffer him. However, as to the Queen Sir Gawaine said nothing; and King Arthur gave audience to the Bishop, and swore on his great seal that he would take back the Queen as the Pope desired, and that if Sir Lancelot brought her he should come safe and go safe. So the Bishop rode to Joyous Gard and showed Sir Lancelot what the Pope had written and King Arthur had answered, and told him of the perils which would befall him if he withheld the Queen. 'It was never in my thought,' answered Sir Lancelot, 'to withhold the Queen from King Arthur, but as she would have been dead for my sake it was my part to save her life, and to keep her from danger till better times came. And I thank God that the Pope has made peace, and I shall be a thousand times gladder to bring her back than I was to take her away. Therefore ride to the King, and say that in eight days I myself will bring the Lady Guenevere unto him.' So the Bishop departed, and came to the King at Carlisle, and told him what Sir Lancelot had answered, and tears burst from the King's eyes once more. A goodly host of a hundred Knights rode eight days later from the Castle of Joyous Gard; every Knight was clothed in green velvet, and held in his hand a branch of olive, and bestrode a horse with trappings down to his heels. And behind the Queen were four and twenty gentlewomen clad in green likewise, while twelve esquires attended on Sir Lancelot. He and the Queen wore dresses of white and gold tissue, and their horses were clothed in housings of the same, set with precious stones and pearls; and no man had ever gazed on such a noble pair, as they rode from Joyous Gard to Carlisle. When they reached the castle, Sir Lancelot sprang from his horse and helped the Queen from hers, and led her to where King Arthur sat, with Sir Gawaine and many lords around him. He kneeled down, and the Queen kneeled with him, and many Knights wept as though it had been their own kin. But Arthur sat still and said nothing. At that Sir Lancelot rose, and the Queen likewise, and, looking straight at the King, he spoke: 'Most noble King, I have brought to you my lady the Queen, as right requires; and time hath been, my lord Arthur, that you have been greatly pleased with me when I did battle for my lady your Queen. And full well you know that she has been put to great wrong ere this, and it seems to me I had more cause to deliver her from this fire, seeing she would have been burnt for my sake.' 'Well, well, Sir Lancelot,' said the King, 'I have given you no cause to do to me as you have done, for I have held you dearer than any of my Knights.' But Sir Gawaine would not suffer the King to listen to anything Sir Lancelot said, and told him roughly that while one of them lived peace could never be made, and desired on behalf of the King that in fifteen days he should be gone out of the country. And still King Arthur said nothing, but suffered Sir Gawaine to talk as he would; and Sir Lancelot took farewell of him and of the Queen, and rode, grieving sorely, out of the Court, and sailed to his lands beyond the sea. Though the Queen was returned again, and Sir Lancelot was beyond the sea, the hate of Sir Gawaine towards him was in no way set at rest, but he raised a great host and persuaded the King to follow him. And after many sieges and long fighting Sir Gawaine did battle with Sir Lancelot once more, and was worsted, and Sir Lancelot might have slain him, but would not. While he lay wounded tidings came to King Arthur from England that caused the King to give up his war with Sir Lancelot and return in all haste to his own country. _THE END OF IT ALL_ Now when King Arthur left England to fight with Sir Lancelot he ordered his nephew Sir Mordred to govern the land, which that false Knight did gladly. And as soon as he thought he might safely do so he caused some letters to be written saying that King Arthur had been slain in battle, and he had himself crowned King at Canterbury, where he made a great feast which lasted fifteen days. After it was over, he went to Winchester and summoned Queen Guenevere, and told her that on a certain day he would wed her and that she should make herself ready. Queen Guenevere's soul grew cold and heavy as she heard these words of Sir Mordred's, for she hated him with all her might, as he hated her; but she dared show nothing, and answered softly that she would do his bidding, only she desired that first she might go to London to buy all manner of things for her wedding. Sir Mordred trusted her because of her fair speech, and let her go. Then the Queen rode to London with all speed, and went straight to the Tower, which she filled in haste with food, and called her men-at-arms round her. When Sir Mordred knew how she had beguiled him he was wroth out of measure, and besieged the Tower, and assaulted it many times with battering rams and great engines, but could prevail nothing, for the Queen would never, for fair speech nor for foul, give herself into his hands again. The Bishop of Canterbury hastened unto Sir Mordred, and rebuked him for wishing to marry his uncle's wife. 'Leave such desires,' said the Bishop, 'or else I shall curse you with bell, book, and candle. Also, you noise abroad that my lord Arthur is slain, and that is not so, and therefore you will make ill work in the land.' At this Sir Mordred waxed very wroth, and would have killed the Bishop had he not fled to Glastonbury, where he became a hermit, and lived in poverty and prayed all day long for the realm, for he knew that a fierce war was at hand. Soon word came to Sir Mordred that King Arthur was hurrying home across the seas, to be avenged on his nephew, who had proved traitor. Wherefore Sir Mordred sent letters to all the people throughout the kingdom, and many followed after him, for he had cunningly sown among them that with him was great joy and softness of life, while King Arthur would bring war and strife with him. So Sir Mordred drew with a great host to Dover, and waited for the King. Before King Arthur and his men could land from the boats and ships that had brought them over the sea Sir Mordred set upon them, and there was heavy slaughter. But in the end he and his men were driven back, and he fled, and his people with him. After the fight was over the King ordered the dead to be buried; and there came a man and told him that he had found Sir Gawaine lying in a boat, and that he was sore wounded. And the King went to him and made moan over him: 'You were ever the man in the world that I loved most,' said he, 'you and Sir Lancelot.' 'Mine uncle King Arthur,' answered Sir Gawaine, 'my death day has come, and all through my own fault. Had Sir Lancelot been with you as he used to be this unhappy war had never begun, and of that I am the cause, for I would not accord with him. And therefore, I pray you, give me paper, pen, and ink that I may write to him.' So paper and ink were brought, and Sir Gawaine was held up by King Arthur, and a letter was writ wherein Sir Gawaine confessed that he was dying of an old wound given him by Sir Lancelot in the siege of one of the cities across the sea, and thus was fulfilled the prophecy of Merlin. 'Of a more noble man might I not be slain,' said he. 'Also, Sir Lancelot, make no tarrying, but come in haste to King Arthur, for sore bested is he with my brother Sir Mordred, who has taken the crown, and would have wedded my lady Queen Guenevere had she not sought safety in the Tower of London. Pray for my soul, I beseech you, and visit my tomb.' And after writing this letter, at the hour of noon, Sir Gawaine gave up his spirit, and was buried by the King in the chapel within Dover Castle. Then was it told King Arthur that Sir Mordred had pitched a new field upon Barham Down, and the next morning the King rode hither to him, and there was a fierce battle between them, and many on both sides were slain. But at the last King Arthur's party stood best, and Sir Mordred and his men fled to Canterbury. After the Knights which were dead had been buried, and those that were wounded tended with healing salves, King Arthur drew westwards towards Salisbury, and many of Sir Mordred's men followed after him, but they that loved Sir Lancelot went unto Sir Mordred. And a day was fixed between the King and Sir Mordred that they should meet upon a down near Salisbury, and give battle once more. But the night before the battle Sir Gawaine appeared unto the King in a vision, and warned him not to fight next day, which was Trinity Sunday, as he would be slain and many of his Knights also; but to make a truce for a month, and at the end of that time Sir Lancelot would arrive, and would slay Sir Mordred, and all his Knights with him. As soon as he awoke the King called the Bishops and the wisest men of his army, and told them of his vision, and took counsel what should be done. And it was agreed that the King should send an embassage of two Knights and two Bishops unto Sir Mordred, and offer him as much goods and lands as they thought best if he would engage to make a treaty for a month with King Arthur. So they departed, and came to Sir Mordred, where he had a grim host of an hundred thousand men. For a long time he would not suffer himself to be entreated, but at the last he agreed to have Cornwall and Kent in King Arthur's days, and after all England. Furthermore, it was decided that King Arthur and Sir Mordred should meet in the plain between their hosts, each with fourteen persons. 'I am glad of this,' said King Arthur, when he heard what had been done; but he warned his men that if they were to see a sword drawn they were to come-on swiftly and slay that traitor, Sir Mordred, 'for I in no wise trust him.' And in like wise spake Sir Mordred unto his host. Then they two met, and agreed on the truce, and wine was fetched and they drank, and all was well. But while they were drinking an adder crept out of a bush, and stung one of the fourteen Knights on his foot, and he drew his sword to slay the adder, not thinking of anything but his pain. And when the men of both armies beheld that drawn sword, they blew trumpets and horns and shouted grimly, and made them ready for battle. So King Arthur leaped on his horse, and Sir Mordred on his, and they went back to their own armies, and thus began the fight, and never was there seen one more doleful in any Christian land. For all day long there was rushing and riding, spearing and striking, and many a grim word was there spoken, and many a deadly stroke given. And at the end full an hundred thousand dead men lay upon the down, and King Arthur had but two Knights left living, Sir Lucan and his brother Sir Bedivere. 'Alas! that I should have lived to see this day,' cried the King, 'for now I am come to mine end; but would to God that I knew where were that traitor Sir Mordred that hath caused all this mischief.' Then suddenly he saw Sir Mordred leaning on his sword among a great heap of dead men. 'Give me my spear,' said King Arthur unto Sir Lucan. 'Sir, let him be,' answered Sir Lucan. 'Remember your dream, and leave off by this. For, blessed be God, you have won the field, and we three be alive, and of the others none is alive save Sir Mordred himself. If you leave off now, the day of destiny is past.' 'Tide me death, tide me life,' said the King, 'he shall not escape my hands, for a better chance I shall never have,' and he took his spear in both hands and ran towards Sir Mordred, crying 'Traitor! now is your death day come,' and smote him under the shield, so that the spear went through his body. And when Sir Mordred felt he had his death wound, he raised himself up and struck King Arthur such a blow that the sword clave his helmet, and then fell stark dead on the earth again. When Sir Lucan and Sir Bedivere saw that sight they carried the King to a little chapel, but they hoped not to leave him there long, for Sir Lucan had noted that many people were stealing out to rob the slain of the ornaments on their armour. And those that were not dead already they slew. 'Would that I could quit this place to go to some large town,' said the King, when he had heard this, 'but I cannot stand, my head works so. Ah, Lancelot, sorely have I missed thee.' At that Sir Lucan and Sir Bedivere tried to lift him, but Sir Lucan had been grievously wounded in the fight, and the blood burst forth again as he lifted Arthur, and he died and fell at the feet of the King. 'Alas!' said the King, 'he has died for my sake, and he had more need of help than I. But he would not complain, his heart was so set to help me. And I should sorrow yet more if I were still to live long, but my time flieth fast. Therefore, Sir Bedivere, cease moaning and weeping, and take Excalibur, my good sword, and go with it to yonder water side, and when thou comest there, I charge thee, throw my sword in that water, and come again and tell me what thou hast seen.' [Illustration: THE LAST BATTLE Sir Mordred] 'My lord,' answered Sir Bedivere, 'your commandment shall be done,' and he departed. But when he looked at that noble sword, and beheld the jewels and gold that covered the pommel and hilt, he said to himself, 'If I throw this rich sword into the water no good will come of it, but only harm and loss'; so he hid Excalibur under a tree, and returned unto the King and told him his bidding was done. 'What did you see there?' asked the King. 'Sir,' answered Sir Bedivere, 'I saw nothing but the winds and the waves.' 'You have not dealt truly with me,' said the King. 'Go back, and do my command; spare not, but throw it in.' But again Sir Bedivere's heart failed him, and he hid the sword, and returned to tell the King he had seen nothing but the wan water. 'Ah, traitor!' cried King Arthur, 'this is twice you have betrayed me. If you do not now fulfil my bidding, with mine own hands will I slay you, for you would gladly see me dead for the sake of my sword.' Then Sir Bedivere was shamed at having disobeyed the King, and drew forth the sword from its hiding place, and carried it to the water side, and with a mighty swing threw it far into the water. And as it flew through the air, an arm and hand lifted itself out of the water, and caught the hilt, and brandished the sword thrice, and vanished with it beneath the water. So Sir Bedivere came again unto the King, and told him what he saw. 'Alas!' said the King, 'help me hence, for I have tarried overlong,' and Sir Bedivere took him on his back, and bare him to the water side. And when they stood by the bank, a little barge containing many fair ladies and a Queen, all in black hoods, drew near, and they wept and shrieked when they beheld King Arthur. 'Now put me into the barge,' said the King, and Sir Bedivere laid him softly down, and the ladies made great mourning and the barge rowed from the land. 'Ah, my lord Arthur!' cried Sir Bedivere, 'what shall become of me now you go from me, and I am left here alone with my enemies?' 'Comfort yourself,' replied the King, 'and do as well as you may, for I go unto the valley of Avilion, to be healed of my grievous wound. And if you never more hear of me, pray for my soul.' But Sir Bedivere watched the barge till it was beyond his sight, then he rode all night till he came to a hermitage. Now when Queen Guenevere heard of the battle, and how that King Arthur was slain and Sir Mordred and all their Knights, she stole away, and five ladies with her, and rode to Amesbury; and there she put on clothes of black and white, and became a nun, and did great penance, and many alms deeds, and people marvelled at her and at her godly life. And ever she wept and moaned over the years that were past, and for King Arthur. As soon as the messenger whom the King had sent with Sir Gawaine's letter reached Sir Lancelot, and he learned that Sir Mordred had taken for himself the crown of England, he rose up in wrath, and, calling Sir Bors, bid him collect their host, that they should pass at once over the sea to avenge themselves on that false Knight. A fair wind blew them to Dover, and there Sir Lancelot asked tidings of King Arthur. Then the people told him that the King was slain, and Sir Mordred, and an hundred thousand men besides, and that the King had buried Sir Gawaine in the chapel at Dover Castle. 'Fair Sirs,' said Sir Lancelot, 'show me that tomb'; and they showed it to him, and Sir Lancelot kneeled before it, and wept and prayed, and this he did for two days. And on the third morning he summoned before him all the great lords and leaders of his host, and said to them, 'Fair lords, I thank you all for coming here with me, but we come too late, and that will be bitter grief to me as long as I shall live. But since it is so, I will myself ride and seek my lady Guenevere in the west country, where they say she has gone, and tarry you here, I entreat you, for fifteen days, and if I should not return take your ships and depart into your own country.' [Illustration: EXCALIBUR RETURNS TO THE MERE] Sir Bors strove to reason with him that the quest was fruitless, and that in the west country he would find few friends; but his words availed nothing. For seven days Sir Lancelot rode, and at last he came to a nunnery, where Queen Guenevere was looking out from her lattice, and was ware of his presence as he walked in the cloister. And when she saw him she swooned, and her ladies and gentlewomen tended her. When she was recovered, she spoke to them and said, 'You will marvel, fair ladies, why I should swoon. It was caused by the sight of yonder Knight who stands there, and I pray you bring him to me.' As soon as Sir Lancelot was brought she said to her ladies, 'Through me and this man has this war been wrought, for which I repent me night and day. Therefore, Sir Lancelot, I require and pray you never to see my face again, but go back to your own land, and govern it and protect it; and take to yourself a wife, and pray that my soul may be made clean of its ill doing.' 'Nay, Madam,' answered Sir Lancelot, 'that shall I never do; but the same life that you have taken upon you, will I take upon me likewise.' 'If you will do so,' said the Queen, 'it is well; but I may never believe but that you will turn to the world again.' 'Well, Madam,' answered he, 'you speak as it pleases you, but you never knew me false to my promise, and I will forsake the world as you have done. For if in the quest of the Sangreal I had forsaken its vanities with all my heart and will, I had passed all Knights in the quest, except Sir Galahad my son. And therefore, lady, since you have taken you to perfection, I must do so also, and if I may find a hermit that will receive me I will pray and do penance while my life lasts. Wherefore, Madam, I beseech you to kiss me once again.' 'No,' said the Queen, 'that I may not do,' and Sir Lancelot took his horse and departed in great sorrow. All that day and the next night he rode through the forest till he beheld a hermitage and a chapel between two cliffs, and heard a little bell ring to Mass. And he that sang Mass was the Bishop of Canterbury, and Sir Bedivere was with him. After Mass Sir Bedivere told Sir Lancelot how King Arthur had thrown away his sword and had sailed to the valley of Avilion, and Sir Lancelot's heart almost burst for grief. Then he kneeled down and besought the Bishop that he might be his brother. 'That I will, gladly,' said the Bishop, and put a robe upon him. After the fifteen days were ended, and still Sir Lancelot did not return, Sir Bors made the great host go back across the sea, while he and some of Sir Lancelot's kin set forth to seek all over England till they found Sir Lancelot. They rode different ways, and by fortune Sir Bors came one day to the chapel where Sir Lancelot was. And he prayed that he might stay and be one of their fellowship, and in six months six other Knights were joined to them, and their horses went where they would, for the Knights spent their lives in fasting and prayer, and kept no riches for themselves. In this wise six years passed, and one night a vision came to Sir Lancelot in his sleep charging him to hasten unto Amesbury. 'By the time that thou come there,' said the vision, 'thou shalt find Queen Guenevere dead; therefore take thy fellows with thee and fetch her corpse, and bury it by the side of her husband, the noble King Arthur.' Then Sir Lancelot rose up and told the hermit, and the hermit ordered him to make ready and to do all as the vision had commanded. And Sir Lancelot and seven of the other Knights went on foot from Glastonbury to Amesbury, and it took them two days to compass the distance, for it was far and they were weak with fasting. When they reached the nunnery Queen Guenevere had been dead but half an hour, and she had first summoned her ladies to her, and told them that Sir Lancelot had been a priest for near a twelvemonth. 'And hither he cometh as fast as he may,' she said, 'to fetch my corpse, and beside my lord King Arthur he shall bury me. And I beseech Almighty God that I may never have power to see Sir Lancelot with my bodily eyes.' 'Thus,' said the ladies, 'she prayed for two days till she was dead.' Then Sir Lancelot looked upon her face and sighed, but wept little, and next day he sang Mass. After that the Queen was laid on a bier drawn by horses, and an hundred torches were carried round her, and Sir Lancelot and his fellows walked behind her singing holy chants, and at times one would come forward and throw incense on the dead. So they came to Glastonbury, and the Bishop of Canterbury sang a Requiem Mass over the Queen, and she was wrapped in cloth, and placed first in a web of lead, and then in a coffin of marble, and when she was put into the earth Sir Lancelot swooned away. 'You are to blame,' said the hermit, when he awaked from his swoon, 'you ought not make such manner of sorrow.' 'Truly,' answered Sir Lancelot, 'I trust I do not displease God, but when I remember her beauty, and her nobleness, and that of the King, and when I saw his corpse and her corpse lie together, my heart would not bear up my body. And I remembered, too, that it was through me and my pride that they both came to their end.' From that day Sir Lancelot ate so little food that he dwined away, and for the most part was found kneeling by the tomb of King Arthur and Queen Guenevere. None could comfort him, and after six weeks he was too weak to rise from his bed. Then he sent for the hermit and to his fellows, and asked in a weary voice that they would give him the last rites of the Church; and begged that when he was dead his body might be taken to Joyous Gard, which some say is Alnwick and others Bamborough. That night the hermit had a vision that he saw Sir Lancelot being carried up to heaven by the angels, and he waked Sir Bors and bade him go and see if anything ailed Sir Lancelot. So Sir Bors went and Sir Lancelot lay on his bed, stark dead, and he smiled as he lay there. Then was there great weeping and wringing of hands, more than had been made for any man; but they placed him on the horse bier that had carried Queen Guenevere, and lit a hundred torches, and in fifteen days they reached Joyous Gard. There his body was laid in the choir, with his face uncovered, and many prayers were said over him. And there, in the midst of their praying, came Sir Ector de Maris, who for seven years had sought Sir Lancelot through all the land. 'Ah, Lancelot,' he said, when he stood looking beside his dead body, 'thou wert head of all Christian Knights. Thou wert the courtliest Knight that ever drew sword, and the faithfulest friend that ever bestrode a horse. Thou wert the goodliest Knight that ever man has seen, and the truest lover that ever loved a woman.' THE BATTLE OF RONCEVALLES _THE BATTLE OF RONCEVALLES_ About twelve hundred years ago there lived an Emperor of the West whose name was Charles the Great, or, as some called him, Charlemagne, which means Carolus Magnus. When he was not making war he ruled well and wisely at Aix-la-Chapelle, but at the time that this story begins he had been for seven years in Spain, fighting against the Saracens. The whole country had fallen before him, except only Saragossa, a famous town on the river Ebro, not far from the outskirts of the Pyrenees, which was held by the Moorish King Marsile, with a great host. One hot day Marsile was lying on a cool slab of blue marble which was shaded by overhanging fruit trees, and his nobles were sitting all round him. Suddenly the King sat up, and, turning to his followers, he said: 'Listen to me, my Lords, for I have something of note to say unto you. Evil days are upon us, for the Emperor of fair France will never rest until he has driven us out of our country, and I have no army wherewith to meet him. Then counsel me, my wise men, how to escape both death and shame.' At the King's speech there was silence, for none knew how to reply, till Blancandrin, Lord of Val-Fonde, stood up. 'Fear nothing,' he said to the King, 'but send a messenger to this proud Charles, promising to do him faithful service and asking for his friendship. And let there go with the messenger presents to soften his heart, bears and lions, and dogs to hunt them; seven hundred camels and four hundred mules, loaded with gold and silver, so that he shall have money to pay his soldiers. The messenger shall tell him that on the Feast of St. Michael you yourself will appear before him, and suffer yourself to be converted to the faith of Christ, and that you will be his man and do homage to him. If he asks for hostages, well! send ten or twenty, so as to gain his confidence; the sons of our wives. I myself will offer up my own son, even if it leads to his death. Better they should all die, than that we should lose our country and our lands, and be forced to beg till the end of our lives.' And the nobles answered, 'He has spoken well.' King Marsile broke up his Council, and chose out those who were to go on the embassy. 'My lords,' he said, 'you will start at once on your mission to King Charles, and be sure you take olive branches in your hands, and beg him to have pity on me. Tell him that before a month has passed over his head I will follow you with a thousand of my servants, to receive baptism and do him homage. If, besides, he asks for hostages, they shall be sent.' 'It is well,' said Blancandrin, 'the treaty is good.' The Emperor Charles was happier than he had ever been in his life. He had taken Cordova, and thrown down the walls; his war machines had laid low the towers, and the rich city had been plundered, while every Saracen who refused to be baptized had been slain. Now he felt he might rest, and sought the cool of an orchard, where were already gathered his nephew Roland, with Oliver his comrade, Geoffrey of Anjou his standard bearer, and many other famous Knights. They lay about on white carpets doing what they best liked--some played games, chess or draughts, but these were mostly the old men who were glad to be still: the young ones fenced and tilted. Under a pine tree, close to a sweet-briar, a seat of massive gold was placed, and on it sat the Emperor of the fair country of France, a strong man, with his beard white as snow. But his rest was short. Soon came the messengers of the Saracen King, and, descending from their mules, they bowed low before him. [Illustration: UNDER A PINE TREE CLOSE TO A SWEET-BRIAR ON A SEAT OF GOLD SAT--THE KING OF THE FAIR COUNTRY OF FRANCE Charlemagne] It was Blancandrin who first spoke, showing with his hands the presents he had brought with him, and offering that the King would receive baptism, and do homage for his lands, if only the Emperor Charles would return with his army into France, 'for,' said Blancandrin, 'you have been too long in this country.' When Blancandrin had spoken, the Emperor sat silent with his head bent, thinking of the words of the Saracen, for never was it his custom to be hasty in his speech. At length he looked up, and a proud look was on his face. 'You have said well,' he answered, 'yet King Marsile is my deadly enemy, and how do I know that I can put my trust in your offers?' 'You will have hostages,' replied the Saracen, 'sons of the highest nobles, and my own son will be among them. And when you have gone back to your own palace, my master will follow you on the Feast of St. Michael, and will be made a Christian in the waters of Aix.' 'If he does this,' said Charles, 'his soul may still be saved,' and he bade hospitality to be shown to his guests. Before sunrise next morning the Emperor left his bed, and heard Mass said and Matins sung. Then he seated himself under a pine, and called his Barons to council. Many there were whose names men still remember: Ogier the Dane, and Archbishop Turpin of Rheims, and the brave Count of Gascony, Count Roland, nephew of Charles, and his friend the valiant Oliver. Ganélon was there too, by whom the wrong was to be wrought. As soon as they were all seated, the Emperor spoke and told them afresh what the messengers had said. 'But Marsile makes one condition,' continued Charles, 'which is that I must return to France, where he will come to me as my vassal. Now, does he swear falsely, or can I trust his oath?' 'Let us be very careful how we answer him,' cried the nobles with one voice. At that Roland sprang to his feet. 'It is madness to put faith in Marsile,' said he; 'seven years have we been in Spain, and many towns have I conquered for you, but Marsile we have always proved a traitor. Once before he sent us an embassy of Unbelievers each one bearing an olive branch, and they made you the same promises. Once before you called a meeting of your barons who counselled you to do the thing they knew you wished, and you sent to the Court of the Unbelievers the noble Counts Basil and Bazan. And how did Marsile treat them? He commanded that they should be led into the mountains and that their heads should be cut off, which was done. No! Go on with the war, as you have begun it; march on Saragossa and lay siege to the town, though it should last to the end of your life, and avenge those whom Marsile put to death.' With bent head the Emperor listened to Roland, twisting all the while his fingers in his moustache. He kept silent, turning over in his mind the things Roland had said, and the nobles kept silence, too, all except Ganélon. For Ganélon rose and stood before Charles and began to speak. 'Believe none of us,' he said; 'think of nothing but your own advantage when Marsile offers to become your vassal, and to do homage for the whole of Spain, and to receive baptism besides; he who wishes you to reject such offers cares nothing for the deaths the rest of us may die. Pay no attention to such madness, but listen to your wise men.' He sat down in his place, and then the Duke Naimes took up his words. 'You have heard,' he said to Charles, 'the words of Ganélon. Wise counsel, if we only follow it! Marsile knows that he is conquered at last. You have won his towns, and vanquished him in battle, and he is reduced to beg for your pity. It would be shameful to ask for anything further, and the more so as you have hostages as pledges of his good faith. It is time that the war ended; therefore send him one of your barons to speak with him face to face.' And the nobles answered, 'The Duke has spoken well.' 'Noble lords, what envoy shall we send to King Marsile at Saragossa?' 'I will go, if it is your pleasure,' said Duke Naimes. 'Give me your glove and the wand of office.' 'No,' replied Charles, 'your wisdom is great, and I cannot spare you from my side. Remain where you are, I command you.' 'Let me go,' cried Roland. 'No, no,' answered Count Oliver; 'you are too hasty and too imprudent. You would only fall into some trap. With the King's good leave I will go instead.' 'Hold your peace,' said Charles, shaking his head; 'you will neither of you go. None of my twelve peers shall be chosen.' Then Turpin of Rheims left his seat and spoke to Charles with his loud and ringing voice. 'Fair King, give your Franks a little peace. For seven years you have been in Spain, and your barons have all that time been fighting and suffering. It is now, sire, that the glove and the wand of office should be given. I will go and visit this Unbeliever, and will tell him in what scorn I hold him.' But the Emperor, full of rage, cried out, 'By my beard, you will stop with me. Go to your place on the white carpet, and give me none of your advice unless I ask for it.' 'Good Frankish Knights,' said Charles, 'choose me a baron from my own land, who shall be envoy to King Marsile, and who, at need, can fight well.' 'Ah,' cried Roland, 'let it be Ganélon, my stepfather; you will not find a better man.' 'Yes,' said the Franks, 'he is the man; let him go if the King pleases.' 'Ganélon,' commanded the King, 'come here and I will give you the glove and the wand of office. It is the voice of the barons that has chosen you.' 'No,' replied Ganélon, 'it is Roland's doing, and to the end of my life I will bear him hatred for it. Oliver also will I hate, since Oliver is his friend. And never more will I love the twelve peers, for they love him. Under your own eyes, sire, I throw down my challenge.' 'You are angry about nothing,' said the King, 'and as I have commanded you, you will go.' 'I can go, but it will be my death, as it was the death of Basil and of his brother Bazan. Who goes there, returns not. But, sire, do not forget that your sister is my wife and that I have a son Baldwin, who, if he lives, will be the bravest of the brave. To him I leave all my lands. Guard him well, for I shall see him no more.' 'Your heart is too tender,' said Charles, 'but there is no help for it, you must go.' At the words of the King, Ganélon flung his fur mantle to the ground in fury. 'It is to you,' he cried, turning to Roland, 'that I owe this peril. I am your stepfather, and that is reason enough that you send me to lose my head at the Court of King Marsile. Let it be so; but if ever I return I will bring on you such trouble that it will only end with your life.' 'You talk like a madman,' said Roland. 'All men know that I care nothing for threats. But it needs a wise man to go on such a mission, and if the King pleases, I will go in your place.' 'You will not go in my place,' answered Ganélon. 'I am not your vassal, to do as you bid me. Charles has commanded me to go to Saragossa, therefore to Saragossa I go. But beware of what I do when I get there.' At this Roland began to laugh, and when Ganélon saw him laughing, it seemed as if his heart would burst with anger. 'I hate you,' he muttered to Roland. 'I should never have been chosen but for you. Great Emperor,' he said aloud to Charles, 'behold me ready to obey your orders.' [Illustration: MARSILE THREATENS GANELON WITH A JAVELIN] 'Listen, fair Count,' replied Charles, 'for this is the message I would have you bear to King Marsile. If he agrees to become my vassal, and to receive Holy Baptism, I will give him half of Spain as a fief. The other half will be held by Roland, my nephew. If these terms do not please King Marsile, I will myself besiege Saragossa, and will take him and bind him in chains. Then he shall be brought to Aix, where he shall be put to a shameful death. So take this letter which is sealed with my seal, and give it into the hand of the Infidel.' When Ganélon had put the letter in safety, the King held out to him his glove, but the Count was not quick to seize it, and it fell to the ground. 'Heavens,' cried the Franks who were standing round, 'how dreadful an omen! This message will be the cause of dire misfortunes.' 'I will send you news of them,' Ganélon answered. And he said to Charles, 'Let me depart, sire, as I must go. I wish to lose no time.' 'Go then,' replied the King, making over him the sign of the cross and giving him the wand of office. And Ganélon went. It was not long before he overtook the Saracens, who had lingered, hoping he might join them, and Blancandrin began to sing the praises of Charles and his conquests. 'He is a wonderful man,' answered Ganélon, 'and of such a strong will that no man may strive against it.' 'How brave are these Franks,' went on Blancandrin; 'but your nobles were ill-advised in the counsel they gave the King upon this matter. It bodes evil to Charles and to many beside him.' 'None of them merit this blame,' said Ganélon, 'save Roland only, and the shame will be on his head. His pride is so great that he thinks no sword can touch him, but until he is really dead peace we can never have.' Here the Saracen glanced at Ganélon beside him. 'He is a fine man,' thought he, 'but there is cunning in his eye,' and then Blancandrin spoke. 'Let us understand each other plainly,' he said; 'is it your wish to be avenged of Roland? Then, by the beard of Mahomet, deliver him into our hands. King Marsile is a generous master, and knows how to repay those who serve him.' Ganélon heard his words, and bent his head in silence. But the silence did not last long: before they had arrived at Saragossa, Ganélon had made an agreement with Blancandrin, that they would find some means of causing Roland to perish. This decided, they rode through the gates of the town, and dismounted from their horses. In the shadow of a pine, a throne was placed covered with soft silk from Alexandria, and on it sat he who was once the master of the whole of Spain. Twenty thousand Saracens stood around him, but not a sound was made, so eager they were to hear Charles's answer. Blancandrin advanced to the King's throne, leading Ganélon by the wrist. 'Greeting, great King,' said he; 'we delivered your message to Charles, and he raised his two hands to heaven, and answered nothing. But he has sent you one of his great lords, and he will tell you if it is peace or no peace.' 'Let him speak,' replied Marsile, 'and we will listen.' Ganélon waited a little before he spoke, for he knew that one careless word might prove his own ruin. 'Greeting,' he said, when at last he had made ready his speech. 'This is the message sent you by Charlemagne. You must receive Holy Baptism, and Charles will allow you to do homage for half of Spain. The other half he gives to Roland, his nephew, and a proud neighbour you will find him. If these terms do not please you, he will lay siege to Saragossa, and will seize your person, and carry you to Aix, the capital of the Empire, where you will die a shameful death.' When he heard this, Marsile trembled with rage, and drawing a dart he would have thrown it at Ganélon had not someone held him from behind. Ganélon looked on, his hand on his sword, which he drew a little from its scabbard. 'Sword,' said he, 'you are sharp and bright. While I wear you at the Court of this King, the Emperor can never say that I have died alone in a foreign land. But before I die you shall drink the blood of the best in his army.' The Infidels who were standing by prayed Marsile to go back to his seat in order that the matter might be decided, 'You put yourself in the wrong,' said the old Caliph, 'when you wish to strike this Frank.' 'Sire,' answered Ganélon, 'I will suffer this insult patiently, but not all the treasure of your kingdom should hinder my delivering the message of my master.' With that he threw from his shoulders his mantle of zibeline, but kept light hold of his sword. 'See,' said the Saracens, 'did you ever behold a prouder warrior?' Ganélon drew near the King and repeated the message that Charles had given him. When he had finished he held out the letter, and Marsile, who had studied in the best schools of learning, broke the seal and read it to himself. 'Listen to this, my lords,' he cried, 'and say if ever you heard such madness! Charles bids me think of Basil and Bazan, whose heads I cut off, up there in the mountains. And if I wish my own life to be spared, I am to send him my uncle, the Caliph, to deal with as he thinks fit.' The Saracens heard the message in grim silence, which was broken by the voice of the King's son. 'Ganélon must be mad indeed to give such a message as that,' said he, 'and he deserves death for his boldness. Deliver him to me, and I will do justice on him.' Ganélon understood his words but said nothing, only he quietly placed his back against a pine tree, and played with the hilt of his sword. King Marsile rose and went into his orchard, followed by his best councillors, Jorfalon his son, his uncle the Caliph, and others whom he most trusted. 'Summon the Frank also,' Blancandrin whispered in his ear, 'for he has promised to throw in his lot with us.' 'Bring him,' answered the King, and Blancandrin brought him into the orchard, where the web of treason was woven. 'Noble Ganélon,' said Marsile, 'I acted foolishly towards you just now, when, in my anger, I sought to strike you. Let me offer you the mantle of marten fur in amends. It has just arrived from a far country, and is worth five hundred pounds in gold.' 'I accept it gladly,' replied Ganélon as the King hung the cloak round his neck, 'and may you be rewarded in as splendid a gift!' 'Ganélon,' continued the King, 'I wish you to be my friend, though it will not be wise to show you openly my goodwill. Tell me about Charlemagne, and whether what I have heard of him is really the truth. They say he is very old, nearly two hundred years, and that he has wandered from one country to another and been in the thick of every fight, and has made the most powerful Kings beggars. When will he grow tired of all these wars? It is time that he rested himself at Aix.' 'No,' said Ganélon, 'those who told you that Charlemagne was like that did not speak truly. My tongue could never tell of his goodness and his honour towards all men. Who could ever paint what Charlemagne is? I would rather die than leave his service.' 'What you say is wonderful,' replied Marsile, 'but after all he has done, will repose never seem sweet to him?' 'Not while his nephew Roland lives,' said Ganélon. 'There is not such a fighter under heaven, and his comrade Oliver is famous also for his prowess. The twelve peers whom the Emperor so dearly loves, with twenty thousand picked men from the van of the army--truly Charlemagne may rest in peace, and fear no man.' 'Fair lord,' answered Marsile, 'my subjects are the finest you can see, and at any moment I can summon four hundred thousand men to give battle to Charlemagne.' 'You will not conquer him this time,' said Ganélon, 'and in a fight thousands of your soldiers would be killed. Hear my counsel. Send Charles yet more gold and silver, and offer twenty other hostages, on condition he returns himself to France, leaving his rear-guard behind him. This, being the post of danger, will be claimed by his nephew Roland, whose comrade Oliver is always by his side. It will be easy to manage that the two Counts shall meet their deaths, and Roland and Oliver once dead the King will have no more heart for war.' 'Fair lord,' replied Marsile, 'what shall I have to do in order to kill Roland?' 'That I can easily tell you,' answered Ganélon. 'When Charlemagne has passed safely through the mountains, with the most part of his soldiers, his baggage and his hostages, then have a hundred thousand of your Infidels ready to fall upon Roland and his rear-guard of twenty thousand men. The Franks will fight hard, but they cannot stand against such numbers, though of their foes many will be left upon the field. Then lose not a moment, but give them battle a second time. They will be too few and too weak to fight long, and for the rest of your life you will have peace. If you kill Roland, you will have cut off the Emperor's right arm. Farewell to the splendid armies of the Franks; never more will such forces be gathered together; never will Charles wear again his golden crown, but all Spain shall be in peace.' Marsile heard the words of Ganélon, and stooped and kissed his neck, and ordered his costliest treasures to be brought before him. Then he said: 'There is no further need of speech between us; swear that I shall find him in the rear-guard, and I shall swear that you shall have your revenge.' And Ganélon swore. But Marsile was not content with the oath that Ganélon made. He commanded that a copy of the Koran should be brought, the sacred book of Mahomet, and placed it on a chair of ivory, which stood under an olive tree. With his hand on the book Marsile also took his oath, that if among the rear-guard of Charlemagne's army he found Roland, he would fall upon him with all his host and compass his death, and that of the twelve peers of France. So the bond of treachery was sealed. Then the Infidels crowded round, and one offered Ganélon his sword, and another his helmet, while the Queen brought bracelets of precious stones as gifts for his wife. Marsile asked his treasurer if he had made ready the presents that were to be sent to Charles, and pressing Ganélon in his arms, he declared that not a day should pass without his friend likewise receiving presents, if only he would give his help in the slaying of Roland. 'You keep me too long,' was Ganélon's answer, and he mounted his horse and went. All this while the Emperor Charles was marching towards France, but he halted at a small town which long ago had been taken by Roland, waiting till he heard some tidings of Ganélon, and received the news that Marsile had agreed to do homage for Spain. At length, one morning at dawn, a messenger came to the King's tent telling him that Ganélon had arrived, and Charles hastened forth with Roland and Oliver, Duke Naimes and a thousand more, to meet Ganélon. 'Greeting,' said the traitor, bowing low; 'I bring you the keys of Saragossa, and twenty hostages, and great gifts. The noble King Marsile beseeches you not to blame him, because the Caliph, his uncle, has not come with me. I have seen--seen with my own eyes--three hundred thousand men all covered with armour sail away in ships with the Caliph for their leader, because they could neither defend their own faith nor forswear it. But hardly were they out of sight of land than a fierce tempest overtook them, and they were all lost. The Caliph must have died with the rest, or the King would have bade him come with me. As to the King himself, sire, before a month has passed he will be in France, ready to receive baptism in your presence. And he will become your vassal, and do homage for the kingdom of Spain.' 'You have done wisely,' said Charles, 'and your reward shall be great.' So trumpets were sounded and tents were struck, and the host marched with gaiety in their hearts to France the Fair. [Illustration: The Dream of Charlemagne] 'My war is finished,' said the King, as his army gladly turned their backs on Spain, and at nightfall spread their tents and slept till day began. But little he knew that four hundred thousand Unbelievers, with shields slung from their necks and swords in their hands, were riding silently through the mountain passes with the intent of hiding themselves in a wood till the moment came. There they were, and the Franks knew nothing of it, nor what would come. Charles slept, and in his sleep he dreamed that Ganélon took his stout lance of ash wood from his hands and brandished it in the air, then broke it with his fists. After this dream came another. He was no longer shut fast in by the mountains, but was at home in France, standing in his chapel at Aix. Here a bear appeared before him and bit so deep into his arm that it reached the bone. Then from the other side, from the Ardennes, there sprang a leopard and would have torn him in pieces, had not a greyhound come to his aid, and attacked first the bear and then the leopard. 'A fight! a fight!' cried the Franks, but they knew not which would be victorious. And all the while Charles slept soundly. With the dawn a thousand horns awoke the sleepers, and the clamour of a camp began. 'My lords,' said Charles, calling all his barons together, 'you see these narrow defiles through which we must pass? To whom shall I give the command of the rear-guard which must protect the rest of my army?' 'To Roland, to Roland my stepson,' cried Ganélon. 'No Knight is so brave as he, and we may trust to him the safety of our host.' Charles listened and looked him in the face. 'You must be the devil himself,' he said, 'for you seem as if your body was shaken by some evil passion. If Roland goes to the rear, who then shall command the van?' 'Ogier, the Dane,' answered Ganélon. 'There is no better man.' When Count Roland heard his name he pressed forward. 'Fair stepfather, I owe you much love for proposing me to lead the rear-guard of the army. Charles the King shall lose nothing through me; not a horse or a mule shall fall till his price is paid in blows received by the Infidels.' 'You speak well,' said Ganélon, 'and what you say is true.' Then Roland turned to Charlemagne: 'Give me, O King, the bow which you hold in your hand. I will promise not to let it fall, as Ganélon did your glove.' But the King sat silent, with his head bent, and tears ran down his cheeks. At last Naimes drew near and spoke to him, and among them all Charles had no more faithful friend. 'You have heard, sire, what Count Roland said. If he is to lead the rear-guard--and there is no man that can do it better--give him the bow that you have drawn, for which he asks.' So the King gave it to him, and Roland took it gladly. 'Fair nephew,' said the King, 'I wish to leave half of my army behind with you; keep it close to you, it will be your safeguard.' 'No,' answered the Count; 'to accept the half of your army would be to shame my race. Leave me twenty thousand Franks, and you will pass the defiles in safety. While I live you need fear no man.' Quickly Count Roland girded on his armour, girded on his sword Durendal, the comrade of many fights, and mounted his horse Veillantif, whom all men knew. 'We will follow you to death,' cried the Franks as they saw him. But Roland answered them nothing. The first to come to his side was Oliver, his old companion, then Turpin the Archbishop, the Count Gautier, and many more, and after that they chose twenty thousand men, the best that Charles had with him. Some of them he sent, under Count Gautier, to drive the Unbelievers from the hill-top, and that same day they fought a fierce battle. And while Charles and his army entered the pass of Roncevalles, Roland took up his ground and prepared for the fight, which he knew must come shortly. And Ganélon, the traitor, knew it too. High were the mountains, and dark the valleys; terrible were the defiles amidst the black rocks. The army marched slowly and with great difficulty; fifteen miles away you could hear the sound of their tramping. But when they caught sight of Gascony, of France, where they had left their homes and their wives, there was not a man among them who did not weep for happiness. Charles alone shed tears of sorrow, for he thought of his nephew in the passes of Spain. 'Ganélon has betrayed us,' said he to Duke Naimes, 'and he has betrayed Roland too. It was he who caused him to stay behind with the rear-guard, and if I lose him--O God! I shall never find such another.' The nephew of Marsile had craved a boon, that he and eleven of his comrades should measure themselves against the Twelve Peers of France, and that none but himself should strike the first blow at Roland. The noblest subjects of Marsile flocked at his call, and a gay show they made when ready for battle, and mounted on horses as eager for the fray as themselves. So great was the noise that the sound reached even to the French camp. 'I think, comrade, that it will not be long before we fight with the Saracens,' said Oliver. 'May it be as you say,' answered Roland; 'it is our duty to make a stand here for the King, as one should be ready to suffer all pains for one's liege lord. For him one must endure heat and cold, hunger and thirst, and strike hard blows with all one's might, and take heed that no evil song can be made on us after we are dead. The right is on the side of the Christians. Look to yourselves, for you will never see a bad example from me.' THE BATTLE Oliver had climbed a hill, from which he could see into the plains of Spain. 'Roland,' cried he, 'do you see those shining helmets and glittering swords? It is Ganélon who has done this, and it was he who had you left here.' 'Be silent, Oliver,' answered Roland. 'He is my stepfather. I will not hear him ill spoken of.' Then Oliver went down the hill and told his soldiers what he had seen. 'No battle will ever be like this one,' he said; 'you will need all your strength to keep your ground and not be driven back.' 'Cursed be he who runs away,' answered they. 'There is not one of us but knows how to die.' 'The Infidels are many,' said Oliver again, 'and our Franks are but few. Roland, blow your horn; Charles will hear it and come to our help.' 'You are mad to say that,' replied Roland, 'for in France I should lose all my glory. No; but my sword Durendal knows how to strike, and our Franks will fight hard, and with what joy! It was an ill day for the Unbelievers when they came here, for none, I tell you, none will escape.' 'The Unbelievers are many,' said Oliver again, 'and we are very few. Roland, my friend, sound your horn; Charles will hear it, and come to our help.' 'I should be mad if I did so,' answered Roland. 'In France, when they knew it, I should lose all my glory! No; but my sword Durendal knows how to strike, and our Franks will fight hard, and with what joy! It was an ill day for the Unbelievers when they came here, for none, I tell you, none will escape death.' 'O Roland, I pray you sound your horn, and Charles will hear it as he passes the defiles, and the Franks, I will swear it, will come to our help.' 'Now God forbid,' said Roland, 'that through me my parents should be shamed, or that I should bring dishonour on the fair land of France. No; but my sword Durendal knows how to strike. The Unbelievers have come to their death, and they will find it.' 'I see no dishonour,' said Oliver. 'With my own eyes have I beheld the Saracens of Spain; the mountains and the valleys alike are full of them. And how few are we!' 'Then we shall have the more fighting,' answered Roland. 'God forbid that I should turn my Franks into cowards! Rather death than dishonour. The more we kill, the better the Emperor will love us.' Roland was brave, but Oliver was wise also, and the souls of both were as high as their words. 'Look round you, and think for a moment,' said Oliver; 'they are close to us, and Charles is far. Ah! if you would only have sounded your horn, the King would have been here, and our troops would not have been in danger. The poor rear-guard will never more be again such as it is to-day.' 'You speak foolishly,' answered Roland. 'Cursed be he whose heart is afraid. We will be strong to hold our ground. From us will come the blows, from us the battle.' When Roland saw that he must give battle to the Infidels, he called his Franks and bade Oliver stand beside him. 'Do not say these things, my friend and comrade,' said he. 'The Emperor has left us twenty thousand picked men, with not one craven heart amongst them. For our liege lord, one must be ready to suffer cold and heat, hunger and thirst, and cheerfully shed his blood and endure every ill. Strike with your lance, Oliver, as I shall strike with Durendal, the sword which was given me by the King himself. And if I am slain, the man who wins it may say, "it was the sword of a noble vassal."' Then from a little hill Turpin the Archbishop spoke to them. 'Charles has left us here; he is our King, and it is our duty to die for him. Christianity is in danger, and you must defend it. You cannot escape a battle; then fight, and ask God's pardon for your sins. In His Name, I will give you absolution, and already they wait for you in Paradise.' The Franks got off their horses and knelt on the ground, and the Archbishop blessed them. After this they mounted again, and placed themselves in order of battle. Like lightning Roland on his horse Veillantif swept along the defiles, his face bright and smiling, his lance in rest. Oliver his friend was close behind him, and the Franks said to each other, 'Look at our champion!' He glanced proudly at the Infidels, but when his eyes fell upon the Franks they were soft and gentle. 'Go slowly, noble barons,' said he; 'the Unbelievers to-day are seeking their martyrdom, and you will find richer booty than ever King of France did before.' 'Words of mine are useless,' said Oliver; 'you would not let Charles know of our peril, so you cannot blame him for our danger. Ride as hard as you can, and think only of two things, how best to give and receive blows. And do not forget the battle cry of King Charles.' 'Montjoie! Montjoie!' shouted the Franks, as the two armies came together with a crash. It were long to tell of that battle and of the brave deeds that were done both by Christians and Unbelievers. Roland was there where the strife was hardest, and struck with his lance till the wood snapped. Then he drew Durendal from the scabbard and drove a bloody path through the ranks of the Infidels. Oliver and the Twelve Peers were not far behind him, and the ground was red from the corpses of the pagans. 'Well fought, well fought!' cried the Archbishop, 'Montjoie, Montjoie!' Oliver seemed to be everywhere at once. His lance was broken in two, and there was only the head and a splinter remaining, but it dealt more death blows than the sword of many another man. 'What are you doing, comrade?' cried Roland, when for a moment their horses touched. 'It is not wood that is needed in this battle, but well-tempered steel! Where is your sword Hauteclair, with its guard of gold and its handle of crystal?' 'I have no time to draw it,' said Oliver. 'There are too many blows to strike.' Fiercer and fiercer grew the combat; thicker and thicker the corpses lay on the ground. Who could count the Franks who were stretched there, never more to see their wives or their mothers, or the comrades that awaited them in the defiles? But the number of the dead Saracens was greater even than theirs. And while they fought on Spanish soil, a strange tempest arose in France, thunder and wild winds, and a trembling of the earth; walls fell down, and at mid-day there was darkness. Men whispered to each other: 'It is the end of the world.' No, no; the end of all things was not yet, it was nature mourning for the death of Roland. At length the Saracens turned and fled, and the Franks pursued them, and Margaris the Valiant was left alone. His lance was broken, his shield pierced with holes, his sword-blade bloody, while he himself was sorely wounded. Heavens! what a warrior he would have made if he had only been a Christian. He rode fast to Marsile the King, and cried to him to mount his horse, and rally his men, and bring up fresh soldiers to deal the Franks a last blow, while they were exhausted from the long fight. 'It will be easy to revenge the thousands that they have slain,' said he; 'but if you let them slip now the tide of battle may turn against us.' The King Marsile sent for fresh forces, and at sight of them the Franks embraced each other for the last time, while the Archbishop promised them a speedy entrance into Paradise. 'The Emperor will avenge the treachery of Ganélon,' cried Roland, 'whether we live or die, but the worst part of the fight is before us, and we shall need all our strength to beat back the Unbelievers. They must not tell tales of cowardice in the fair land of France.' Then they spurred their horses and advanced in line, crying 'Montjoie! Montjoie!' 'Count Roland is not as other men,' said King Marsile, 'and as he is not content with two battles, we will give him a third. To-day Charles will cease to have power over Spain, and France will bow her head with shame.' And he gave his orders to the vanguard to go forward, while he himself waited on a little hill till the moment came to charge. Fierce was the shock as the two armies met, and bravely did their leaders fight, hand to hand and sword to sword. None struck harder than Turpin the Archbishop, who cursed his foes as he bore them from their saddles. 'He fights well,' said the Franks who watched his blows. But the Franks had fought long, and were faint and weary. They had lost much blood, and their arms were weak to strike. 'See how our brothers fall,' they whispered one to another, and Roland heard their groans, and his heart was near breaking. Thousands lay dead, thousands more were wounded, but still the battle went on. Horses without riders wandered about the field neighing for their masters. Then Marsile bade the trumpets sound, and his army gathered round the great standard with the Dragon, borne by a Saracen named Abimus. When Turpin the Archbishop caught sight of him, he dashed straight towards the banner, and with one blow of his mighty sword stretched the Unbeliever dead on the ground before the Dragon. 'Montjoie! Montjoie!' he cried, and the Franks heard, and said one to the other, 'Heaven send that Charles has many like him!' The lances of the Franks were broken, and their shields were for the most part split in two, but three hundred naked swords still were left to deal blows at the shining helmets of the Infidels. 'Help! help! O King!' cried the Saracens, and Marsile heard, and answered, 'Better die than flee before these Franks. Let no one think of himself, but all press round Roland. If Roland dies, Charles is conquered. If Roland lives, all is over for us!' But Roland, with Oliver at his side, swept a clear space with Durendal, and none might come near him; the Archbishop kept his enemies at bay with his lance. Four times the Franks endured the shock of the onset, but at the fifth they were borne down by numbers, and now only sixty remained upon the ground. Then Roland turned to Oliver and said, 'Fair sir and dearest friend, well may we pity France who will henceforth be widowed of such brave warriors. O Charles, my King, why do you not come to us? Oliver, tell me, how can we let him know what straits we are in?' 'There is no way,' said Oliver, 'and death rather than dishonour.' 'I will sound my horn,' said Roland, 'and Charles will hear, and come back through the defiles. I know that the Franks will retrace their steps and come to our aid.' 'That would be a shameful thing for them,' replied Oliver; 'all our kinsfolk would blush for us for ever, and we should likewise blush for ourselves. When I begged you to do it you would not, and now the time is past.' 'The battle is sore,' said Roland, 'I shall sound the horn, and Charles will hear it.' 'You refused to do it while yet there was time,' answered Oliver. 'If the Emperor had come then, so many of our best warriors would not be lying dead before us. It is not his fault that he is not here. But if you sound the horn now, I will never give you my sister, the fair Aude, for your wife.' 'Why do you bear such malice?' said Roland. [Illustration: ROLAND WINDS HIS HORN IN THE VALLEY OF RONCESVALLES] 'It is your fault,' answered Oliver. 'Courage and madness are not the same thing, and prudence is always better than fury. If so many Franks lie dead, it is your folly which has killed them, and now we can no longer serve the Emperor. If you would have listened to me, Charles would have been here, and Marsile and his Saracens would have been slain. Your courage, Roland, has cost us dear! For yourself, you will be killed and France be covered with dishonour. And before night falls our friendship will be ended.' Then he wept, and Roland wept also. The Archbishop had been near, and heard their words. 'Do not quarrel at this hour,' he said. 'Your horn could not save them now. Charles is too far; it would take him too long to come. Yet sound it, for he will return and avenge himself on the Unbelievers. And they will take our bodies and put them on biers, and lay them on horses, and will bury us with tears of pity among the mountains, building up high walls round us, so that the dogs and the wild boar shall not devour us.' 'What you say is good,' answered Roland, and he lifted his horn, and its mighty voice rang through the mountains and Charles heard the echo thirty miles away. 'Our men are fighting,' he cried, but Ganélon answered, 'If another man had said that, we should have called him a liar.' Count Roland was sorely wounded and the effort to sound the horn caused the blood to pour from his mouth. But he sounded it once more, and the echoes leaped far. Charles heard it in the defiles, and all his Franks heard it too. 'It is Roland's horn,' said the King, 'and he is fighting.' 'He is not fighting,' answered Ganélon; 'you are old, and your words are those of a child. Beside, you know how great is the pride of Roland; it is a marvel that God has suffered him to live so long. For a hare, Roland would sound his horn all day, and at this moment he is most likely laughing with his Twelve Peers over the fright he has caused us. And again, who is there who would dare to attack Roland? No one. March on, sire; why make halt? France is still distant.' Count Roland suffered grievous pain and a great wound was across his forehead. He sounded his horn for the third time, and Charles and his Franks heard it. 'That horn carries far,' said he, and Naimes answered, 'It is Roland who is calling for help. A battle is going on; some one has betrayed him. Quick, sire, he has called often enough. Sound your war-cry and hasten to his help.' Then the Emperor ordered his trumpets to be sounded, and his army gathered itself together and girded on their armour with what speed they might, and each man said to the other, 'If only we are in time to save Roland from death, what blows we will strike for him.' Alas, they are too late, too late! But before the march back there was something for the Emperor to do. He sent for his head cook to appear in his presence, and he delivered the traitor Ganélon into his custody, and told him to treat his prisoner as he liked, for he had shown himself unworthy to mix with warriors. So the head cook did as he pleased with him, and beat him with sticks and put a heavy chain about his neck. And thus he guarded him till Charles came back. How tall the mountains seemed to the returning army! how deep the valleys, and how swift the streams! but all the while the trumpets were sounded, that Roland might hear them and take heart. And as he rode, Charles had only one thought, 'If Roland is slain, shall I find one man alive?' Roland stood looking at the mountains and at the plains, and wherever his eyes fell his dead comrades lay before him. Loudly he mourned their loss, and then he turned to Oliver, saying, 'Brother, we must die here with the rest of the Franks.' He spurred his horse and blew his horn, and dashed into the ranks of the foe, shouting 'Montjoie! Montjoie!' The remnant that was left closed eagerly round him, and the battle-cries were fierce and loud. If Marsile and his host fled before them, others not less valiant remained behind, and Roland knew that the hour of his doom was come. And in valour, Oliver was no whit behind him, but flung himself into the thickest of the battle. It was the Caliph who gave Oliver his death blow. 'Charles made a mistake when he left you to guard these defiles,' said he, 'but your life will pay for many that you have slain.' But Oliver was not dead yet, and the taunt of the Caliph stung his blood. With all the strength he had left, he swung his sword Hauteclair on high, and it came down upon the Caliph's helmet with a crash, cleaving it clean through. 'Ah, pagan,' said he, 'you will never boast now of the prizes you have taken in battle.' Then 'Roland! Roland!' he cried, and Roland came. When he saw Oliver before him, livid and bleeding, he swayed on his horse as if he should faint. Oliver's sight was weak and troubled from loss of blood, and not hearing Roland's voice he mistook him for an enemy, and struck him a hard blow on his helmet. This blow restored Roland to his senses, and he sat upright. 'My friend,' said he, 'why have you done this? I am Roland, who loves you well, and never did I think you could lift your hand against me.' 'I hear you,' answered Oliver, 'I hear you speak, but I cannot see you. If I have struck you, forgive me, for I knew it not.' 'I forgive you from my heart,' said Roland, and they embraced each other for the last time. The agony of death was falling upon Oliver; his sight had failed, his hearing was fast failing too. Slowly he dismounted from his horse and laid himself painfully on the ground, making, in a loud voice, the confession of his sins. Then he prayed God to bless Charlemagne, fair France, and Roland his friend, and after that his soul left him. And Roland returned and found him dead, and wept for him bitterly. At last he stood up and looked around. Of all the twenty thousand men, not one was left except himself, and Turpin and Gautier. And these three placed themselves shoulder to shoulder, and sent many an Infidel to join his dead brothers. But the wounds they received in their bodies were without number, and at length the Archbishop tottered and fell. But they had not slain him yet: with a mighty struggle he rose to his feet and looked round for Roland. 'I am not conquered yet,' he said; 'a brave man dies but never surrenders.' Then with his good sword he rushed into the _mêlée_ dealing death around him. Roland fought as keenly as his friend, but the moments seemed long till Charles brought them help. Again he sounded his horn, though the wound in his head burst out afresh with his effort. And the Emperor heard it, and stopped for an instant on his march. 'My lords,' he said, 'things are going badly with us; we shall lose my nephew Roland to-day, for I know by the way he blows his horn that he has not long to live. Spur your horses, for I would fain see him before he dies. And let every trumpet in the army sound its loudest!' The Unbelievers heard the noise of the trumpets, which echoed through the mountains and valleys, and they whispered fearfully to each other, 'It is Charles who is coming, it is Charles!' It was their last chance, and a band of their best warriors rode straight at Roland. At that sight the strength rushed back into his veins, and he waited for them proudly. 'I will fight beside you,' he said to Turpin, 'and till I am dead I will never leave you. Let them strike as hard as they will; Durendal knows how to strike back.' 'Shame be upon every man who does not fight his best,' answered the Archbishop, 'for this is our last battle. Charles draws near, and will avenge us.' The Infidels said afterwards that an army could not have wrought the ruin that was done that day by the Archbishop and Roland. Veillantif received thirty wounds in his body and then fell dead under his master. But Roland leaped off, and smote the Saracens, who turned and fled before him. He was too weak to follow after them, and turned to see if the Archbishop still breathed. Kneeling by his side he unlaced Turpin's golden helmet, and bound up his gaping wounds. Then he pressed him closely to his heart and laid him gently on the ground. 'O friend, we must take farewell of each other, now all our comrades have gone before us. But let us do all we can for their bodies, which cannot be left lying here. I will myself go and seek their corpses, and bring them here and place them in rows before you.' 'Go,' answered the Archbishop, 'but do not stay long. Thanks be to God, the victory remains with you and me.' Alone Roland searched the battle-field; he went up the sides of the mountains, he descended into the plains, and everywhere he saw the dead faces of his friends. One after another he brought them, and laid them at the feet of Turpin, and at the sight of their faces the Archbishop wept sore. Then he held up his hand to bless them for the last time. 'Noble lords,' he said, 'you have fallen upon evil days. May God receive your souls into His Paradise. As for me, among all the pains I suffer, the worst is that never shall I see my Emperor again.' Under a pine, close to a sweet-briar, the corpse of Oliver was lying, and Roland raised him in his arms and bare him to the Archbishop, where he laid him on a shield, near to the other peers. Then his heart broke with a cry, and he fell fainting beside Oliver. At the sight of Roland's grief the Archbishop's own sorrow grew double, and he stretched out his hand for the horn which lay near him. A stream ran down the valley of Roncevalles, and he dragged himself towards it, to fetch water to revive Roland. But he was too weak from the blood he had lost to reach the river, and he fell where he stood. 'Pardon for my sins,' he said, and died, the servant of God and of Charles. The cry was heard by Roland, who was slowly coming back to life, and he rose to his feet and went to the dead Archbishop and crossed his hands upon his breast. 'Ah, noble Knight,' he said, 'in God's hands I leave you, for never since the Apostles has He had a more faithful servant. May your soul henceforth be free from sorrow, and may the Gates of Paradise stand wide for you to enter in!' As he spoke, Roland knew that his own death was not far off. He made his peace with God, and took his horn in one hand and Durendal in the other. Then he mounted a small hill where stood two pine trees, but fell almost unconscious as soon as he reached the top. But a Saracen who had watched him, and had feigned to be dead, sprang up and seeing him cried, 'Conquered! he is conquered, the nephew of Charles! and his famous sword will be carried into Arabia'; so he grasped Durendal tightly in his fist, and pulled Roland's beard in derision. If the Saracen had been wise he would have left Roland's beard alone, for at his touch the Count was brought back to consciousness. He felt his sword being taken from him, and with his horn, which was always beside him, he struck the Saracen such a blow on his helmet that he dropped Durendal, and sank dead to the earth. 'Coward,' said Roland, 'who has told you that you might dare to set hands on Roland, living or dead? You were not worthy a blow from my horn.' Still death was pressing closer and closer, and Roland knew it. He rose panting for breath, his face as white as if he was already in the grave, and took Durendal out of its scabbard. Ten times he struck it hard on a brown rock before him, but the steel never gave way. 'O my faithful Durendal, do you know that the hour of our parting has come?' he cried. 'You have gained many battles for me, and won Charles many kingdoms. You shall never serve another master after I am dead.' Again he smote the rock with all his force, but the steel of Durendal glanced aside. When Roland saw that he could not break it, he sat down and wept and lamented sore, calling back to him all the fights that they had fought together. Yet another time he struck, but the steel held good. Death was drawing nearer; what was he to do? Under a pine tree he laid himself down to die, his head resting on the green grass, his face turned towards the Infidels. Beneath him he placed Durendal and his horn. Alone on the mountain, looking towards Spain, he made the confession of his sins, and offered up his last prayer. Then he held up his right hand, and the Angels came and bore his soul to Paradise. THE PURSUIT OF DIARMID _THE PURSUIT OF DIARMID_ Fionn, the son of Cumhaill, rose early from his bed and went and sat upon the clearing of grass that stretched at the foot of the hill of Allen, where was the favourite palace of the Irish Kings of Leinster. He had stolen out alone, while his attendants were sleeping, but soon he was missed and two of his men followed him to the green plain. 'Why have you risen so early?' said Ossian as he came up. 'Since my wife died,' answered Fionn, 'little sleep has come to me, and better I like to be sitting by the hill-side than to toss restlessly between walls.' 'Why did you not tell us?' answered Ossian, 'for there is not a girl in the whole land of Erin whom we would not have brought you by fair means or foul.' Dearing, who had till now kept silence, then spoke. 'I myself know of a wife who would be a fitting mate even for Fionn, son of Cumhaill--Grania, the daughter of Cormac, who is fairer of speech and form than the daughters of other men.' Fionn looked up quickly at Dearing's words. 'There has been strife for long between me and Cormac,' said he, 'and it is not seemly that I should ask anything of him which might be refused. Therefore go you and Ossian and, as from yourselves, see if this marriage pleases him. It were better that he should refuse you, rather than me.' 'Farewell then,' said Ossian, 'but let no man know of our journey till we come back again.' So the two went their ways, and found Cormac, King of Erin, holding a great council on a wide plain, with the chiefs and the great nobles gathered before him. He welcomed Ossian and Dearing with courtesy, and as he felt sure they bore some message, he bade the council meet again on the morrow. When the nobles and chiefs had betaken themselves to their homes, Ossian told the King of Erin that they had come to know his thoughts as to a marriage between his daughter and Fionn, son of Cumhaill. 'There is not the son of a king or of a great prince, a hero or a champion in the whole of Erin,' answered Cormac, 'whom my daughter has not refused to wed, and it is I whom all hold guilty for it, though it is none of my doing. Therefore betake yourselves to my daughter, and she will speak for herself. It is better that you be displeased with her than with me.' Thereupon Ossian and Dearing were led by the King to the dwelling of the women, and they found Grania lying on a high couch. 'Here, O Grania,' said the King, 'are two of the men of Fionn, the son of Cumhaill, and they have come to ask you as wife for him. What is your answer?' 'If he be a fitting son-in-law for you, why should he not be a fitting husband for me?' said Grania. And at her words, her father ordered a banquet to be made in the palace for Ossian and Dearing, and sent them back to Fionn with a message summoning him to a tryst in a fortnight's time. When Ossian and Dearing were returned into Kildare, they found Fionn and his men, the Fenians, on the hill of Allen, and they told them their tale from the beginning to end. And the heart of Fionn grew light as he heard it, and the fortnight of waiting stretched long before him. But everything wears away at last, and so did those fifteen days; and on the last, Fionn assembled seven battalions of his Fenians from wherever they might be, and they set forth in troops for the great plain where Cormac, King of Erin, had given them tryst. [Illustration: GRANIA QUESTIONS THE DRUID] The King had made ready a splendid feast, and welcomed the new-comers gladly, and they ate and drank together. When the feast was over the Druid Derry sang songs before Grania, and she, knowing he was a man of wisdom, asked him why Fionn had come thither. 'If you know not that,' said the Druid, 'it is no wonder that I know it not.' 'I wish to learn it from you,' answered Grania. 'Well then,' replied the Druid, 'it is to ask you for wife that he is come.' 'I marvel,' said Grania, 'that it is not for Ossian that he asks me. For my father himself is not as old as Fionn. But tell me, I pray you, who is that softly spoken man with the curling black hair and ruddy countenance, that sits on the left hand of Ossian, the son of Fionn?' 'That is Diarmid, son of Dowd, the best lover in the whole world.' 'It is a goodly company,' said Grania, and ordered her lady to bring her the golden goblet chased with jewels. When it was brought she filled it up with the drink of nine times nine men, then bade her handmaid carry it to Fionn and say that she had sent it to him, and that he was to drink from it. Fionn took the goblet with joy, but no sooner had he drunk than he fell down into a deep slumber; and the same thing befel also Cormac, and Cormac's wife, and as many as drank of the goblet sent by Grania. When all were sleeping soundly, she rose softly and said to Ossian, 'I marvel that Fionn should ask such a wife as I, for it were fitter that he should give me a husband of my own age than a man older than my father.' 'Say not so, O Grania,' answered Ossian, 'for if Fionn were to hear you, he would not have you, neither should I dare to ask for you.' 'Then you will not listen to word of marriage from me?' asked Grania. 'I will not,' answered Ossian, 'for I must not lay my hand on what Fionn has looked on.' Then Grania turned her face to Diarmid Dowd and what she said was, 'Will you receive courtship from me, O Son of Dowd, since Ossian will not receive it?' 'I will not,' answered Diarmid, 'for whatever woman is betrothed to Fionn, I may not take her.' 'I will put you under bonds of destruction, O Diarmid,' said Grania, 'if you take me not out of this house to-night.' 'Those are indeed evil bonds,' answered Diarmid, 'and wherefore have you laid them on me, seeing there is no man less worthy to be loved by you than myself?' 'Not so, O son of Dowd,' said Grania, 'and I will tell you wherefore.' 'One day the King of Erin held a muster on the great plain of Tara, and Fionn and his seven battalions were there. And a goaling match was played, and all took part, save only the King, and Fionn, and myself and you, O Diarmid. We watched till the game was going against the men of the kingdom of Erin, then you rose, and, taking the pole of the man who was standing by, threw him to the ground, and, joining the others, did thrice win the goal from the warriors of Tara. And I turned the light of my eyes upon you that day, and I never gave that love to any other from that time to this, and will not for ever. So to-night we will pass through my wicket-gate, and take heed you follow me.' After she had spoken, Diarmid turned to Ossian and his companions. 'What shall I do, O Ossian, with the bonds that have been laid on me?' 'Follow Grania,' said Ossian, 'and keep away from the wiles of Fionn.' 'Is that the counsel of you all to me?' asked Diarmid. 'It is the counsel of us all,' said they. Then Diarmid bade them farewell, and went to the top of the Fort, and put the shafts of his two javelins under him, and rose like a bird into the air, and found himself on the plain where Grania met him. 'I trow, O Grania,' said he, 'this is an evil course upon which you are come, for I know not to which corner of Erin I can take you. Return to the town, and Fionn will never harm you.' 'I will never go back,' answered Grania, 'and nothing save death shall part us.' 'Then go forward,' said Diarmid. The town was a mile behind them when Grania stopped. 'I am weary, son of O'Dowd.' 'It is a good time to weary, Grania, for your father's house is still nigh at hand, and I give you my word as a warrior that I will never carry you or any woman.' 'You need not do that,' answered Grania, 'for my father's horses are in a fenced meadow by themselves, and have chariots behind them. Go and bring two horses and a chariot, and I will wait for you here.' And Diarmid did what Grania bade him, and he brought two of the horses, and they journeyed together as far as Athlone. 'It is the easier for Fionn to follow our track,' said Diarmid at last, 'now we have the horses.' 'Then leave them,' cried Grania, 'one on each side of the stream, and we will travel on foot.' So they went on till they reached Galway, and there Diarmid cut down a grove, and made a palisade with seven doors of wattles, and gathered together the tops of the birch trees and soft rushes for a bed for Grania. * * * * * When Fionn and all that were in Tara awoke and found that Diarmid and Grania were not among them, a burning rage seized upon Fionn. At once he sent out trackers before him, and he followed them himself with his men, till they reached the land of Connaught. 'Ah, well I know where Grania and Diarmid shall be sought,' cried Fionn. And Ossian and Dearing heard him, and said to each other, 'We must send Diarmid a warning, lest he should be taken. Look where Bran is, the hound of Fionn, and he shall take it, for he does not love Fionn better than he loves Diarmid, so, Oscar, tell him to go to Diarmid who is in Derry.' And Oscar told that to Bran, and Bran understood, and stole round to the back part of the army where Fionn might not see him; then he bounded away to Derry and thrust his head into Diarmid's bosom as he lay asleep. At that Diarmid awoke and sprang up and woke Grania, and told her that Bran had come, which was a token that Fionn himself was coming. 'Fly then,' said Grania; but Diarmid would not fly. 'He may take me now,' said he, 'seeing he must take me some time.' At his words Grania shook with fear, and Bran departed. All this while the friends of Diarmid took counsel together, and they dreaded lest Bran had not found them, and they resolved to give them another warning. So they bade the henchman Feargus to give three shouts, for every shout could be heard over three counties. And Diarmid heard them, and awoke Grania, and told her that it was a warning they had sent him of Fionn. 'Then take that warning,' said she. 'I will not,' answered Diarmid, 'but will stay in this wood till Fionn comes.' And Grania trembled when she heard him. By-and-by the trackers came back to Fionn with news that they had seen Diarmid and Grania, and though Ossian and Diarmid's friends tried to persuade Fionn that the men had been mistaken, Fionn was not to be deceived. 'Well did I know the meaning of the three shouts of Feargus, and why you sent Bran, my own hound, away. But it shall profit him nothing, for Diarmid shall not leave Derry till he has paid me for every slight he has put upon me.' 'Great foolishness it is of you, O Fionn,' said Oscar, 'to think that Diarmid would stay in this plain waiting to have his head taken from him.' 'Who else would have cut down the trees, and have made a palisade of them, and cut seven doors in it? Speak, O Diarmid, is the truth with me or with Oscar?' 'With you, O Fionn,' said Diarmid, 'and truly I and Grania are here.' When he heard this, Fionn bade his men surround Diarmid and take him, and Diarmid rose up and kissed Grania three times in presence of Fionn and his men, and Fionn, seeing that, swore that Diarmid should pay for those kisses with his head. But Angus, the foster-father of Diarmid, knew in what straits his foster-son was, and he stole secretly to the place where Diarmid was hidden with Grania, and asked him what he had done to bring his head into such danger. 'This,' said Diarmid; 'Grania, the daughter of Cormac, King of Erin, has fled with me against my will to escape marriage with Fionn.' 'Then let one of you come under my mantle,' answered Angus, 'and I will carry you out of your prison.' 'Take Grania,' answered Diarmid. 'If I live, then will I follow you, but if not, carry her to her father, and let him deal with her as seems good.' After that Angus put Grania under his mantle and they went their ways, and neither Fionn nor his Fenians knew of it. When Angus and Grania had left him, Diarmid girded his arms upon him, and standing at one of the seven wattled doors, asked who stood behind. 'No foe to you,' answered a voice, 'but Ossian, the son of Fionn, and Oscar, the son of Ossian, and others who are your friends. Come out, and none will do you hurt.' 'I will not open the door until I find out where Fionn himself is.' And so it befel at six of the doors, and Diarmid would not open them, lest his friends should come under the wrath of Fionn. But as he drew near the seventh, and put his question, the answer came loud: 'Here are Fionn, the son of Cumhaill, and four hundred of his servants, and we bear you no love, and if you come out we will tear your bones in sunder.' 'I pledge my word,' said Diarmid, 'that yours is the first door by which I will pass,' and he rose into the air on the shafts of his javelins, with a bound as light as a bird's, and went far beyond Fionn and his people, and they knew nothing of it. Then he looked back and shouted that he had got the better of them, and followed after the track of Angus and Grania. He found them warm in a hut with a fire in it, watching a wild boar roasting on a spit, and Grania's soul almost left her body for joy at seeing Diarmid. They told their stories before the fire, and when morning broke Angus rose and said to Diarmid, 'I must now depart, O son of O'Dowd, and this counsel I leave you. Go not into a tree having but one trunk, when you fly before Fionn. And go not to a cave of the earth having only one door, or to an island which can only be reached by one channel. And in whatever place you cook your meal, there eat it not; and in whatever place you eat, there lie not; and in whatever place you lie down to sleep, there rise not on the morrow.' So saying, he bade them farewell, and went his way. The next day Diarmid and Grania journeyed up the Shannon, and they killed a salmon, and crossed the river to eat it, as Angus had told them. Soon they met a youth called Muadan, who wished to take service with them; and he was strong, and carried them over the rivers across their path. When evening came they found a cave, where Muadan spread out soft rushes and birch twigs for Diarmid and Grania to lie on, and as soon as they were asleep he stole into the next wood, and broke a long straight rod from a tree, and put a hair line and a hook upon it, and a holly berry on the rod, and fished in the stream. In three casts he had taken three fish. That night they ate a good supper, and while Diarmid and Grania slept, Muadan kept watch for them. At dawn Diarmid woke Grania and told her to watch while Muadan slept, as he was going to climb a hill near by, and see where they had best go. He soon stood on the top and looked round about him. In front of him was a great company of ships bearing towards him out of the west. They landed at the foot of the hill where Diarmid stood, and he swiftly ran down to meet them and to ask of what country they were. 'We are three royal chiefs,' said they, 'and are sent by Fionn to take an enemy of his whom he has outlawed, called Diarmid O'Dowd. And with us are three fierce hounds whom we will loose upon his track. Fire burns them not, nor water drowns them, nor weapons wound them, and of us there are two thousand men. Moreover, tell us who you yourself are, and if you have any tidings of the son of O'Dowd.' 'I am but a warrior walking the world with the strength of my arm and the blade of my sword. But I warn you, you will have no common man to deal with if you meet Diarmid, whom but yesterday I saw.' 'Well, no one has been found yet,' said they. 'Is there wine in your ships?' asked Diarmid. 'There is,' answered they. 'If you would bring a tun of it here, I would do a trick for you.' So the wine was sent for, and Diarmid raised the cask up and drank from it, and took it up to the top of the hill and stood on it, and it glided with him to the bottom. And that trick he did thrice, standing on the tun as it came and went. But the strangers only scoffed, and they told him they could do a much better trick than that, and one of them jumped on the tun. Then, before it could move, Diarmid gave the tun a kick, and the young man fell, and the tun rolled over and crushed him. And in like manner he did to many more, and the rest fled back to their ships. The next morning they came to Diarmid where he stood on the hill, and he asked if they would like him to show them any more tricks, but they said they would rather hear some news of Diarmid first. 'I have seen a man who met him to-day,' answered Diarmid, and thereupon he laid his weapons on the ground and bounded upwards upon his javelin, coming down lightly beyond the host. 'If you call that a feat, then you have never seen a feat,' said a young warrior of the green Fenians--for so were they called from the colour of their armour. And he rose in like manner on his javelin and came down heavily on it, and it pierced his heart. Diarmid drew out the javelin, and another man took it and tried to do the same thing, and he also was slain, and so to the number of fifty. And they went to their ships while Diarmid returned to Muadan and Grania. As soon as Diarmid awoke he went to the forest and cut two forked poles, which he took to the hill and placed upright, and he balanced the sword of Angus across the top. Then he rose lightly over and came down safely over it. 'Is there any man among you who can do that?' asked he of the men who had come up from their ships. 'That is a foolish question,' answered one, 'for no man ever did a feat in Erin which one of us could not do,' and he arose and leapt over the sword, but his foot caught in it, and he was cut in half. After that others tried, but none jumped that sword and lived. 'Have you any tidings of the son of O'Dowd?' asked the rest at last. 'I have seen him that saw him to-day,' answered Diarmid. 'I will seek tidings of him to-night.' And he returned to Grania. When the sun rose Diarmid put on his coat of mail which no sword could pierce, and girded on the sword of Angus, and took his two javelins, whose stroke none could cure. Grania trembled at this brave sight, but Diarmid soothed her fears, and went off to meet the Fenians. 'What tidings of the son of O'Dowd?' said they. 'Show us where he is, that we may take his head to Fionn.' 'The body and life of Diarmid are under my protection, and I will not betray him.' 'Then we will take your head, as Fionn is your enemy,' said they. 'Take it if you can,' answered Diarmid, and he drew his sword and struck at the head of the man next him, and it rolled away from the body. Then he rushed on the host, and slew them right and left, and none lived to tell the tale but the three green chiefs and a few men who went back to their ships. And they returned the next morning and renewed the fight, but Diarmid vanquished them, and binding them fast, left them where they were. For he knew that there were only four men in the world that could loose them. After this Diarmid called to Grania and Muadan to come with him, and they travelled till Grania grew weary, and Muadan carried her on his back to the foot of a great mountain. And there they rested on the bank of the stream. Meanwhile the few men who had been left alive abandoned their ship, and sought the three chiefs who were lying bound on the hill. They tried to loosen the bands of the captives, but only drew them tighter. Soon they saw the witch-messenger of Fionn coming over the tops of the hills skimming from one to the other as lightly as a swallow. 'Who has made this great slaughter?' said she. 'Who are you that ask?' said they. 'I am Deirdre, the witch-messenger of Fionn, and he has sent me to look for you.' 'We know not who the man was,' answered they, 'but his hair was black and curly, and his countenance ruddy. And he has bound our three chiefs, so that we cannot loose them.' 'It was Diarmid himself,' said she; 'so loosen your hounds on his track, and I will send Fionn and his Fenians to help you.' The men went down to their ships, and brought out their hounds, and loosened them on the track of Diarmid. The hounds made straight for the door of the cave, and the men followed them; and the hounds left the cave, and set forth westwards. But Diarmid knew not of their coming till he saw silken banners waving, and three mighty warriors marching at the head. And he was filled with hatred of them, and went his ways, and Muadan took Grania on his back and bore her a mile along the mountain. It was not long before they heard the hound coming, and Muadan bade Diarmid follow Grania, and he would keep the hound at bay. And when he had slain the hound, he departed after Diarmid and Grania. Then the second hound was loosened, and Diarmid waited till he came close, so that he could take sure aim; and he cast his javelin into the hound and it fell dead like its fellow, and having drawn his javelin, he followed after Grania. They had not gone much farther before the third hound was upon them. He bounded straight over the head of Diarmid, and would have seized Grania, but Diarmid took hold of his two hind legs, and swung him so fiercely against a rock that he was slain on the spot. And when that was done, Diarmid put on his arms, and slipped his little finger into the silken string of the javelin, and cast it straight at a youth in a green mantle that had outstripped his fellows, and slew him; and so to the rest, while Deirdre, the witch, wheeled and hovered about them all. Now when news of the green Fenians that were bound by Diarmid reached Fionn he summoned his men, and they took the shortest ways till they reached the hill of slaughter. Then Fionn spoke, and what he said was, 'O Ossian, loose the three chiefs for me.' 'I will not,' replied Ossian, 'for Diarmid bound me not to loose any warrior that he should bind.' 'O Oscar, loose them,' said Fionn. 'Nay,' answered Oscar, 'rather would I place more bands upon them.' And so said the other two, and, before their eyes, the chiefs died of their bondage. So Fionn ordered their graves to be dug, and their flag laid upon their stone, and the heart of Fionn was heavy. He raised his head and saw drawing near Deirdre, the witch, her legs trembling, her tongue raving, and her eyes dropping out of her head. 'I have great and evil tidings for you,' said she, and she told him of all the slaughter Diarmid had made, and how she herself had hardly escaped. 'Whither went the son of O'Dowd?' asked Fionn. 'I know not,' said she. At that Fionn and his Fenians departed, and wandered far before they could hear news of Diarmid. On the road that led to the county of Galway, Fionn saw fifty stout warriors coming towards him. 'I know not who they are,' said Fionn, 'yet I think they are enemies of mine'; and, indeed, this proved to be so, for the leaders of the company told Fionn that his father and their fathers had fought in battle. 'Then you must give me payment for the death of my father,' said Fionn, 'and in return you shall have power among the Fenians.' 'But we have neither silver, nor gold, nor herds, O Fionn,' answered the two young men. 'I want none of these,' replied Fionn; 'the payment I ask is but the head of a warrior, or a handful of berries from the magic tree of Dooros.' 'Take counsel from me,' cried Ossian, 'for it is no light matter to bring to Fionn that which he asks of you. The head is the head of Diarmid, son of Dowd, and if there were two thousand of you instead of fifty, Diarmid would not let it go.' 'And what are the berries that Fionn asks of us?' said they. 'Those berries would never have been heard of but for the jealousy of two women of different tribes, each of whom swore that her husband could hurl a pole farther than the other. So all the rest of the tribes came out to take part in the goaling match, and the game lasted long, and neither won a goal. At last the tribe of the Tuatha De Denann saw that the Fenians were stronger than they, and they went away bearing their provisions with them--nuts, and apples, and fragrant berries. And as they passed near the river Moy one of the berries fell, and turned into a quicken tree. No disease or sickness can touch anyone who eats three of its berries, and were he a hundred years old, the eater of them shall become no more than thirty. 'Since those days the tribe has set a guard over it. He is a crooked giant, with an eye in the midst of his forehead. No weapon can wound him, and he can only die of three strokes from his own iron club. At night he sleeps on the top of the tree, and by day watches at the foot. Around him is a wilderness, and the Fenians dare not hunt there, for fear of that terrible one. These are the berries which Fionn asks of you.' But Aod, the son of Andala, spoke and declared that he would rather die seeking those berries than return to his own land with his head bowed in shame. So he and Angus his cousin took farewell of Ossian and went their ways, and as they drew near the forest they came on the track of Diarmid; and they followed to the tent, where they found him with Grania. 'Who are you?' asked Diarmid. [Illustration: Diarmid Seizes The Giant's Club] 'We are Aod and Angus of the Clan Moirna,' said Aod, 'and it is your head that we seek, Diarmid, son of O'Dowd. For Fionn will either have that, or a handful of berries from the quicken tree.' 'Neither task is easy,' answered Diarmid, 'and woe to him that falls under the power of Fionn. He it was who slew your father, and surely that is payment enough. And whichever of those things you take him, you shall never have peace.' 'What berries are those that Fionn wants?' asked Grania, 'and why cannot they be got for him?' Then Diarmid told her the story, and how the country round was laid waste. 'But when Fionn put me under his ban,' continued he, 'the giant gave me leave to hunt there if I would, but forbade me to touch the berries. And now, O children of Moirna, will you fight me or seek the berries?' 'We will fight you first,' said they. They fought long and well, but Diarmid got the better of them both, and bound them on the spot where they fell. 'You struck valiantly,' said Grania to Diarmid, 'but I vow that even if the children of Moirna go not after those berries, I will never rest in my bed till I have eaten them.' 'Force me not to break faith with the giant,' answered Diarmid, 'for he would not give them me more readily for that.' 'Loose our bonds,' said the children of Moirna, 'and we will go with you, and give ourselves for your sake.' 'Not so,' answered Diarmid, 'for the sight of him might kill you.' 'Then let us go to watch you fight, before you cut off our heads.' And Diarmid did so. They found the giant asleep before the tree, and Diarmid pushed him with his foot. The giant raised his head and looked at him: 'Are you fain to break peace, O Diarmid?' 'Not I,' answered he, 'but Grania my wife is ill, and she longs for the taste of your berries, and it is to get a handful of them that I am now come.' 'If she should die,' said the giant, 'she should have none.' 'I may not do you treachery,' replied Diarmid, 'therefore I tell you I will have them by fair means or foul.' The giant having heard that, stood up and dealt Diarmid three mighty strokes with his club, so that he staggered. Then, flinging down his weapons, he sprang upon the giant and grasped the club between his hands, hurling the giant to the ground by the weight of his body. Without giving him time to rise, Diarmid struck three blows with the club at the giant's head and he died without a word. Aod and Angus had watched the combat, and now came forth. 'Bury the giant under the brushwood of the forest,' said Diarmid, 'so that Grania may not see him, and then go and bring her to me, for I am very weary.' And the young men did so. 'There, Grania, are the berries you asked for,' said Diarmid when she came, but she swore that she would not taste a berry except he plucked it for her. So he plucked the berries for her and for the children of Moirna, and they ate their fill of them. 'Now go,' said he, 'take as many berries as you can to Fionn, and tell him that it was you who slew the giant.' And they gave thanks to Diarmid and left him, and he and Grania went to sleep on the top of the tree where the sweetest berries grew. The children of Moirna reached Fionn, and bowed before him. 'We have slain the giant,' said they, 'and have brought you the berries, and now we shall have peace for the death of our father.' Fionn took the berries into his hand, and stooped down and smelt them. 'I swear,' he cried, 'that it was Diarmid O'Dowd who gathered these berries, and full sure I am that it was he who slew the giant. I will follow him to the quicken tree, and it shall profit you nothing to have brought the berries to me.' With seven battalions of his Fenians, he marched along Diarmid's track till he reached the foot of the quicken tree, and finding the berries with no watch on them, they ate their fill. The sun was hot, and Fionn said he would stay at the foot of the tree till it grew cooler, as well he knew that Diarmid was at the top. 'You judge foolishly,' answered Ossian, 'to think that Diarmid would stay up there when he knows that you are bent on his death.' In spite of the heat and his long march, Fionn could not sleep, and called for a chess-board, and bade Ossian play with him. Fionn was the most skilled, and at length he said, 'There is but one move that can save you the game, O Ossian, and I dare all that are by to show you that move.' And in the top of the tree Diarmid heard him, and said, 'O Ossian, why am I not there to show you?' 'It is worse for you to be here in the power of Fionn, than for Ossian to lack that move,' answered Grania. But Diarmid plucked one of the berries, and aimed it at the man which should be moved, and Ossian moved it, and turned the game against Fionn. And so he did a second time, and a third, when Ossian was in straits, and he won the game and the Fenians sent up a great shout. 'I marvel not at your winning, O Ossian, seeing that Oscar is doing his best for you, and that the skilled knowledge of Dearing, and the prompting of Diarmid, are all with you.' 'Now your eyes must be blinded, O Fionn, to think that Diarmid would stay in that tree when you are beneath him.' 'Which of us has the truth on his side, O Diarmid?' said Fionn, looking up. 'Never did you err in your wisdom, O Fionn,' answered Diarmid, 'and truly, I and Grania are here.' Then, in presence of them all, he kissed Grania three times. 'Thou shalt give thy head for those three kisses,' said Fionn. So Fionn and the four hundred that were with him surrounded the quicken tree, and he bade them on pain of death not to let Diarmid pass through them. Further, he promised to whichever man should go up the tree and fetch down Diarmid, he would give him arms and armour, and whatever place his father held among the Fenians. But Angus heard what Fionn said, and being somewhat of a wizard, came to Diarmid's help, without being seen of the Fenians. And one man after another rolled down the tree. Howbeit, both Diarmid and Angus felt that this was no place for Grania, and Angus said he would take her with him. 'Take her,' answered Diarmid; 'if I be alive this evening I will follow you. If not, send Grania to her father at Tara.' And with that Angus bade farewell to Diarmid, and flung his magic mantle over himself and Grania, and they passed out and no man knew aught of them till they reached the river Boyne. When they were safely gone, Diarmid, son of O'Dowd, spoke from the top of the tree. 'I will go down to you, O Fionn, and to the Fenians, and will deal slaughter and discomfiture upon you and your people, seeing that I know your wish is to allow me no escape, but to work my death after some manner. Moreover, I have no friend who will help or protect me, since full often have I wrought havoc among the warriors of the world, for love of you. For there never came on you battle or strait, but I would plunge into it for your sake, and for that of the Fenians. Therefore I swear, O Fionn, that thou shalt not get me for nothing.' 'Diarmid speaks truth,' said Oscar. 'Grant him, I pray you, mercy and forgiveness.' [Illustration: Diarmid & Grania in the Quicken Tree] 'I will not,' answered Fionn, 'till he has paid for every slight put upon me.' 'It is a foul shame in thee to say that,' said Oscar, 'and I pledge the word of a soldier that unless the heavens fall upon me or the earth opens under my feet, I will not suffer you nor your Fenians to strike him a single blow, and I will take him under my protection, and keep him safe in spite of you all. Therefore, O Diarmid, come down out of the tree, since Fionn will not grant you mercy. 'I will pledge that no evil will come to you to-day.' So Diarmid rose, and stood upon the topmost bough of the tree, and leapt light and birdlike, by the shafts of his spears, and passed out far beyond Fionn and the Fenians of Erin. And he and Oscar went their way, and no tidings were heard of them till they reached Grania and Angus on the banks of the Boyne. After Diarmid and Oscar had departed, Fionn ordered a ship to be made ready, and as soon as it was done he marched on board with a thousand of his warriors and set sail for the north of Scotland. When he arrived at the harbour nearest the King's palace, he moored his ship and took the path to the palace, where the King received him kindly, and gave him food and drink. Then Fionn told the King why he was come. 'And truly you should give me a host,' said he, 'for Diarmid it was who slew your father and two brothers and many of your men besides.' 'That is so,' answered the King, 'and I will give you my two sons, with a thousand men to each of them.' Joyful was Fionn to hear this, and he departed with his company, and nothing was known of them till they reached the Boyne, where Fionn challenged Diarmid and Angus to battle. 'What shall I do touching this, O Oscar?' asked Diarmid. 'We will give them battle and slay them all,' answered Oscar. On the morrow Diarmid and Oscar rose, and put on their armour and went their way to the place of combat, where they bound the rims of their shields together, so that they might not be parted in the fight. Next they proclaimed battle against Fionn, and the Scots said they would land and fight them first. They rushed together, and Diarmid passed under them and through them and over them, as a whale would go through small fish. And all of them fell by Diarmid and Oscar before night came, while they themselves had neither cut nor wound. When Fionn saw that great slaughter he and his men put out to sea, and sailed to the cave where dwelt an old woman, Fionn's nurse. And he told her his story from the beginning. 'I will go with you,' said she, 'and will practise magic against him.' They came to the Boyne, and the witch threw magic over Fionn and his Fenians, so that the men of Erin knew not they were there; and that day Diarmid was hunting alone, for he had parted from Oscar the day before. Now the witch knew this, and she flew to where a water-lily leaf lay with a hole in the middle of it, and as the wind lifted the leaf from the surface of the water she cast deadly darts at Diarmid through the hole, and did him great hurt. And every evil that had come upon him was little compared with that evil. Then he felt that unless he could strike her through the hole in the leaf she would slay him on the spot; so he lay down on his back and took his javelin in his hand, and reached her through the hole, and she fell dead. After that he cut off her head and carried it with him to Angus. The next day Diarmid rose early and Angus with him, and they went to Fionn and asked if he would make peace with Diarmid, and also to Cormac, King of Erin, with a like question; and they agreed thereto, and asked Diarmid what terms he wanted. Diarmid demanded several of the best baronies in Ireland, and he got them, and they blotted out all Diarmid had done during the sixteen years of his outlawry, and Cormac gave his other daughter to Fionn that he might let Diarmid be, and there was peace for many years, and Diarmid prospered mightily, and had four sons and one daughter. THE GREEN BOAR But one day a restless spirit seized on Grania, and she told Diarmid that it was a shame to them that the two greatest men in Erin, Cormac and Fionn, had never visited their house, and she wished to give a splendid feast and to bid them to it. And this was done: for a year Grania and her daughter were preparing the feast, and when it was ready the guests came, and stayed feasting for a year. It was on the last day of the year that in his sleep Diarmid heard the voice of a dog that caused him to start and to wake Grania. 'What is the matter?' said she, and Diarmid told her. 'May you be kept safely,' answered Grania; 'lie down again.' So Diarmid lay down, but no sleep would come to him, and by-and-by he heard the hound's voice again, but again Grania kept him from seeking it. This time he fell into a deep slumber, and a third time the hound bayed, and he woke and said to Grania, 'Now it is day, and I will go.' 'Well, then,' said she, 'take your large sword and the red javelin.' But Diarmid answered, 'No, I will take the little sword that bites, and the small javelin, and my favourite hound on a chain.' So he went without stopping to the top of a mountain, where Fionn stood alone. Diarmid asked if he was hunting, and Fionn said no, but that after midnight a company of Fenians had come out, and one of the hounds had crossed the track of the wild boar of Ben Gulbain, which had slain thirty Fenians that morning. 'He is even now coming up this mountain against us,' added he, 'so let us leave the place.' 'I will never leave the place for him,' answered Diarmid. 'Know you not that when you were a child a wizard prophesied that you should live as long as a green boar without ears or tail, and that it was by him that you should fall at last?' 'No, I knew nothing of these things, but for all that I will not leave the mountain,' answered Diarmid. And Fionn went his way, and Diarmid stood alone on the top. 'It was to slay me that you made this hunt, O Fionn; and if it is fated that I die here, die I must.' The wild boar came tearing up the mountain, and behind him followed the Fenians. Diarmid slipped his hound, but it profited him nothing, for he did not await the boar, but fled before him. 'Woe unto him that doeth not the counsel of a good wife,' said Diarmid to himself, 'for Grania bade me take my best hound and my red javelin.' Then he aimed carefully at the boar's head, and smote him in the middle of his forehead; but he did not so much as cut one of his bristles, far less pierce his skin. At that Diarmid felt his heart quail like those of weaker men, and he drew his sword and dealt the boar a stout blow, but the sword broke in two; and the beast stood unharmed. With a spring he threw himself upon Diarmid, so that he tripped and fell, and somehow when he rose up he was sitting astride the back of the boar, with his face looking towards the tail. The boar tried to fling him off but could not, though he rushed down the hill and jumped three times backwards and forwards out of the river at the foot; but Diarmid never stirred, and at last the boar dashed up the hill again, and Diarmid fell from his back. Then the boar sprang upon Diarmid with a mighty spring, and wounded him mortally; but Diarmid swung his broken sword about his head as he lay, and hit the boar such a blow on his head that where he stood there he fell dead. [Illustration: The Death of Diarmid] Not long after that Fionn and his Fenians came up and watched Diarmid, who was dying fast. 'It pleases me well to see you in that plight, O Diarmid,' said Fionn, 'and I grieve that all the fair women of Erin cannot see you also.' 'If you wished you could still heal me, O Fionn,' answered Diarmid. 'How could I heal you, O Diarmid?' 'Easily,' answered Diarmid. 'Was it not given to you that whoever should drink from the palms of your hands should become young and whole again?' 'You have not deserved that I should give you that drink,' said Fionn. 'That is not true, O Fionn, well have I deserved it of you. Was it not I who avenged you and slew fifty of your enemies who tried to set on fire the house wherein you were holding your great feast? Had I asked you for such a drink then, you would have given it to me, and now I deserve it no less.' 'Not so,' answered Fionn; 'you have deserved ill at my hands since that time, and little reason have I to give you drinks or any good thing. For did you not bear away Grania from me before all the men of Erin the night you were set as guard over her in Tara?' 'The guilt of that was not mine, O Fionn, but Grania besought me, else I would not have failed to keep my charge for all the bonds in the world. And well do I deserve you should give me a drink, for many is the day since I came among the Fenians in which I have perilled my life for your sake. Therefore you should not do me this foul treachery. And soon a dire defeat will come upon the Fenians, and few children will be left to them to carry on the race. It is not for you that I grieve, O Fionn, but for Ossian and for Oscar, and for the rest of my faithful comrades. And you shall lack me sorely yet, O Fionn.' 'I am near of kin to you, O Fionn,' said Oscar, 'but you shall not do Diarmid this wrong. Further, I swear that were any other prince in the world to have done this to Diarmid, we would have seen whose hand was strongest and who should bring him a drink.' 'I know no well upon this mountain,' answered Fionn. 'That is not true,' replied Diarmid, 'for nine paces from this is the best well of pure water in the world.' So Fionn went to the well and filled his palms with water; but he had only come half way to where Diarmid lay when he let the water run down between his fingers. 'The water would not stay in my hands,' he said, as he reached the rest. 'You spilt it of your will,' answered Diarmid. For the second time Fionn set out to fetch the water, but returning he thought of Grania, and let it run upon the ground. Diarmid saw and sighed piteously. 'I swear by my sword,' cried Oscar, 'that if this time you bring not that water either you or I, O Fionn, shall leave our body here.' And Fionn trembled when he heard those words, and brought back the water, but as he came to his side the life went out of Diarmid. And the company of the Fenians raised three exceeding great cries; while Oscar looked fiercely at Fionn, and told him it had been better for the Fenians had Fionn himself died, and not Diarmid. Then Fionn left the top of the mountain, leading Diarmid's hound, and his Fenians came after. But Ossian and Oscar and two others returned and laid their four mantles over Diarmid, and when they had done that they went their ways after Fionn. Now Grania was standing on the ramparts of her house when she saw Fionn and the Fenians approaching. She said to herself that if Diarmid were alive it was not Fionn who would lead his hound, and at this thought she swooned and fell heavily over the battlements. Ossian's heart was full of pity, and he bade Fionn and the Fenians to go, and ran himself to help her, but she lifted her head and begged that Fionn would leave her the hound of Diarmid. Fionn said No, he would not; but Ossian took the stag-hound from Fionn's hand and put it into Grania's, and then followed after the Fenians. When they had gone, Grania uttered a loud and grievous cry that was heard far round, so that the people came to her and asked her what was the matter, and when she told them that Diarmid was dead they sat down and wailed also. After that Grania sent five hundred men to bring her the body of Diarmid. That night it was shown to Angus in a dream that Diarmid was dead on Ben Gulbain; and he was carried by the wind, and reached the place at the same moment as Grania's men, who knew him, and held out the insides of their shields to him in token of peace. And they sent up three exceeding great cries, which were heard even at the gates of heaven. Then Angus spoke: 'There has not been one night since I took you, an infant of nine months old, to the Boyne that I have not watched over you, O Diarmid, until last night, when Fionn did you basely to death, for all you were at peace with him.' And he told Grania's men he himself would bear Diarmid's body to the Boyne. So the dead man was placed on a gilded bier with his javelins over him pointed upwards, and the men of Grania returned to their mistress, and said as Angus had bade them. The first thing she did was to send messengers to her sons, who lived each in his own house, and bade them come with their followings to the house of Grania, for that their father Diarmid had been foully slain by Fionn. They all came forthwith, and after they had eaten and drunk she pointed to the weapons and arms of Diarmid, and said they were theirs, and by them they should learn all arts of brave men, till they should reach their full strength, and after that they should avenge themselves on Fionn. The sayings of Grania were whispered in the ears of Fionn, and a great fear fell upon him. He called his Fenians together, and told them how the sons of Diarmid had gone to their mother, and returned to their own homes again. 'It is to rebel against me that they have done this,' and he asked counsel in the matter. 'The guilt is yours and no other man's,' spoke Ossian, 'and we will not stand by you, for you slew Diarmid in time of peace.' Without Ossian, Oscar, and their men Fionn knew that he could not conquer Grania, and resolved to try what cunning would do. So he slipped away secretly, and went to her house, and greeted her with soft words, in reply to her bitter ones. But so cunning was he that at last her wrath broke down, and she agreed to go with him back to his Fenians. It was a long while before the Fenians knew who that could be walking by the side of Fionn, but when they did they laughed and mocked till Grania bowed her head for shame. 'This time, O Fionn, you will guard her well,' said Ossian. For seven years the sons of Diarmid exercised themselves in all the skill of a warrior, and then they came back to Grania's house. There they learned how long ago Grania had fled with Fionn, and in wrath they set out to seek Fionn, and proclaimed battle against him. Fionn sent Dearing to ask how many men it would take to fight them, and they answered that each one of them would fight a hundred. So Fionn brought four hundred men, and the young men rushed under them and through them and over them, till there was not a man left. 'What shall we do concerning these youths, O Grania,' said Fionn, 'for I have not men enough to go through many such fights?' 'I will visit them,' answered Grania, 'and will try to make peace between you.' And Fionn bade her offer them terms such as no man then living would refuse, yet for long the young men did refuse them. But at the last the prayers of Grania prevailed, and peace was made, and Fionn and Grania lived together till they died.[3] [Footnote 3: From the Transactions of the Ossianic Society.] SOME ADVENTURES OF WILLIAM SHORT NOSE _SOME_ _ADVENTURES OF WILLIAM SHORT NOSE_ William Short Nose was also styled William of Orange, quite a different man from the one who came to be King of England, although they both took their title from the same small town in the south of France. This William of Orange spent his life battling with the Saracens in the south of France, and a very hard task he had, for their numbers seemed endless, and as fast as one army was beaten another was gathered together. Now by a great effort the Infidels had been driven back south in the year 732, but before a hundred years had passed they had again crossed the Pyrenees and were streaming over France, south of the Loire, and, what was worse, the men of Gascony were rising too. Someone had to meet the enemy and to crush the rebels, and of all the subjects of King Louis, the son of the Emperor Charles, no one was so fit to lead the army of the Franks as William Short Nose, Count of Orange, husband of the Lady Gibourc. It was at the Aliscans that he met them, and a great host they were, spreading over the country till whichever way you looked you saw men flocking round the Golden Dragon, which was the banner of the Saracens. But it was not Count William's way to think about numbers, and he ordered his trumpeters to sound the charge. Spurring his horse, he dashed from one part of the fight to the other, striking and killing as he went, and heeding as little the wounds that he got as those that he gave, and _they_ were many. The Franks whom he led followed after him, and slew the Pagans as they came on; but the Christians were in comparison but a handful, and their enemies as the sands of the sea. The young warriors whom William had brought with him were prisoners or dying men, and from far he saw Vivian, whom he loved the best, charging a multitude with his naked sword. 'Montjoie! Montjoie!' cried he, 'O noble Count! O Bertrand my cousin, come to my aid! O my Lady Gibourc, never more shall my eyes look upon you!' Bertrand heard and pressed to his side. 'Ride to the river,' he said, 'and I will protect you with my life'; but Vivian was too weak even to sit on his horse, and fell half fainting at the feet of Bertrand. At this moment there rode at them a large troop of Saracens, headed by their King Haucebier, and the Christian Knights knew that all was lost. 'It is too late now for me to think of life,' said Vivian, 'but I will die fighting,' and again they faced their enemies till Bertrand's horse was killed under him. Then Vivian seized the horse of a dead Infidel, and thrust the bridle into Bertrand's hand, 'Fly, for God's sake, it is your only chance. Where is my uncle? If he is dead we have lost the battle.' But Bertrand did not fly, though every instant made the danger more deadly. 'If I forsake you, if I take flight,' he said, 'I shall bring eternal shame upon myself.' 'No, no,' cried Vivian, 'seek my uncle down there in the Aliscans, and bring him to my aid.' 'Never till my sword breaks,' answered Bertrand, and laid about him harder than ever. And to their joy they heard a war cry sounding in their ears, and five Frankish Counts, cousins of Vivian and of Bertrand, galloped up. Fight they did with all their might, but none fought like Vivian. 'Heavens! what a warrior!' cried the Counts as they saw his blows, while the Saracens asked themselves if the man whom they had killed at mid-day had been brought back to life by the help of devils. 'If we let them escape now we shall be covered with shame before Mahomet,' said they, 'but ere night falls William shall acknowledge that he is conquered.' 'Indeed!' said Bertrand, and with his cousins he fell upon them till they fled. The Counts were victors on this field, but, wounded and weary as they were, another combat lay before them, for a force of twenty thousand Saracens was advancing from the valley. Their hearts never failed them, but they had no strength left; the young Counts were all taken prisoners, except Vivian, who was left for dead by the side of a fountain where he had been struck down. 'O Father in Heaven,' he said, feeling his life going from him, 'forgive me my sins, and help my uncle, if it is Thy holy will.' William Short Nose was still fighting, though he knew that the victory lay with the Unbelievers and their hosts. 'We are beaten,' he said to the fourteen faithful comrades that stood by him. 'Listen as you will, no sound of our war cry can be heard. But by the Holy Rood, the Infidels will know no rest while I am alive. I will give my forefathers no cause for shame, and the minstrels shall not tell in their songs how I fell back before the enemy.' They then gave battle once more, and fought valiantly, till all lay dead upon the ground, save only William himself. Now the Count knew that if the Infidel was ever to be vanquished and beaten out of fair France he must take heed of his own life, for the task was his and no other man's; so he turned his horse's head towards Orange, and then stopped, for he saw a troop of freshly landed Saracens approaching him along the same road. 'The whole world is full of these Infidels!' he cried in anger; 'cursed be the day when they were born. Fair God, you alone can save me. My Lady Gibourc, shall I ever again behold you? My good horse,' added he, 'you are very tired. If you had had only five hours' rest, I would have led you to the charge; but I see plainly that I can get no help from you, and I cannot blame you for it, as you have served me well all day, and for this I thank you greatly. If ever we reach Orange you shall wear no saddle for twenty days, your food shall be the finest corn, and you shall drink out of a golden trough. But how should I bear it if the Pagans captured you and carried you to Spain?' And the horse understood as well as a man, and he threw up his head, and pawed the ground, and his strength came back to him as of old. At this sight William Short Nose felt more glad than if he had been given fourteen cities. But no sooner had he entered a valley that led along the road to Orange than he saw a fresh body of Pagans blocking one end. He turned to escape into another path, but in front of him rode a handful of his enemies. 'By the faith that I swore to my dear Lady Gibourc,' he said, 'I had better die than never strike a blow,' and so went straight at Telamon, their leader, on his horse Marchepierre. 'William!' cried the Saracen, 'this time you will not escape me.' But the sun was in his eyes, and his sword missed his aim. Before he could strike another blow William had borne him from his horse and galloped away on Bausant. The mountain that he was climbing now was beset with Infidels, like all the rest, and William looked in vain for a way of escape. He jumped from his horse and rubbed his flanks, saying to him the while, 'Bausant, what will you do? Your sides are all bloody, and you can scarcely stand; but remember, if once you fall it means my death.' At these words Bausant neighed, pricked up his ears and shook himself, and as he did so the blood seemed to flow strongly in his veins, as of old. Then the Count rode down into the field of the Aliscans, and found his nephew Vivian lying under a tree. [Illustration: VIVIAN'S LAST CONFESSION] 'Ah! my God,' cried William, 'what sorrow for me! To the end of my life I shall mourn this day. Earth, do thou open and swallow me! Lady Gibourc, await me no longer, for never more shall I return to Orange!' So he lamented, grieving sore, till Vivian spoke to him. The Count was full of joy to hear his words, and, kneeling beside the youth, took him in his arms, and bade him, as no priest was there, confess his sins to him, as to his own father. One by one Vivian remembered them all, then a mist floated before his eyes, and, murmuring a farewell to the Lady Gibourc, his soul left the world. William laid him gently down on his shield, and took another shield for covering, and turned to mount his horse, but at this his heart failed him. 'Is it you, William, that men look to as their leader, and whom they call Fierbras, who will do this cowardly deed?' he said to himself, and he went back to his nephew's side, and lifted the body on to his horse, to bury it in his city of Orange. He had done what he could to give honour to Vivian, but he might as well, after all, have left him where he fell, for in a fierce combat with some Pagans on the road the Count was forced to abandon his nephew's body and fight for his own life. He knew the two Saracens well as brave men, but he soon slew one, and the other he unhorsed after a struggle. 'Come back, come back,' cried the Unbeliever; 'sell me your horse, for never did I behold his like! I will give you for him twice his weight in gold, and set free besides all your nephews that have been taken prisoners.' But William loved his horse, and would not have parted with him to Charles himself; so he cut off the Saracen's head with his sword, and mounted his horse Folatisse, taking the saddle and bridle off Bausant so that he might the more easily escape from the Pagans. At length, after fighting nearly every step of the way, he saw the towers of Orange before him, and his palace, Gloriette, where dwelt his wife, the Lady Gibourc. 'Ah, with what joy did I leave these walls,' he said to himself, 'and how many noble Knights have I lost since then! Oh! Gibourc, my wife, will you not go mad when you hear the tidings I have brought!' And, overcome with grief, the Count bowed his head on the neck of his horse. When he recovered himself he rode straight to the City Gate, and commanded the porter to let him in. 'Let down the drawbridge,' called he, 'and be quick, for time presses.' But he forgot that he had changed his own arms, and had taken instead those of Aeroflé the Saracen; therefore the porter, seeing a man with a shield and pennon and helmet that were strange to him, thought he was an enemy, and stood still where he was. 'Begone!' he said to William; 'if you approach one step nearer I will deal you a blow that will unhorse you! Begone, I tell you, and as quick as you can, or when William Short Nose returns from the Aliscans it will be the worse for you.' 'Fear nothing, friend,' replied the Count, 'for I am William himself. I went to the Aliscans to fight the Saracens, and to help Vivian; but all my men are dead, and I only am left to bring these evil tidings. So open the gates, for the Saracens are close behind.' 'You must wait a moment,' answered the porter, and he quitted the turret where he had been standing and hastened to the chamber of the Lady Gibourc. 'Noble Countess,' cried he, 'there knocks at the drawbridge a Knight in pagan armour, who seems fresh from battle, for his arms are bloody. He is tall of stature and bears himself proudly, and he says he is William Short Nose. I pray you, my lady, come with me and see him for yourself.' The face of Gibourc grew red when she heard the porter's words, and she left the Palace and mounted the battlements, where she called across the fosse, 'Warrior, what is your will?' 'Oh, lady!' answered he, 'open the gate, and that quickly. Twenty thousand Saracens are close upon my track; if they reach me, I am a dead man.' 'You cannot enter,' replied Gibourc. 'I am alone here except for this porter, a priest, a few children, and some ladies whose husbands are all at the war. Neither gate nor wicket will be opened until the return of my beloved lord, William the Count.' Then William bowed his head for a moment, and two tears ran down his cheeks. 'My lady, I am William himself,' said he. 'Do you not know me?' 'Infidel, you lie,' replied Gibourc. 'Take off your helmet, and let me see who you are!' But the Count in his thought felt the earth trembling under his feet from the steps of the accursed ones. 'Noble Countess,' cried he, 'this is no time to parley. Look round you! Is not every hill covered with Pagans?' 'Ah, now I know you are not William,' answered she, 'for all the Pagans in the world would never have stirred him with fear. By St. Peter! neither gate nor wicket shall be opened till I have seen your face. I am alone and must defend myself. The voices of many men are alike.' Then the Count lifted his helmet: 'Lady, look and be content. I am William himself. Now let me in.' Gibourc knew that it was indeed the Count who had returned, and was about to order the gates to be opened when there appeared in sight a troop of Saracens escorting two hundred prisoners, all of them young Knights, and thirty ladies with fair white faces. Each one was loaded with chains, and they cowered under the blows of their captors. Their cries and prayers for mercy reached the ears of Gibourc, and, changing her mind, she said quickly: 'There is the proof that you are not William my husband, the "Strong Arm," whose fame has spread far! For _he_ would never have suffered his brethren to be so shamefully entreated while he was by!' 'Heavens!' cried the Count, 'to what hard tests does she put me! But if I lose my head I will do her bidding, for what is there that I would _not_ do for the love of God and of her!' Without a word more he turned, and, relacing his helmet, spurred his horse at the Saracens with his lance in rest. So sudden and fierce was his attack that the foremost riders fell back on those behind, who were thrown into confusion, while William's sword swept him a path to the centre, where the prisoners stood bound. The Pagans expected the city gates to open and a body of Franks to come forth to destroy them, and without waiting another moment they turned and fled. Though the prisoners were free, William pursued the enemy hotly. 'Oh, fair lord!' called Gibourc, who from the battlements had watched the fight, 'come back, come back, for now indeed you may enter.' And William heard her voice, and left the Saracens to go where they would while he struck the chains off the prisoners, and led them to the gates of Orange, while he himself rode back to the Saracens. Not again would the Lady Gibourc have reason to call him coward. And Gibourc saw, and her heart swelled within her, and she repented her of her words. 'It is my fault if he is slain,' she wept. 'Oh, come back, come back!' And William came. Now the drawbridge was let down before him, and he entered the city followed by the Christians whom he had delivered, and the Countess unlaced his helmet, and bathed his wounds, and then stopped, doubting. 'You cannot be William after all,' said she, 'for William would have brought back the young kinsmen who went with him; and Guy and Vivian, and all the young Barons of the country side. And William would have been encircled by minstrels singing the great deeds he had done.' [Illustration: THE CAPTIVES William Short-nose rides to the rescue] 'Ah, noble Countess, you speak truth,' answered he. 'Henceforth my life will be spent in mourning, for my friends and comrades who went to war with me are lying dead at the Aliscans. Vivian is dead also, but Bertrand and Guy, Guichard the bold, and Gerard the brave, are captives in the Saracen camp.' Great was the sorrow in the city of Orange, great likewise was the sorrow in the palace of her lord, where the ladies of the Countess mourned for their husbands. But it was Gibourc herself who first dried her tears, and roused herself from her grief for Vivian and others whom she had loved well. 'Noble Count,' she said, 'do not lose your courage, and let the Infidels crush your spirit. Remember it is not near Orleans, in safety, that your lands lie, but in the very midst of the Saracens. Orange never will have peace till they are subdued. So send messengers to Paris, to your brother-in-law King Louis, and to your father Aimeri, asking for aid. Then march upon the Saracens, and rescue the captives that are in their hands before they are carried across the sea.' 'Heavens!' cried William, 'has the world ever seen so wise a lady?' 'Let no one turn you from your road,' she went on. 'At the news of your distress Ermengarde of Pavia, whom may God bless, and Aimeri with the white beard, and all the Barons that are your kin, will fly to your help. Their numbers are as the sands of the sea.' 'But how shall I make them believe in what has befallen us?' answered William. 'Gibourc, sweetheart, in France they would hold any man mad who brought such a message. If I do not go myself I will send nobody, and go myself I will not, for I will not leave you alone again for all the gold in Pavia.' 'Sir, you must go,' said Gibourc, weeping. 'I will stay here with my ladies, of whom there are plenty, and each will place a helmet on her head, and hang a shield round her neck, and buckle a sword to her side, and with the help of the Knights whom you have delivered we shall know how to defend ourselves if the Unbelievers should seek to take the city by assault.' William's heart bounded at her words; he took her in his arms, and promised that he himself would go, and more, that he would never lie soft nor eat delicately nor kiss the cheek of any lady, however fair, till he returned again to Orange. Thus William Short Nose set forth and the next day passed through Orleans. There he met with his brother Ernaut, who had ridden home from escorting King Louis back to Paris. Ernaut promised his help and that of his father and brothers, but counselled William to go to Laon, where a great feast would be held and many persons would be assembled. The Count followed Ernaut's counsel, but refused the troop of Knights and men-at-arms which Ernaut offered him, liking rather to ride alone. He made his entrance into Laon on Sunday, and the people laughed at him and made jests on his tall thin horse; but William let them laugh, and rode on until he reached the Palace. There he alighted under an olive tree, and, fastening his horse to one of the branches, took off his helmet and unbuckled his breastplate. The people stared as they passed by, but nobody spoke to him. Someone told the King that a strange man without a squire or even a man-at-arms was sitting before the Palace under an olive tree. The King's face grew dark as he heard their tale, for he loved to keep his gardens for his own pleasure. 'Sanson,' he called to one of his guards, 'go and find out who this stranger is and whence he comes, but beware of bringing him hither.' Sanson hastened to do his errand, and William answered, 'My name is one that is known to France. I am William Short Nose, and I come from Orange. My body is worn out with much riding; I pray you hold my horse until I have spoken to King Louis.' 'Noble Count,' replied Sanson, 'let me first return to the King and tell him who you are. And be not angry, I beseech you, for such are my orders.' 'Be quick, then, my friend,' said William, 'and do not neglect to tell the King that I am in great distress. This is the time to show his love for me; and if he truly does love me, let him come to meet me with the great lords of his Court. If he does not come, I have no other hope.' 'I will tell him what you say,' said Sanson, 'and if it rests with me you shall be content.' Then Sanson went back to the King. 'It is William, the famous William!' he said, 'and he wishes you to go out to meet him.' 'Never!' answered Louis. 'Will he always be a thorn in my side? Woe be to him who rejoices at his coming.' So the King sat still, and on the steps of the Palace there gathered Knights and Nobles in goodly numbers, and hardly one but wore a mantle of ermine or marten, a helmet set with precious stones, a sword or a shield which had been given him by William himself. But now they were rich and he was poor, so they mocked at him. 'My lords,' said William, 'you do ill to treat me so. I have loved you all, and you bear the tokens of my love about you at this moment. If I can give you no more gifts, it is because I have lost all I have in the world at the Aliscans. My men are dead, and my nephews are prisoners in the hands of the Saracens. It is the Lady Gibourc who bade me come here, and it is she who asks for help through me. Have pity on us, and help us.' But without a word, they rose up and went into the Palace, and William knew what their love was worth. The young men told Louis of the words that the Count had spoken, and the King rose and leaned out of the window. 'Sir William,' said he, 'go to the inn, and let them bathe your horse. You seem in a sorry plight, without a groom or esquire to help you.' William heard and vowed vengeance. But if the King and the courtiers had no hearts, in his need a friend came to him, Guimard, a citizen of Laon, who took the Count home and offered him rich food. But because of his vow to the Lady Gibourc, he would only eat coarse bread, and drink water from the spring; and as soon as it was light he rose up from his bed of fresh hay, and dressed himself. 'Where are you going?' asked his host. 'To the Palace, to entreat the aid of the King, and woe be to him who tries to stop me.' 'May God protect you, Sir,' answered Guimard. 'To-day the King crowns Blanchefleur, your sister, who no doubt loves you well. And he gives her the Vermandois for her dower, the richest land in all fair France, but a land that is never at peace.' 'Well,' said William, 'I will be present at the ceremony. Indeed they cannot do without me, for all France is under my care, and it is my right to bear her standard in battle. And let them beware how they move me to wrath, lest I depose the King of France and tear the crown from his head.' The Count placed a breastplate under his jerkin and hid his sword under his cloak. The gates of the Palace opened before him and he entered the vaulted hall. It was filled with the greatest nobles in the land, and ladies with rich garments of silk and gold. Lords and ladies both knew him, but not one gave him welcome--not even his sister, the Queen. His fingers played with his sword, and he had much ado not to use it. But while his wrath was yet kindling the heralds announced that his father Aimeri had come. The Lord of Narbonne stepped on to the grass with Ermengarde, his noble Countess, his four sons, and many servants. King Louis and the Queen hastened to meet them, and amid cries of joy they mounted the steps into the hall. Aimeri sat beside the King of Saint-Denis, and the Countess was seated next the Queen, while the Knights placed themselves on the floor of the hall. And William sat also, but alone and apart, nursing his anger. At last he rose, and, advancing to the middle of the floor, he said with a loud voice: 'Heaven protect my mother, my father, my brothers and my friends; but may His curse alight on my sister and on the King, who have no hearts, and have left me to be the butt of all the mockers of the Court. By all the Saints! were not my father sitting next him, this sword should ere now have cloven his skull.' The King listened, pale with fright, and the Queen wished herself at Paris or at Senlis. The rest whispered to each other, 'William is angry, something will happen!' When Ermengarde and Aimeri saw their son standing before them great joy filled their souls. They left their seats and flung themselves on his neck, and William's brother also ran to greet him. The Count told them how he had been vanquished at the Aliscans, how Vivian had been killed, and he himself had fled to Orange, and of the distress in which he had left Gibourc. 'It was at her bidding I came here to ask aid from Louis, the base King, but from the way he has treated me I see plainly that he has no heart. By St. Peter! he shall repent before I go, and my sister also.' The King heard and again waxed cold with fear; the nobles heard and whispered low, 'Who is strong enough to compass this matter? No man, be he the bravest in France, ever went to his help and came back to tell the tale. Let him abandon Orange, and let the King give him instead the Vermandois.' It was the Lady Ermengarde who broke the silence. 'O God,' she cried, 'to think that the Franks should be such cowards! And you, Sir Aimeri, has your courage failed you also? Have no fear, fair son William, I have still left gold that would fill thirty chariots, and I will give it to those who enrol themselves under your banner. I myself will don breastplate and shield, and will fight in the front rank of your army.' Aimeri smiled and sighed as he listened to her words, and his sons shed tears. William answered nothing, but remained standing in the middle of the hall, his eyes fixed on his sister sitting on her throne, with a small golden crown upon her head, and on her husband King Louis. 'This, then, O King, is the reward of all I have done! When Charlemagne your father died, and all the Barons of the Empire met at Paris, you would have lost your crown if I had not forced them to place it upon your head.' 'That is true,' answered the King, 'and in remembrance of your services I will to-day bestow on you a fief.' 'Yes,' cried Blanchefleur, 'and no doubt will deprive me of one. A nice agreement, truly! Woe to him who dares carry it out.' 'Be silent, woman without shame!' said William. 'Every word you speak proclaims the depth of your baseness! You pass your days wrapped in rich clothing, eating costly food, and drinking rare wines, and little you care that we endure heat and cold, hunger and thirst, and suffer wounds and death so that your life may be easy.' Then he bounded forwards and tore off the crown, and, drawing his sword, would have cut off her head had not Ermengarde wrenched the weapon from his hands. Before he could seize it again the Queen darted away and took refuge in her chamber, where she fell fainting on the floor. It was her daughter Alix, the fair and the wise, who raised her up and brought her back to consciousness; then heard with shame the tale she had to tell. 'How could you speak so to my uncle, the best man that ever wore a sword?' asked Alix. 'It was he who made you Queen of France, and the words that you uttered must have been taught you by devils.' 'Yes, my daughter, you say truth,' answered the Queen, 'I have done ill, and if it rests with me I will make peace with my brother'; and she wept over her wicked speech, while Alix, red and white as the roses in May, went down into the hall, where the Franks were still whispering together, and calling curses on the head of William. They all rose as the maiden entered; Aimeri, her grandfather, took her in his arms, and her four uncles kissed her cheek. Her presence seemed to calm the anger and trouble which before had reigned throughout the hall, and Ermengarde flung herself at William's feet and besought his pardon for the Queen. William raised his mother from her knees, but his anger was not soothed. 'I have no love for the King,' he said, 'and before night I will break his pride,' and he stood where he had been always standing, his face red with wrath, leaning on his naked sword. Not a sound was heard, and the eyes of all were fixed breathlessly upon William. Then in her turn Alix stepped forward and knelt at his feet. 'Punish me in my mother's place,' said she, 'and cut off my head if you will, or send me into exile, but let there be peace, I pray you, between you and my father and mother. Her ill words towards you did not come from her heart, but were put into her mouth by devils.' At the voice of Alix William's wrath melted, but at first he would promise nothing. 'Fair son William,' said Ermengarde again, 'be content. The King will do what you desire, and will aid you to the uttermost.' 'Yes, I will aid you,' answered the King. So peace was made, the Queen was fetched, and they all sat down to a great feast. In this manner the pride of the King was broken. [Illustration: The Lady Alix stays the wrath of William-Shortnose] But when one man is shifty and another is hasty wrath is not apt to slumber long, and treaties of peace are easier made than kept. When the feast was over William pressed King Louis to prepare an army at once, so that no time might be lost in giving battle to the Infidels, but the King would bind himself to nothing. 'We will speak of it again,' said he; 'I will tell you to-morrow whether I will go or not.' At this answer William grew red with rage, and holding out a wand he said to the King, 'I give you back your fief. I will take nothing from you, and henceforth will neither be your friend nor your vassal.' 'Keep your fief,' said Ernaut to his brother, 'and leave the King to do as he will. I will help you and my brothers also, and between us twenty thousand men shall march to the Aliscans, and deal death to any Infidels we shall find there.' 'You speak weak words,' cried Aimeri; 'he is Seneschal of France, and also her Standard Bearer; he has a right to our help, and if that fails a right to vengeance.' And Alix approved of his saying, and the Queen likewise. The King saw that none was on his side and from fear of Aimeri and of his sons he dared refuse no longer. 'Count William, for love of you I will call together my army, and a hundred thousand men shall obey your commands. But I myself will not go with you, for my kingdom needs me badly.' 'Remain, Sire,' answered William, 'I myself will lead the host.' And the King sent out his messengers, and soon a vast army was gathered under the walls of Laon. It was on one of these days when the Count stood in the great hall that there entered from the kitchen a young man whom he had never seen before. The youth, whose name was Rainouart, was tall; strong as a wild boar, and swift as a deer. The scullions and grooms had played off jests upon him during the night, but had since repented them sorely, for he had caught the leaders up in his arms and broken their heads against the walls. The rest, eager to avenge their comrades' death, prepared to overcome him with numbers, and in spite of his strength it might have gone ill with Rainouart had not Aimeri de Narbonne, hearing the noise, forbade more brawling. Count William was told of the unseemly scuffle, and asked the King who and what the young man was who could keep at bay so many of his fellows. 'I bought him once at sea,' said Louis, 'and paid a hundred marks for him. They pretend that he is the son of a Saracen, but he will never reveal the name of his father. Not knowing what to do with him, I sent him to the kitchen.' 'Give him to me, King Louis,' said William, smiling, 'I promise you he shall have plenty to eat.' 'Willingly,' answered the King. Far off in the kitchen Rainouart knew nothing of what was passing between the King and the Count, and his soul chafed at the sound of the horses' hoofs, and at the scraps of talk he heard let fall by the Knights, who were seeing to the burnishing of their armour before they started to fight the Unbelievers. 'To think,' he said to himself, 'that I, who am of right King of Spain, should be loitering here, heaping logs on the fire and skimming the pot. But let King Louis look to himself! Before a year is past I will snatch the crown from his head.' When the army had finished its preparations and was ready to march he made up his mind what to do, and it was thus that he sought out William in the great hall. 'Noble Count, let me come with you, I implore you. I can help to look after the horses and cook the food, and if at any time blows are needed I can strike as well as any man.' 'Good fellow,' answered William, who wished to try what stuff he was made of, 'you dream idle dreams! How could you, who have passed your days in the warmth of the kitchen, sleeping on the hearth when you were not busy turning the spit--how could you bear all the fatigue of war, the long fasts, and the longer watches? Before a month had passed you would be dead by the roadside!' [Illustration: ALIX KISSES RAINOUART] 'Put me to the proof,' said he, 'and if you will not have me I will go alone to the Aliscans, and fight barefoot. My only weapon will be an iron-bound staff, and I promise you it shall kill as many Saracens as the best sword among you all.' 'Come then,' answered the Count. The next morning the army set forth, and Alix and the Queen Blanchefleur watched them go from the steps of the Palace. When Alix saw Rainouart stepping proudly along with his heavy staff on his shoulder her heart stirred, and she said to her mother, 'See, what a goodly young man! In the whole army there is not one like him! Let me bid him farewell, for nevermore shall I see his match.' 'Peace! my daughter,' answered the Queen, 'I hope indeed that he may never more return to Laon.' But Alix took no heed of her mother's words, but signed to Rainouart to draw near. Then Alix put her arms round his neck, and said, 'Brother, you have been a long time at Court, and now you are going to fight under my uncle's banner. If ever I have given you pain, I ask your pardon.' After that she kissed him, and bade him go. At Orleans William took leave of his father Count Aimeri and his mother Ermengarde, the noble Countess, who returned to their home at Narbonne, and also of his brothers, who promised to return to meet William under the walls of Orange, which they did faithfully. He himself led his army by a different road, and pressed on quickly till he came in sight of his native city. But little of it could he see, for a great smoke covered all the land, rising up from the burning towers which the Saracens had that morning set on fire. Enter the city they could not, for Gibourc and her ladies held it firm, and, armed with helmets and breastplates, flung stones upon the head of any Saracen who appeared on the walls. So the Unbelievers fell back and took the way to the Aliscans, there to build as quickly as they might an engine to bring up against the tower and overthrow it. When William beheld the smoke, and whence it came, he cried 'Orange is burning! Holy Saint Mary, Gibourc is carried captive! To arms! To arms!' And he spurred his horse to Orange, Rainouart running by his side. From her tower Gibourc saw through the smoke a thousand banners waving and the sparkle of armour, and heard the sound of the horses' hoofs, and it seemed to her that the Infidels were drawing near anew. 'Oh, William!' cried she, 'have you really forgotten me? Noble Count, you linger overlong! Never more shall I look upon your face.' And so saying she fell fainting on the floor. But something stirred the pulses of Gibourc, and she soon sat up again, and there at the gate was William the Count, with Rainouart behind him. 'Fear nothing, noble lady,' said he, 'it is the army of France that I have brought with me. Open, and welcome to us!' The news seemed so good to Gibourc that she could not believe it, and she bade the Count unlace his helmet, so that she might indeed be sure that it was he. William did her bidding, then like an arrow she ran to the gate and let down the drawbridge, and William stepped across it and embraced her tenderly. Then he ordered his army to take up its quarters in the city. Gibourc's eyes had fallen upon Rainouart, who had passed her on his way to the kitchen, where he meant to leave his stout wooden staff. 'Tell me,' said she to the Count, 'who is that young man who bears lightly on his shoulder that huge piece of wood which would weigh down a horse? He is handsome and well made. Where did you find him?' 'Lady,' answered William, 'he was given me by the King.' 'My Lord,' said Gibourc, 'be sure you see that he is honourably treated. He looks to me to be of high birth. Has he been baptized?' 'No, Madam, he is not a Christian. He was brought from Spain as a child, and kept for seven years in the kitchen. But take him, I pray you, under your protection, and do with him as you will.' The Count was hungry, and while waiting for dinner to be served he stood with Gibourc at the windows which looked out beyond the city. An army was drawing near; thousands of men, well mounted and freshly equipped. 'Gibourc!' cried the Count joyfully, 'here is my brother Ernaut de Gironde, with his vassals. Now all the Saracens in the world shall not prevent Bertrand from being delivered to-morrow.' 'No,' answered Gibourc, 'nor Vivian from being avenged.' On all sides warriors began to arrive, led by the fathers of those who had been taken prisoners with Bertrand, and with them came Aimeri de Narbonne and the brothers of William. Glad was the heart of the Count as he bade them welcome to his Palace of Gloriette, and ordered a feast to be made ready, and showed each Knight where he should sit. It was late before the supper was served, but when every man had his trencher filled Rainouart entered the hall, armed with his staff, and stood leaning against a pillar, watching the noble company. 'Sir,' said Aimeri, the man whom the Saracens most dreaded, 'who is it that I see standing there holding a piece of wood that five peasants could hardly lift? Does he mean to murder us?' 'That youth,' replied William, 'is a gift to me from King Louis. None living is as strong as he.' Then Aimeri called Rainouart, and bade him sit at his side, and eat and drink as he would. 'Noble Count,' said Aimeri, 'such men grow not on every bush. Keep him and cherish him, and bring him with you to the Aliscans. For with his staff he will slay many Pagans.' 'Yes,' answered Rainouart, 'wherever I appear the Pagans will fall dead at the sight of me.' Aimeri and William laughed to hear him, but ere four days were past they had learnt what he was worth. Rainouart went back to the kitchen and slept soundly, but as he had drunk much wine the cooks and scullions thought to play jokes upon him, and lighted some wooden shavings with which to burn his moustache. At the first touch of the flame Rainouart leapt to his feet, seized the head cook by his legs, flung him on to the blazing fire, and turned for another victim, but they had all fled. At daybreak they went to William to complain of the death of their chief, and to pray for vengeance on his murderer. If the Count would not forbid him the kitchen, not a morsel of food would they cook. But William only laughed at their threats, and said, 'Beware henceforth how you meddle with Rainouart, or it will cost you dear. Did I not forbid anyone to mock at him, and do you dare to disobey my orders? Lady Gibourc, take Rainouart to your chamber, and keep him beside you.' So the Countess went to the kitchen to look for Rainouart and found him sitting on a bench, his head leaning against his staff. She sat down by him and said graciously, 'Brother, come with me. I will give you my ermine pelisse and a mantle of marten, and we will have some talk together.' 'Willingly,' answered Rainouart, 'the more as I can hardly keep my hands off these low-born scoundrels.' He followed Gibourc to her room, and then she questioned him about himself and the days of his childhood. 'Have you brothers or sisters?' asked she. [Illustration: THE LADY GIBOURC WITH RAINOUART IN THE KITCHEN] 'Yes,' he answered, 'beyond the sea I have a brother who is a King, and a sister who is more beautiful than a fairy,' and as he spoke he bent his head. Something in her heart told Gibourc that this might be her brother, but she only asked again, 'Where do you come from?' 'Lady,' he replied, 'I will answer that question the day I come back from the battle which William shall have won, thanks to my aid.' Gibourc kept silence, but she opened a chest and drew from it a white breastplate that had belonged to the Emir Tournefer, her uncle, which was so finely wrought that no sword could pierce it. Likewise a helmet of steel and a sword that could cut through iron more easily than a scythe cuts grass. 'My friend,' she said, 'buckle this sword to your left side. It may be useful to you.' Rainouart took the sword and drew it from its scabbard, but it seemed so light that he threw it down again. 'Lady,' he cried, 'what good can such a plaything do me? But with my staff between my hands there is not a Pagan that can stand up against me, and if one escapes then let Count William drive me from his door.' At this Gibourc felt sure this was indeed her brother, but she did not yet like to ask him more questions, and in her joy and wonder she began to weep. 'Lady Countess,' said Rainouart, 'do not weep. As long as my staff is whole William shall be safe.' 'My friend, may Heaven protect you,' she answered, 'but a man without armour is soon cut down; one blow will be his death. So take these things and wear them in battle,' and she laced on the helmet, and buckled the breastplate, and fastened the sword on his thigh. 'If your staff breaks, it may serve you,' said she. Rainouart's heart was proud indeed when the armour was girded on him, and he sat himself down well pleased at William's table. The Knights vied with each other in pouring him out bumpers of wine, and after dinner every man tried to lift his iron-bound staff, but none could raise it from the ground, except William himself, who by putting forth all his strength lifted it the height of a foot. 'Let me aid you,' said Rainouart, and catching it up he whirled it round his head, throwing it lightly from hand to hand. 'We are wasting time,' he went on. 'I fear lest the Pagans should fly before we come up with them. If I only have the chance to make them feel the weight of my staff, I shall soon sweep the battle-field clean.' And William embraced him for these words, and ordered the trumpets to be sounded and the army to march. From her window Gibourc watched them go. She saw the Knights, each with his following, stream out into the plain, their banners floating on the wind, their helmets shining in the sun, their shields glittering with gold. She heard their horses neigh with delight, as they snuffed up the air, and she prayed God to bless all this noble host. After two days' march they came within sight of the Aliscans, but for five miles round the country was covered by the Pagan army. William perceived that some of his men quailed at the number of the foe, so he turned and spoke to his soldiers. 'My good lords,' he said, 'a fearful battle awaits us, and we must not give way an inch. If any man feels afraid let him go back to his own land. This is no place for cowards.' The cowards heard joyfully, and without shame took the road by which they had come. They spurred their horses and thought themselves safe, but they rejoiced too soon. At the mouth of a bridge Rainouart met them, and he took them for Pagans who were flying for their lives. But when he saw that they were part of the Christian host he raised his staff and barred their passage. 'Where are you going?' asked he. 'To France, for rest,' answered the cowards; 'the Count has dismissed us, and when we reach our homes we shall bathe ourselves and have good cheer, and see to the rebuilding of our castles, which have fallen into ill-repair during the wars. With William one has to bear pains without end, and at the last to die suffering. Come with us, if you are a wise man.' [Illustration: RAINOUART STOPS THE COWARDS] 'Ask someone else,' said Rainouart; 'Count William has given me the command of the army, and it is to him that I have to render account. Do you think I shall let you run away like hares? By Saint Denis! not another step shall you stir!' And, swinging his staff round his head, he laid about him. Struck dumb with terror at the sight of their comrades falling rapidly round them they had no mind to go on, and cried with one voice, 'Sir Rainouart, we will return and fight with you in the Aliscans; you shall lead us whither you will.' So they turned their horses' heads and rode the way they had come, and Rainouart followed, keeping guard over them with his staff. When they reached the army he went straight to William, and begged that he might have the command of them. 'I will change them into a troop of lions,' said he. Harsh words and gibes greeted the cowards, but Rainouart soon forced the mockers to silence. 'Leave my men alone!' he cried, 'or by the faith I owe to Gibourc I will make you. I am a King's son, and the time has come to show you what manner of man I am. I have idled long, but I will idle no longer. I am of the blood royal, and the saying is true that good blood cannot lie.' 'How well he speaks!' whispered the Franks to each other, for they dared not let their voices be heard. Now the battle was to begin, for the two armies were drawn up in fighting array, and Rainouart took his place at the head of his cowards opposite the Saracens, from which race he sprang. The charge was sounded, and the two armies met with a shock, and many a man fell from his horse and was trampled under foot. 'Narbonne! Narbonne!' shouted Aimeri, advancing within reach of a crossbow shot, and he would have been slain had not his sons dashed to his rescue. Count William did miracles, and the Saracens were driven so far back that Rainouart feared that the battle would be ended before he had struck a blow. Followed by his troop of cowards Rainouart made straight for the enemy, and before him they fell as corn before a sickle. 'Strike, soldiers,' shouted he; 'strike and avenge the noble Vivian; woe to the King Desramé if he crosses my path.' And a messenger came and said to Desramé, 'It is Rainouart with the iron staff, the strongest man in the world.' Rainouart and his cowards pressed on and on, and the Saracens fell back, step by step, till they reached the sea, where their ships were anchored. Then Rainouart drove his staff in the sand, and by its help swung himself on board a small vessel, which happened to be the very one in which the nephews of William were imprisoned. He laid about him right and left with his staff, till he had slain all the gaolers, and at last he came to a young man whose eyes were bandaged and his feet tied together. 'Who are you?' asked Rainouart. 'I am Bertrand of France, nephew of William Short Nose. Four months ago I was taken captive by the Pagans, and if, as I think, they carry me into Arabia, then may God have pity on my soul, for it is all over with my body.' 'Sir Count,' answered Rainouart, 'for love of William I will deliver you.' Bertrand was set free and his companions also. Seizing the weapons of the dead Saracens, they scrambled on shore, and, while fighting for their lives, looked about for their uncle, whom they knew at last by the sweep of his sword, which kept a clean space round him. More than once Rainouart swept back fresh foes that were pressing forwards till the tide of battle carried him away and brought him opposite Desramé the King. 'Who are you?' asked Desramé, struck by his face, for there was nothing royal in his dress or his arms. 'I am Rainouart, vassal of William whom I love, and if you do hurt to him I will do hurt to you also.' 'Rainouart, I am your father,' cried Desramé, and he besought him to forswear Christianity and to become a follower of Mahomet; but Rainouart turned a deaf ear, and challenged him to continue the combat. Desramé was no match for his son, and was soon struck from his horse. 'Oh, wretch that I am,' said Rainouart to himself, 'I have slain my brothers and wounded my father--it is my staff which has done all this evil,' and he flung it far from him. He would have been wiser to have kept it, for in a moment three giants surrounded him, and he had only his fists with which to beat them back. Suddenly his hand touched the sword buckled on him by Gibourc, which he had forgotten, and he drew it from its scabbard, and with three blows clove the heads of the giants in twain. Meanwhile King Desramé took refuge in the only ship that had not been sunk by the Christians, and spread its sails. 'Come back whenever you like, fair father,' called Rainouart after him. The fight was over; the Saracens acknowledged that they were beaten, and the booty they had left behind them was immense. The army, wearied with the day's toil, lay down to sleep, but before midnight Rainouart was awake and trumpets called to arms. 'Vivian must be buried,' said he, 'and then the march to Orange will begin.' Rainouart rode at the head, his sword drawn, prouder than a lion; and as he went along a poor peasant threw himself before him, asking for vengeance on some wretches who had torn up a field of beans which was all he had with which to feed his family. Rainouart ordered the robbers to be brought before him and had them executed. Then he gave to the peasant their horses and their armour in payment of the ruined beans. 'Ah, it has turned out a good bargain for me,' said the peasant. 'Blessed be the hour when I sowed such a crop.' William entered into his Palace, where a great feast was spread for the visitors, but one man only remained outside the walls, and that was Rainouart, of whom no one thought in the hour of triumph. His heart swelled with bitterness as he thought of the blows he had given, and the captives he had set free, and, weeping with anger, he turned his face towards the Aliscans. On the road some Knights met him, and asked him whither he was going and why he looked so sad. Then his wrath and grief burst out, and he told how he mourned that ever he had slain a man in William's cause, and that he was now hastening to serve under the banner of Mahomet, and would shortly return with a hundred thousand men behind him, and would avenge himself on France and her King. Only towards Alix would he show any pity! In vain the Knights tried to soften his heart, it was too sore to listen. So they rode fast to Orange and told the Count what Rainouart had said. 'I have done him grievous wrong,' answered William, and ordered twenty Knights to ride after him. But the Knights were received with threats and curses, and came back to Orange faster than they had left it, thinking that Rainouart was at their heels. William smiled when he heard the tale of his messengers, and bade them bring his horse, and commanded that a hundred Knights should follow him, and prayed Gibourc to ride at his side. They found Rainouart entering a vessel whose sails were already spread, and all William's entreaties would have availed nothing had not Gibourc herself implored his forgiveness. 'I am your brother,' cried Rainouart, throwing himself on her neck; 'I may confess it now, and for you I will pardon the Count's ingratitude and never more will I remind you of it.' There was great joy in Orange when William rode through the gates with Rainouart beside him, and the next day the Count made him his Seneschal, and he was baptized. Then William sent his brothers on an embassy to the King in Paris, to beg that he would bestow the hand of Princess Alix on Rainouart, son of King Desramé and brother of Lady Gibourc. And when the embassy returned Alix returned with it, and the marriage took place with great splendour; but to the end of his life, whenever Rainouart felt cold, he warmed himself in the kitchen. WAYLAND THE SMITH _WAYLAND THE SMITH_ Far up to the north of Norway and Sweden, looking straight at the Pole, lies the country of Finmark. It is very cold and very bare, and for half the year very dark; but inside its stony mountains are rich stores of metals, and the strong, ugly men of the country spent their lives in digging out the ore and in working it. Like many people who dwell in mountains, they saw and heard strange things, which were unknown to the inhabitants of the lands to the south. Now in Finmark there were three brothers whose names were Slagfid, Eigil, and Wayland, all much handsomer and cleverer than their neighbours. They had some money of their own, but this did not prevent them working as hard as anyone else; and as they were either very clever or very lucky, they were soon in a fair way to grow rich. One day they went to a new part of the mountains which was yet untouched, and began to throw up the earth with their pick-axes; but instead of the iron they expected to see they found they had lighted upon a mine of gold. This discovery pleased them greatly and their blows became stronger and harder, for the gold was deep in the rock and it was not easy to get it out. At last a huge lump rolled out at their feet, and when they picked it up they saw three stones shining in it, one red and one blue and one green. They took it home to their mother, who began to weep bitterly at the sight of it. 'What is the matter?' asked her sons anxiously, for they knew things lay open to her which were hidden from others. 'Ah, my sons,' she said as soon as she could speak, 'you will have much happiness, but I shall be forced to part with you. Therefore I shed tears, for I hoped that only death would divide us! Green is the grass, blue is the sky, red are the roses, golden is the maiden. The Norns' (for so in that country they called the Fates) 'beckon you to a land where green fields lie under a blue sky, fields where golden-haired maidens lie among the flowers.' Great was the joy of the three brothers when they heard the words of their mother; for they hated the looks of the women who dwelt about them, and longed for the tall stature and white skins of the maidens of the south. Next morning they rose early and buckled on their swords and coats of mail, and fastened on their heads helmets that they had made the day before from the lump of gold. In the centre of Slagfid's helmet was the green stone, and in the centre of Eigil's was the blue stone, and in the centre of Wayland's was the red stone; and when they were ready they put their reindeer into their sledges, and set out over the snow. When they reached the mountains where only yesterday they had been digging they saw by the light of the moon a host of little men running to meet them. They were dressed all in grey, except for their caps, which were red; they had red eyes, too, and black tongues, which never ceased chattering. These were the mountain elves, and when they came near they formed themselves into a fairy ring, and sang while they danced round it: Will you leave us? Will you leave us? Slagfid, Eigil, and Wayland, sons of a King. Is not the emerald better than grass? Is not the ruby better than roses? Is not the sapphire better than the sky? Why do you leave the mountains of Finmark? [Illustration: The Three Women By The Stream] But Eigil was impatient and struck his reindeer, that willing beast which flies like the wind and needs not the touch of a whip. It bounded forward in surprise, and knocked down one of the elves that stood in its path. But the hands of his brothers laid hold of the reins, and stopped the reindeer, and sang again, The Finlander's world, the Finlander's joy, Lies under the earth; Seek not without what we offer within, Despise not the elves, small and dark though they be. The best is within, do not seek it without: The Finlander's world, the Finlander's joy, Lies under the earth. Slagfid struck his reindeer. It bounded forward and struck down an elf who stood in its road. Then his brothers stood in its path, and stopped the reindeer, and sang: Because Slagfid struck his reindeer, Because Eigil struck his reindeer, Our hatred shall follow you. A time of weal, a time of woe, a time of grief, a time of joy. Because Wayland also forsook us, Though he struck not the reindeer, A time of weal, a time of woe, a time of grief, a time of joy. Farewell, O Finlanders, sons of a King. Their voices died away as they crossed a bright strip of moonlight which lay between them and the mountains and were seen no more. The brothers thought no more about them or their words, but went swiftly on their way south, sleeping at night in their reindeer skins. After many days they came to a lake full of fish, in a place which was called the Valley of Wolves, because of the number of wolves which hid there. But the Finlanders did not mind the wolves, and built a house close to the lake, and hunted bears, and caught fish through holes in the ice, till winter had passed away and spring had come. Then one day they noticed that the sky was blue and the earth covered with flowers. By-and-by they noticed something more, and that was that three maidens were sitting on the grass, spinning flax on the bank of a stream. Their eyes were blue, and their skins were white as the snow on the mountains, while instead of the mantles of swansdown they generally wore, golden hair covered their shoulders. The hearts of the brothers beat as they looked on the maidens, who were such as they had often dreamed of, but had never seen; and as they drew near they found to their surprise that the maidens were dressed each in red, green, and blue garments, and the meadow was so thickly dotted with yellow flowers that it seemed as if it were a mass of solid gold. 'Hail, noble princes! Hail, Slagfid, Eigil, and Wayland,' sang the maidens. Swanvite, Alvilda, and Alruna are sent by the Norns, To bring joy to the princes of Finland. Then the tongues of the young men were unloosed, and Slagfid married Swanvite, Eigil Alruna, and Wayland Alvilda. For nine years they all lived on the shores of the lake, and no people in the world were as happy as these six: till one morning the three wives stood before their husbands and said with weeping eyes: 'Dear lords, the time has now come when we must bid you farewell, for we are not allowed to stay with you any longer. We are Norns--or, as some call us, Valkyrie. Nine years of joy are granted to us, but these are paid for by nine years during which we hover round the combatants on every field of battle. But bear your souls in patience, for on earth all things have an end, and in nine years we will return to be your wives as before.' 'But we shall be getting old then,' answered the brothers, 'and you will have forgotten us. Stay now, we pray you, for we love you well.' '_We_ are not mortals to grow old,' said the Norns, 'and true love does not grow old either. Still, we do not wish you to fall sick with grieving, so we leave you these three keys, with which you may open the mountain, and busy yourselves by digging out the treasures it contains. By the time the nine years are over you will have become rich men, and men of renown.' So they laid down the keys and vanished. For a long while the young men only left their houses to seek for food, so dreary had the Valley of Wolves become. At last Slagfid and Eigil could bear it no longer, and declared they would travel through the whole world till they found their wives; but Wayland, the youngest, determined to stay at home. 'You would do much better to remain where you are,' said he. 'You do not know in which direction to look for them, and it is useless to seek on earth for those who fly through the air. You will only lose yourselves, and starve, and when the nine years are ended who can tell where you may be?' But his words fell on deaf ears; for Slagfid and Eigil merely filled their wallets with food and their horns with drink, and prepared to take leave of their brother. Wayland embraced them weeping, for he feared that he would never more see them, and once again he implored them to give up their quest. Slagfid and Eigil only shook their heads. 'We have no rest, night or day, without them,' they said, and they begged him to look after their property till they came back again. Wayland saw that more words would be wasted, so he walked with them to the edge of the forest, where their ways would part. Then Slagfid said, 'Our fathers, when they went a journey, left behind them a token by which it might be known whether they were dead or alive, and I will do so also.' So he stamped heavily on the soft ground, and added, 'As long as this footmark remains sharp and clear, I shall be safe. If it is filled with water I shall be drowned; if with blood, I shall have fallen in battle. But if it is filled with earth an illness will have killed me, and I shall lie under the ground.' Thus he did, and Eigil did likewise. Then they cut stout sticks to aid their journeys, and went their ways. Wayland stood gazing after them as long as they were in sight, then he went sadly home. Slagfid and Eigil walked steadily on through the day, and when evening came they reached a stream bordered with trees, where they took off their golden helmets and sat down to rest and eat. They had gone far that day and were tired, and drank somewhat heavily, so that they knew not what they did. 'If I lose my Swanvite,' said Slagfid, 'I am undone. She is the fairest woman that sun ever looked on, or that man ever loved.' 'It is a lie,' answered Eigil. 'I know one lovelier still, and her name is Alruna. Odin does not love Freya so fondly as Eigil adores her.' 'It is no lie,' cried Slagfid, 'and may shame fall on him who slanders me.' 'And I,' answered Eigil, 'stand to what I have said, and declare that you are the liar.' At this they both drew their swords and fell fighting, till Slagfid struck Eigil's helmet so hard that the jewel flew into a thousand pieces, while Eigil himself fell backwards into the river. Slagfid stood still, leaning on his sword and looking at the river into which his brother had fallen. Suddenly the trees behind him rustled, and a voice came out of them, saying, 'A time of weal, a time of woe, a time of tears, a time of death'; and though he could see nothing he remembered the mountain elves, and thought how true their prophecy had been. 'I have slain my brother,' he said to himself, 'my wife has forsaken me; I am miserable and alone. What shall I do? Go back to Wayland, or follow Eigil into the river? No. After all I may find my wife. The Norns do not always bring misfortune.' [Illustration: Slagfid pursues the Wraith over the Mountains] As he spoke a light gleamed in the darkness of the night, and, looking up, Slagfid saw it was shed by a bright star which seemed to be drawing nearer to the earth, and the nearer it drew the more its shape seemed to change into a human figure. Then Slagfid knew that it was his wife Swanvite floating just over his head and encircled by a rim of clear green light. He could not speak for joy, but held out his arms to her. She beckoned to him to follow her, and, drawing out a lute, played on it, and Slagfid, flinging away his sword and coat of mail, began to climb the mountain. Half way up it seemed to him as if a hand from behind was pulling him back, and turning he fancied he beheld his mother and heard her say, 'My son, seek not after vain shadows, which yet may be your ruin. Strive not against the will of Odin, nor against the Norns.' The words caused Slagfid to pause for a moment, then the figure of Swanvite danced before him and beckoned to him again, and his mother was forgotten. There were rivers to swim, precipices to climb, chasms to leap, but he passed them all gladly till at last he noticed that the higher he got the less the figure seemed like Swanvite. He felt frightened and tried to turn back, but he could not. On he had to go, till just as he reached the top of the mountain the first rays of the sun appeared above the horizon, and he saw that, instead of Swanvite, he had followed a black elf. He paused and looked over the green plain that lay thousands of feet below him, cool and inviting after the stony mountain up which he had come. 'A time of death,' whispered the black elf in his ear, and Slagfid flung himself over the precipice. * * * * * After his brothers had forsaken him Wayland went to bed lonely and sad; but the next morning he got up and looked at the three keys that the Norns had left behind them. One was of copper, one was of iron, and one was of gold. Taking up the copper one, he walked to the mountain till he reached a flat wall of rock. He laid his key against it, and immediately the mountain flew open and showed a cave where everything was green. Green emeralds studded the rocks, green crystals hung from the ceiling or formed rows of pillars, even the copper which made the walls of the cave had a coating of green. Wayland broke off a huge projecting lump and left the cave, which instantly closed up so that not a crack remained to tell where the opening had been. He carried the lump home, and put it into the fire till all the earth and stones which clung to it were burned away; and then he fashioned the pure copper into a helmet, and in the front of the helmet he set three of his largest emeralds. This occupied some days, and when it was done he took the iron key, and went to another mountain, and laid the key against the rock, which flew open like the other one. But now the walls were of iron, which shone like blue steel, while sapphires glittered in the midst. From an opening above, the blue of the sky was reflected in the river beneath, and gentians and other blue flowers grew along the edge. Wayland gazed with wonder at all these things; then he broke off a piece of the iron, and carried it home with him. For many days after he busied himself in forging a sword that was so supple he could wind it round his body, and so sharp it could cut through a rock as if it had been a stick. In the handle and in the sheath he set some of the finest sapphires that he had brought away with him. When all was finished he laid the sword aside, and returned to the mountain, with the golden key. This time the mountain parted, and he saw before him an archway, with a glimpse of the sea in the distance. Before the entrance roses were lying, and inside the golden walls sparkled with rubies, while branches of red coral filled every crevice. Vines clambered about the pillars, and bore large bunches of red grapes. Wayland stood long, looking at these marvels; then he plucked some of the grapes, broke off a lump of gold, and set out home again. Next day he began to make himself a golden breastplate, and in it he placed the jewels, and it was so bright that you could have seen the glitter a mile off. After he had tried all the three keys, and found out the secrets of the mountain, Wayland felt dull, and as if he had nothing to do or to think about. So his mind went back to his brothers, and he wondered how they had fared all this time. The first thing he did was to go to the edge of the forest, and see if he could find the two footprints they had left. He soon arrived at the spot where they had taken farewell of each other, but a blue pool of water covered the trace of Eigil's foot. He turned to look at the impression made by Slagfid, but fresh green grass had sprung up over it, and on a birch-tree near it a bird had perched, which sang a mournful song. Then Wayland knew that his brothers were dead, and he returned to his hut, grieving sore. * * * * * It was a long time before Wayland could bring himself to go out, so great was his sorrow; but at last he roused himself from his misery, and went to the mountain for more gold, meaning to work hard till the nine years should be over and he should get his wife back again. All day long he stood in his forge, smelting and hammering, till he had made hundreds of suits of armour and thousands of swords, and his fame travelled far, so that all men spoke of his industry. At last he grew tired of making armour, and hammered a number of gold rings, which he strung on strips of bark, and as he hammered he thought of Alvilda his wife, and how the rings would gleam on her arms when once she came back again. Now at this time Nidud the Little reigned over Sweden, and was hated by his people, for he was vain and cowardly and had many other bad qualities. It came to his ears that away in the forests lived a man who was very rich, and worked all day long in pure gold. The King was one of those people who could not bear to see anyone with things which he did not himself possess, and he began to make plans how to get hold of Wayland's wealth. At length he called together his chief counsellors, and said to them: 'I hear a man has come to my kingdom who is called Wayland, famous in many lands for his skill in sword-making. I have set men to inquire after him, and I have found that when first he came here he was poor and of no account, so he must have grown rich either by magic or else by violence. I command, therefore, that my stoutest men-at-arms should buckle on their iron breastplates and ride in the dead of night to Wayland's house, and seize his goods and his person.' 'King Nidud,' answered one of the courtiers, 'that you should take himself and his goods is well, but why send a troop of soldiers against one man? If he is no sorcerer, then a single one of your soldiers could take him captive; but if, on the other hand, he is a magician, then a whole army could do nothing with him against his will.' At this reply the King flew in a rage, and, snatching up a sword, ran it through his counsellor's body; then, turning to the rest, told them that they would suffer the same fate if they refused to submit to his will. So the men-at-arms put on all their armour, and, mounting their horses, set forth at sunset to Wayland's house, King Nidud riding at their head. The door stood wide open, and they entered quietly, in deadly fear lest Wayland should attack them. But no one was inside, and they looked about, their eyes dazzled by the gold on the walls. The King gazed with wonder and delight at the long string of golden rings, and, slipping the finest off a strip of bark, placed it on his finger. At that moment steps were heard in the outer court, and the King hastily desired his followers to hide themselves and not to stir till he signed to them to do so. In another moment Wayland stood in the doorway, carrying on his shoulders a bear which he had killed with his spear and was bringing home for supper. He was both tired and hungry, for he had been hunting all day; but he had first to skin the animal, and make a bright fire, before he could cut off some steaks and cook them at the end of the spear. Then he poured some mead into a cup and drank, as he always did, to the memory of his brothers. After that he spread out his bear's skin to dry in the wind, and this done he stretched himself out on his bed and went to sleep. King Nidud waited till he thought all was safe, then crept forth with his men, who held heavy chains in their hands wherewith to chain the sleeping Wayland. But the task was harder than they expected, and he started up in wrath, asking why he should be treated so. 'If you want my gold, take it and release me. It is useless fighting against such odds.' 'I am no robber,' said the King, 'but Nidud your sovereign.' 'You do me much honour,' replied Wayland, 'but what have I done to be loaded with chains like this?' 'Wayland, I know you well,' said Nidud. 'Poor enough you were when you came from Finland, and now your jewels are finer and your drinking cups heavier than mine.' 'If I am indeed a thief,' answered Wayland, 'then you do well to load me with chains and lead me bound into your dungeons; but if not, I ask again, Why do you misuse me?' 'Riches do not come of themselves,' said Nidud, 'and if you are not a thief, then you must be a magician and must be watched.' 'If I were a magician,' answered Wayland, 'it would be easy for me to burst these bonds. I know not that ever I have wronged any man, but if he can prove it I will restore it to him tenfold. As to the gifts that may come from the gods, no man should grudge them to his fellow. Therefore release me, O King, and I will pay whatever ransom you may fix.' But Nidud only bade his guards take him away, and Wayland, seeing that resistance availed nothing, went with them quietly. By the King's orders he was thrown into a dark hole fifteen fathoms under ground, and the soldiers then came and robbed the house of all its treasures, which they took to the Palace. The ring which Wayland had made for his wife, Nidud gave to his daughter Banvilda. One day the Queen was playing the harp in her own room when the King came in to ask her counsel how best to deal with Wayland, as he did not think it wise to put him to death, for he hoped to make some profit out of his skill. 'His heart will beat high,' said the Queen, 'when he sees his good sword, and beholds his ring on Banvilda's finger. But cut asunder the sinews of his strength, so that he can never more escape from us, and keep him a prisoner on the island of Savarsted.' The King was pleased with the Queen's words, and sent soldiers to carry Wayland to the tower on the island. The sinews of his leg were cut so that he could not swim away; but they gave him his boots, and the chests of gold they had found in his house. Here he was left, with nothing to do from morning till night but to make helmets and drinking cups and splendid armour for the King. On this island Wayland remained for a whole year, chained to a stone and visited by no one but the King, who came from time to time to see how his prisoner was getting on with a suit of golden armour he had been ordered to make. The shield was also of gold, and on it Wayland had beaten out a history of the gods and their great deeds. He was very miserable, for the hope of revenge which had kept him alive seemed as far off as ever in its fulfilment, and finding a sword he had lately forged lying close to his hand, he seized it, with the intent of putting an end to his wretched life. He had hardly stretched out his hand when a bird began to sing at the iron bars of his window, while the evening sun shone into his prison. 'I should like to see the world once more,' thought he, and, raising himself on the stone to which his chain was fastened, he was able to look at what lay beneath him. The sea washed the base of the rock on which the tower was built, and on a neck of land a little way off some children were playing before the door of a hut. Everything was bathed in red light from the glow of the setting sun. Wayland stood quite still on the top of the stone, gazing at the scene with all his eyes, yet thinking of the land of his birth, which was so different. Then he looked again at the sea, which was already turning to steel, and in the distance he saw something moving on the waves. As it came nearer he discovered it was a young Nixie, or water sprite, and she held a lyre in her hand, and sang a song which blended with the murmur of the waves and the notes of the bird. And the song put new life and courage into his heart, for it told him that if he would endure and wait the pleasure of the gods, joy would be his one day. The Nixie finished her song, and smiled up at Wayland at the window before turning and swimming over the waves till she dived beneath them. That same instant the bird flew away, and the moon was covered by a cloud. But Wayland's heart was cheered, and when he lay down to rest he slept quietly. Some days later the King paid another visit, and suddenly espied the three keys which had been hidden in a corner with some of Wayland's tools. He at once asked Wayland what they were, and when he would not tell him the King grew so angry that, seizing an axe, he declared that he would put his prisoner to death unless he confessed all he knew. There was no help for it, and Wayland had to say how he came by them and what wonders they wrought. The King heard him with delight and went away, taking the keys with him. No time was lost in preparing for a journey to the mountains, and when he reached the spot described by Wayland he divided his followers into three parties, sending two to await him some distance off, and keeping the third to enter the mountain with himself, if the copper key did the wonders it had done before. So he gave it to one of the bravest of his men, and told him to lay it against the side of the mountain. The man obeyed, and instantly the mountain split from top to bottom. The King bade them enter, never doubting that rich spoils awaited him; but instead the men sank into a green marsh, which swallowed up many of them, while the rest were stung to death by the green serpents hanging from the roof. Those who, like the King, were near the entrance alone escaped. As soon as he had recovered from the terror into which this adventure had thrown him he commanded that it should be kept very secret from the other two parties, and desired Storbiorn, his Chamberlain, to take the key of iron and the key of gold and deliver them to the leaders of the divisions he had left behind, with orders to try their fortune in different parts of the mountain. 'Give the keys to me, my lord King,' answered Storbiorn, 'and I shall know what to do with them. These magicians may do their worst, my heart will not beat one whit the faster; and I will see all that happens.' So he went and gave his message to the two divisions, and one stayed behind while Storbiorn went to the mountain with the other. When they arrived the man who held the key laid it against the rock, which burst asunder, and half the men entered at Storbiorn's command. Suddenly an icy blue stream poured upon them from the depths of the cavern and drowned most of them before they had time to fly. Only those behind escaped, and Storbiorn bade them go instantly to the King and tell him what had befallen them. Then he went to the third troop and marched with them to the rock, where he gave the golden key to one of the men, and ordered him to try it. The rock flew open at once, and Storbiorn told the men to enter, taking care, however, to keep behind himself. They obeyed and found themselves in a lovely golden cave, whose walls were lit up by thousands of precious stones of every hue. There was neither sight nor sound to frighten them, and even Storbiorn, when he saw the gold, forgot his prudence and his fears, and followed them in. In a moment a red fire burst out with a terrific noise, and clouds of smoke poured over them, so that they fell down choked into the flames. Only one man escaped, and he ran back as fast as he could to the King to tell him of the fate of his army. All this time Wayland was working quietly in his island prison waiting for the day of his revenge. The suit of golden armour which the King had commanded kept him busy day and night, and, besides the wonderful shield with figures of the gods, he had wrought a coat of mail, a helmet, and armour for the thighs, such as never had been seen before. The King had invited all his great nobles to meet him at the Palace when he returned from the mountain, that they might both see his armour and behold all the precious things he should bring with him from the caverns. When Nidud reached his Palace the Queen and Banvilda, their daughter, came forth to meet him, and told him that the great hall was already full of guests, expecting the wonders he had brought. The King said little about his adventures, but went into the armoury to put on his armour in order to appear before his nobles. Piece by piece he fastened it, but he found the helmet so heavy that he could hardly bear it on his head. However, he did not look properly dressed without it, so he had to wear it, though it felt as if a whole mountain was pressing on his forehead. Then, buckling on the sword which Wayland had forged, he entered the hall, and seated himself on the throne. The Earls were struck dumb by his splendour, and thought at first that it was the god Thor himself, till they looked under the helmet and saw the ugly little man with the pale cowardly face. So they turned their eyes gladly on the Queen and Princess, both tall and beautiful and glittering with jewels, though inwardly they were not much better than the King. A magnificent dinner made the nobles feel more at ease, and they begged the King to tell them what man there was in Sweden so skilled in smith's work. Now Nidud had drunk deeply of mead, and longed to revenge himself on Wayland, whom he held to have caused the loss of his army; so he gave the key of the tower to one of his Earls, and bade him take two men and bring forth Wayland, adding that if the next time he visited the tower he should find a grain of gold missing, they should pay for it with their lives. The three men got a boat, and rowed towards the tower, but on the way one who, like the King, had drunk too much mead, fell into the sea and was drowned. The other two reached the tower in safety, and finding Wayland, blackened with dust, busy at his forge, bade him come just as he was to the boat. With his hands bound they led him before the King, and Eyvind the Earl bowed low and said, 'We have done your desire, Sir King, and must now hasten back to look for Gullorm, who fell into the sea.' 'Leave him where he is,' replied Nidud; 'if he is not drowned by now he will never drown at all, but in token of your obedience to my orders I will give you each these golden chains.' [Illustration: Wayland mocked by the Queen and Banvilda] The guests had not thought to see the man who had made such wonderful armour helpless and a cripple, and said so to the King. 'He was once handsome and stately enough,' answered Nidud, 'but I have bowed his stubborn head.' And the Queen and her daughter joined in saying, 'The maidens of Finland will hardly fancy a lover who cannot stand upright.' But Wayland stood as if he heard nothing till the King's son snatched a bone from the table and threw it at his head. Then his patience gave way, and, seizing the bone, he beat Nidud about the head with it till the straps of the helmet gave way and the helmet itself fell off. The guests all took his side, and said that, though a cripple, he was braver than many men whose legs were straight, and begged the King to allow him to go back to his prison without being teased further. But the King cried that Wayland had done mischief enough, and must now be punished, and told them the story of his visit to the mountain and the loss of his followers. 'It would be a small punishment to put him to death,' he said, 'for to so wretched a cripple death would be welcome. He may use the gold that is left, but henceforth he shall only have one eye to work with,' and the Princess came forward and carried out the cruel sentence herself. And Wayland bore it all, saying nothing, but praying the gods to grant him vengeance. One night Wayland sat filled with grief and despair at his window, looking out over the sea, when he caught sight of two red lights, bobbing in his direction. He watched them curiously till they vanished beneath the tower; and soon the key of the outer door turned, and two men, whom he knew to be the King's sons, Gram and Skule, talked softly together. He kept very still, so that they might think he was asleep, and he heard Skule say: 'Let us first get the golden key from him, and when we have taken from the chest as much as we can carry we will put him to death, lest he should betray us to our father.' Then Wayland took a large sword which lay by his side and hid it behind his seat, and he had scarcely done so when the princes entered the prison. 'Good greeting to you,' said Gram. 'Nidud our father has gone a journey into the country, and as he is so greedy of wealth that he will give us none, we have come here to get it for ourselves. Hand us the key and swear not to tell our father, or you shall die.' 'My good lords,' answered Wayland, 'your request is reasonable, and I am not so foolish as to refuse it. Here is the key, and in the name of the gods I will swear not to betray you.' The brothers took the key, and opened the chest that stood by Wayland, which was still half full of gold. It dazzled their eyes, and they both stooped down so as to see it better. This was what Wayland had waited for, and, seizing his sword, he cut off their heads, which fell into the chest. He then shut down the lid, and dug a grave for the bodies in the floor of his dungeon. Afterwards he dried the skulls in the sun, and made them into two drinking cups wrought with gold. The eyes he set with precious stones and fashioned into armlets, while the teeth he filed till they were shaped like pearls, and strung like a necklace. As soon as the King came back from his journey he paid a visit to Wayland, who produced the drinking cups, which he said were made of some curious shells washed up in a gale close to his window. The armlet he sent as a present to the Queen, and the bracelet to the Princess. [Illustration: The Merman warns Banvilda in vain.] After some days had passed, and Gram and Skule had not returned, the King ordered a search to be made for them, and that very evening some sailors brought back their boat, which had drifted into the open sea. Their bodies, of course, were not to be found, and the King ordered a splendid funeral feast to be prepared to do them honour. On this occasion the new drinking cups were filled with mead, and, besides her necklace, Banvilda wore the ring which her father had taken long ago from Wayland's house. As was the custom, the feast lasted long, and the dead Princes were forgotten by the guests, who drank deeply and grew merry. But at midnight their gaiety suddenly came to an end. The King was in the act of drinking from the cup of mead when he felt a violent pain in his head and let the vessel fall. The hues of the armlet became so strange and dreadful that the Queen's eyes suffered agony from looking at them, and she tore the armlets off her; while Banvilda was seized with such severe toothache that she could sit at table no longer. The guests at once took leave, but it was not till the sun rose that the pains of their hosts went away. In the torture of toothache which she had endured during the night Banvilda had dashed her arm against the wall, and had broken some of the ornaments off the ring. She feared to tell her father, who would be sure to punish her, and was in despair how to get the ring mended when she caught sight of the island on which Wayland's tower stood. 'If I had not mocked at him he might have helped me now,' thought she. But no other way seemed to offer itself, and in the evening she loosened a boat and began to row to the tower. On the way she met an old merman with a long beard, floating on the waves, who warned her not to go on; but she paid no heed, and only rowed the faster. She entered the tower by a false key, and, holding the ring out to Wayland, begged him to mend it as fast as possible, so that she might return before she was missed. Wayland answered her with courtesy, and promised to do his best, but said that she would have to blow the bellows to keep the forge fire alight. 'How comes it that these bellows are sprinkled with blood?' asked Banvilda. 'It is the blood of two young sea dogs,' answered Wayland; 'they troubled me for long, but I caught them when they least expected it. But blow, I pray you, the bellows harder, or I shall never be finished.' Banvilda did as she was told, but soon grew tired and thirsty, and begged Wayland to give her something to drink. He mixed something sweet in a cup, which she swallowed hastily, and soon fell fast asleep on a bench. Then Wayland bound her hands, and placed her in the boat, after which he cut the rope that held it and let it drift out to sea. This done, he shut the door of the tower, and, taking a piece of gold, he engraved on it the history of all that had happened and put it where it must meet the King's eye when next he came. 'Now is my hour come,' he cried with joy, snatching his spear from the wall, but before he could throw himself on it he heard a distant song and the notes of a lute. By this time the sun was high in the heavens, yet its brightness did not hinder Wayland from seeing a large star, which was floating towards him, and a brilliant rainbow spanned the sky. The flowers on the island unfolded themselves as the star drew near, and he could smell the smell of the roses on the shore. And now Wayland saw it was no star, but the golden chariot of Freya the goddess, whose blue mantle floated behind her till it was lost in the blue of the sky. On her left was a maiden dressed in garlands of fresh green leaves, and on her right was one clad in a garment of red. At the sight Wayland's heart beat high, for he thought of the lump of gold set with jewels which he and his brothers had found in the mountain so long ago. Fairies fluttered round them, mermaids rose from the depths of the sea to welcome them, and as Freya and her maidens entered the prison Wayland saw that she who wore the red garment was really Alvilda. 'Wayland,' said the goddess, 'your time of woe is past. You have suffered much and have avenged your wrongs, and now Odin has granted my prayer that Alvilda shall stay by you for the rest of your life, and when you die she shall carry you in her arms to the country of Walhalla, where you shall forge golden armour and fashion drinking horns for the gods.' [Illustration: THE CHARIOT OF FREYA] When Freya had spoken, she beckoned to the green maiden, who held in her hand a root and a knife. She cut pieces off the root and laid them on Wayland's feet, and on his eye, then, placing some leaves from her garland over the whole, she breathed gently on it. 'Eyr the physician has healed me,' cried Wayland, and the fairies took him in their arms and bore him across the waves to a bower in the forest, where he dreamed that Alvilda and Slagfid and Eigil were all bending over him. When he woke Alvilda was indeed there, and he seemed to catch glimpses of his brothers amid the leaves of the trees. 'Arise, my husband,' said Alvilda, 'and go straight to the Court of Nidud. He still sleeps, and knows nothing. Throw this mantle on your shoulders, and they will take you for his servant.' So Wayland went, and reached the royal chamber, and in his sleep the King trembled, though he knew not that Wayland was near. 'Awake,' cried Wayland, and the King woke, and asked who had dared to disturb him thus. 'Be not angry,' answered Wayland; 'had you slain Wayland long ago, the misfortune that I have to tell you of would never have happened.' 'Do not name his name,' said the King, 'since he sent me those drinking cups a burning fever has laid hold upon me.' 'They were not shells, as he told you,' answered Wayland, 'but the skulls of your two sons, Sir King. Their bodies you will find in Wayland's tower. As for your daughter she is tossing, bound, on the wild waves of the sea. But now I, Wayland, have come to give you your deathblow----' But before he could draw his sword fear had slain the King yet more quickly. So Wayland went back to Alvilda, and they went into another country, where he became a famous smith, and he lived to a good old age; and when he died he was carried in Alvilda's arms to Walhalla, as Freya had promised. THE STORY OF ROBIN HOOD _THE STORY OF ROBIN HOOD_ Many hundreds of years ago, when the Plantagenets were kings, England was so covered with woods that a squirrel was said to be able to hop from tree to tree from the Severn to the Humber. It must have been very different to look at from the country we travel through now; but still there were roads that ran from north to south and from east to west, for the use of those that wished to leave their homes, and at certain times of the year these roads were thronged with people. Pilgrims going to some holy shrine passed along, merchants taking their wares to Court, fat Abbots and Bishops ambling by on palfreys nearly as fat as themselves, to bear their part in the King's Council, and, more frequently still, a solitary Knight, seeking adventures. Besides the broad roads there were small tracks and little green paths, and these led to clumps of low huts, where dwelt the peasants, charcoal-burners, and plough-men, and here and there some larger clearing than usual told that the house of a yeoman was near. Now and then as you passed through the forest you might ride by a splendid abbey, and catch a glimpse of monks in long black or white gowns, fishing in the streams and rivers that abound in this part of England, or casting nets in the fish ponds which were in the midst of the abbey gardens. Or you might chance to see a castle with round turrets and high battlements, circled by strong walls, and protected by a moat full of water. This was the sort of England into which the famous Robin Hood was born. We do not know anything about him, who he was, or where he lived, or what evil deed he had done to put him beyond the King's grace. For he was an outlaw, and any man might kill him and never pay penalty for it. But, outlaw or not, the poor people loved him and looked on him as their friend, and many a stout fellow came to join him, and led a merry life in the greenwood, with moss and fern for bed, and for meat the King's deer, which it was death to slay. Peasants of all sorts, tillers of the land, yeomen, and as some say Knights, went on their ways freely, for of them Robin took no toll; but lordly churchmen with money-bags well filled, or proud Bishops with their richly dressed followers, trembled as they drew near to Sherwood Forest--who was to know whether behind every tree there did not lurk Robin Hood or one of his men? THE COMING OF LITTLE JOHN One day Robin was walking alone in the wood, and reached a river which was spanned by a very narrow bridge, over which one man only could pass. In the midst stood a stranger, and Robin bade him go back and let him go over. 'I am no man of yours,' was all the answer Robin got, and in anger he drew his bow and fitted an arrow to it. 'Would you shoot a man who has no arms but a staff?' asked the stranger in scorn; and with shame Robin laid down his bow, and unbuckled an oaken stick at his side. 'We will fight till one of us falls into the water,' he said; and fight they did, till the stranger planted a blow so well that Robin rolled over into the river. 'You are a brave soul,' said he, when he had waded to land, and he blew a blast with his horn which brought fifty good fellows, clad in green, to the little bridge. 'Have you fallen into the river that your clothes are wet?' asked one; and Robin made answer, 'No, but this stranger, fighting on the bridge, got the better of me, and tumbled me into the stream.' At this the foresters seized the stranger, and would have ducked him had not their leader bade them stop, and begged the stranger to stay with them and make one of themselves. 'Here is my hand,' replied the stranger, 'and my heart with it. My name, if you would know it, is John Little.' 'That must be altered,' cried Will Scarlett; 'we will call a feast, and henceforth, because he is full seven feet tall and round the waist at least an ell, he shall be called Little John.' And thus it was done; but at the feast Little John, who always liked to know exactly what work he had to do, put some questions to Robin Hood. 'Before I join hands with you, tell me first what sort of life is this you lead? How am I to know whose goods I shall take, and whose I shall leave? Whom I shall beat, and whom I shall refrain from beating?' And Robin answered: 'Look that you harm not any tiller of the ground, nor any yeoman of the greenwood--no, nor no Knight nor Squire, unless you have heard him ill spoken of. But if Bishops or Archbishops come your way, see that you spoil _them_, and mark that you always hold in your mind the High Sheriff of Nottingham.' This being settled, Robin Hood declared Little John to be second in command to himself among the brotherhood of the forest, and the new outlaw never forgot to 'hold in his mind' the High Sheriff of Nottingham, who was the bitterest enemy the foresters had. LITTLE JOHN'S FIRST ADVENTURE Robin Hood, however, had no liking for a company of idle men about him, and he at once sent off Little John and Will Scarlett to the great road known as Watling Street, with orders to hide among the trees and wait till some adventure might come to them; and if they took captive Earl or Baron, Abbot or Knight, he was to be brought unharmed back to Robin Hood. But all along Watling Street the road was bare; white and hard it lay in the sun, without the tiniest cloud of dust to show that a rich company might be coming: east and west the land lay still. At length, just where a side path turned into the broad highway, there rode a Knight, and a sorrier man than he never sat a horse on summer day. One foot only was in the stirrup, the other hung carelessly by his side; his head was bowed, the reins dropped loose, and his horse went on as he would. At so sad a sight the hearts of the outlaws were filled with pity, and Little John fell on his knees and bade the Knight welcome in the name of his master. 'Who is your master?' asked the Knight. 'Robin Hood,' answered Little John. 'I have heard much good of him,' replied the Knight, 'and will go with you gladly.' Then they all set off together, tears running down the Knight's cheeks as he rode, but he said nothing, neither was anything said to him. And in this wise they came to Robin Hood. 'Welcome, Sir Knight,' cried he, 'and thrice welcome, for I waited to break my fast till you or some other had come to me.' 'God save you, good Robin,' answered the Knight, and after they had washed themselves in the stream they sat down to dine off bread and wine, with flesh of the King's deer, and swans and pheasants. 'Such a dinner have I not had for three weeks and more,' said the Knight. 'And if I ever come again this way, good Robin, I will give you as fine a dinner as you have given me.' 'I thank you,' replied Robin, 'my dinner is always welcome; still, I am none so greedy but I can wait for it. But before you go, pay me, I pray you, for the food which you have had. It was never the custom for a yeoman to pay for a Knight.' 'My bag is empty,' said the Knight, 'save for ten shillings only.' 'Go, Little John, and look in his wallet,' said Robin, 'and, Sir Knight, if in truth you have no more, not one penny will I take, nay, I will give you all that you shall need.' So Little John spread out the Knight's mantle, and opened the bag, and therein lay ten shillings and naught besides. 'What tidings, Little John?' cried his master. 'Sir, the Knight speaks truly,' said Little John. 'Then fill a cup of the best wine and tell me, Sir Knight, whether it is your own ill doings which have brought you to this sorry pass.' 'For an hundred years my fathers have dwelt in the forest,' answered the Knight, 'and four hundred pounds might they spend yearly. But within two years misfortune has befallen me, and my wife and children also.' 'How did this evil come to pass?' asked Robin. 'Through my own folly,' answered the Knight, 'and because of the great love I bore my son, who would never be guided of my counsel, and slew, ere he was twenty years old, a Knight of Lancaster and his Squire. For their deaths I had to pay a large sum, which I could not raise without giving my lands in pledge to the rich Abbot of St. Mary's. If I cannot bring him the money by a certain day they will be lost to me for ever.' 'What is the sum?' asked Robin. 'Tell me truly.' 'It is four hundred pounds,' said the Knight. 'And what will you do if you lose your lands?' asked Robin again. 'Hide myself over the sea,' said the Knight, 'and bid farewell to my friends and country. There is no better way open to me.' At this tears fell from his eyes, and he turned him to depart. 'Good day, my friend,' he said to Robin, 'I cannot pay you what I should--' But Robin held him fast. 'Where _are_ your friends?' asked he. 'Sir, they have all forsaken me since I became poor, and they turn away their heads if we meet upon the road, though when I was rich they were ever in my castle.' When Little John and Will Scarlett and the rest heard this they wept for very shame and fury and Robin bade them fill a cup of the best wine, and give it to the Knight. 'Have you no one who would stay surety for you?' said he. 'None,' answered the Knight, 'but only Our Lady, who has never yet failed to help me.' 'You speak well,' said Robin, 'and you, Little John, go to my treasure chest, and bring me thence four hundred pounds. And be sure you count it truly.' So Little John went, and Will Scarlett, and they brought back the money. 'Sir,' said Little John, when Robin had counted it and found it no more nor no less, 'look at his clothes, how thin they are! You have stores of garments, green and scarlet, in your coffers--no merchant in England can boast the like. I will measure some out with my bow.' And thus he did. 'Master,' spoke Little John again, 'there is still something else. You must give him a horse, that he may go as beseems his quality to the Abbey.' 'Take the grey horse,' said Robin, 'and put a new saddle on it, and take likewise a good palfrey and a pair of boots, with gilt spurs on them. And as it were a shame for a Knight to ride by himself on this errand, I will lend you Little John as Squire--perchance he may stand you in yeoman's stead.' 'When shall we meet again?' asked the Knight. 'This day twelve months,' said Robin, 'under the greenwood tree.' Then the Knight rode on his way, with Little John behind him, and as he went he thought of Robin Hood and his men, and blessed them for the goodness they had shown towards him. 'To-morrow,' he said to Little John, 'I must be at the Abbey of St. Mary, which is in the city of York, for if I am but so much as a day late my lands are lost for ever, and though I were to bring the money I should not be suffered to redeem them.' * * * * * Now the Abbot had been counting the days as well as the Knight, and the next morning he said to his monks: 'This day year there came a Knight and borrowed of me four hundred pounds, giving his lands in surety. And if he come not to pay his debt ere midnight tolls they will be ours for ever.' 'It is full early yet,' answered the Prior, 'he may still be coming.' 'He is far beyond the sea,' said the Abbot, 'and suffers from hunger and cold. How is he to get here?' 'It were a shame,' said the Prior, 'for you to take his lands. And you do him much wrong if you drive such a hard bargain.' 'He is dead or hanged,' spake a fat-headed monk who was the cellarer, 'and we shall have his four hundred pounds to spend on our gardens and our wines,' and he went with the Abbot to attend the court of justice wherein the Knight's lands would be declared forfeited by the High Justiciar. 'If he come not this day,' cried the Abbot, rubbing his hands, 'if he come not this day, they will be ours.' 'He will not come yet,' said the Justiciar, but he knew not that the Knight was already at the outer gate, and Little John with him. 'Welcome, Sir Knight,' said the porter. 'The horse that you ride is the noblest that ever I saw. Let me lead them both to the stable, that they may have food and rest.' 'They shall not pass these gates,' answered the Knight sternly, and he entered the hall alone, where the monks were sitting at meat, and knelt down and bowed to them. 'I have come back, my lord,' he said to the Abbot, who had just returned from the court. 'I have come back this day as I promised.' 'Have you brought my money?' was all the Abbot said. 'Not a penny,' answered the Knight, who wished to see how the Abbot would treat him. 'Then what do you here without it?' cried the Abbot in angry tones. 'I have come to pray you for a longer day,' answered the Knight meekly. 'The day was fixed and cannot be gainsaid,' replied the Justiciar, but the Knight only begged that he would stand his friend and help him in his strait. 'I am with the Abbot,' was all the Justiciar would answer. 'Good Sir Abbot, be my friend,' prayed the Knight again, 'and give me one chance more to get the money and free my lands. I will serve you day and night till I have four hundred pounds to redeem them.' But the Abbot only swore a great oath, and vowed that the money must be paid that day or the lands be forfeited. The Knight stood up straight and tall: 'It is well,' said he, 'to prove one's friends against the hour of need,' and he looked the Abbot full in the face, and the Abbot felt uneasy, he did not know why, and hated the Knight more than ever. 'Out of my hall, false Knight!' cried he, pretending to a courage which he did not feel. But the Knight stayed where he was, and answered him, 'You lie, Abbot. Never was I false, and that I have shown in jousts and in tourneys.' 'Give him two hundred pounds more,' said the Justiciar to the Abbot, 'and keep the lands yourself.' 'No, by Heaven!' answered the Knight, 'not if you offered me a thousand pounds would I do it! Neither Justiciar, Abbot, nor Monk shall be heir of mine.' Then he strode up to a table and emptied out four hundred pounds. 'Take your gold, Sir Abbot, which you lent to me a year agone. Had you but received me civilly, I would have paid you something more. 'Sir Abbot, and ye men of law, Now have I kept my day! Now shall I have my land again, For aught that you may say.' So he passed out of the hall singing merrily, leaving the Abbot staring silently after him, and rode back to his house in Verisdale, where his wife met him at the gate. 'Welcome, my lord,' said his lady, 'Sir, lost is all your good.' 'Be merry, dame,' said the Knight, 'And pray for Robin Hood.' 'But for his kindness, we had been beggars.' After this the Knight dwelt at home, looking after his lands, and saving his money carefully till the four hundred pounds lay ready for Robin Hood. Then he bought a hundred bows and a hundred arrows, and every arrow was an ell long, and had a head of silver and peacock's feathers. And clothing himself in white and red, and with a hundred men in his train, he set off to Sherwood Forest. On the way he passed an open space near a bridge where there was a wrestling, and the Knight stopped and looked, for he himself had taken many a prize in that sport. Here the prizes were such as to fill any man with envy; a fine horse, saddled and bridled, a great white bull, a pair of gloves, a ring of bright red gold, and a pipe of wine. There was not a yeoman present who did not hope to win one of them. But when the wrestling was over, the yeoman who had beaten them all was a man who kept apart from his fellows, and was said to think much of himself. Therefore the men grudged him his skill, and set upon him with blows, and would have killed him, had not the Knight, for love of Robin Hood, taken pity on him, while his followers fought with the crowd, and would not suffer them to touch the prizes a better man had won. When the wrestling was finished the Knight rode on, and there under the greenwood tree, in the place appointed, he found Robin Hood and his merry men waiting for him, according to the tryst that they had fixed last year: 'God save thee, Robin Hood, And all this company.' 'Welcome be thou, gentle Knight, And right welcome to me.' 'Hast thou thy land again?' said Robin, 'Truth then tell thou me.' 'Yea, for God,' said the Knight, 'And that thank I God and thee.' 'Have here four hundred pounds,' said the Knight, 'The which you lent to me; And here are also twenty marks For your courtesie.' But Robin would not take the money. A miracle had happened, he said, and Our Lady had paid it to him, and shame would it be for him to take it twice over. Then he noticed for the first time the bows and arrows which the Knight had brought, and asked what they were. 'A poor present to you,' answered the Knight, and Robin, who would not be outdone, sent Little John once more to his treasury, and bade him bring forth four hundred pounds, which was given to the Knight. After that they parted, in much love, and Robin prayed the Knight if he were in any strait 'to let him know at the greenwood tree, and while there was any gold there he should have it.' HOW LITTLE JOHN BECAME THE SHERIFF'S SERVANT Meanwhile the High Sheriff of Nottingham proclaimed a great shooting-match in a broad open space, and Little John was minded to try his skill with the rest. He rode through the forest, whistling gaily to himself, for well he knew that not one of Robin Hood's men could send an arrow as straight as he, and he felt little fear of anyone else. When he reached the trysting place he found a large company assembled, the Sheriff with them, and the rules of the match were read out: where they were to stand, how far the mark was to be, and how that three tries should be given to every man. Some of the shooters shot near the mark, some of them even touched it, but none but Little John split the slender wand of willow with every arrow that flew from his bow. And at this sight the Sheriff of Nottingham swore a great oath that Little John was the best archer that ever he had seen, and asked him who he was and where he was born, and vowed that if he would enter his service he would give twenty marks a year to so good a bowman. Little John, who did not wish to confess that he was one of Robin Hood's men and an outlaw, said his name was Reynold Greenleaf, and that he was in the service of a Knight, whose leave he must get before he became the servant of any man. This was given heartily by the Knight, and Little John bound himself to the Sheriff for the space of twelve months, and was given a good white horse to ride on whenever he went abroad. But for all that he did not like his bargain, and made up his mind to do the Sheriff, who was hated of the outlaws, all the mischief he could. His chance came on a Wednesday when the Sheriff always went hunting and Little John lay in bed till noon, when he grew hungry. Then he got up, and told the steward that he wanted some dinner. The steward answered he should have nothing till the Sheriff came home, so Little John grumbled and left him, and sought out the butler. Here he was no more successful than before; the butler just went to the buttery door and locked it, and told Little John that he would have to make himself happy till his lord returned. Rude words mattered nothing to Little John, who was not accustomed to be baulked by trifles, so he gave a mighty kick which burst open the door, and then ate and drank as much as he would, and when he had finished all there was in the buttery, he went down into the kitchen. Now the Sheriff's cook was a strong man and a bold one, and had no mind to let another man play the king in his kitchen; so he gave Little John three smart blows, which were returned heartily. 'Thou art a brave man and hardy,' said Little John, 'and a good fighter withal. I have a sword, take you another, and let us see which is the better man of us twain.' The cook did as he was bid, and for two hours they fought, neither of them harming the other. 'Fellow,' said Little John at last, 'you are one of the best swordsmen that I ever saw--and if you could shoot as well with the bow I would take you back to the merry greenwood, and Robin Hood would give you twenty marks a year and two changes of clothing.' 'Put up your sword,' said the cook, 'and I will go with you. But first we will have some food in my kitchen, and carry off a little of the gold that is in the Sheriff's treasure house.' They ate and drank till they wanted no more, then they broke the locks of the treasure house, and took of the silver as much as they could carry, three hundred pounds and more, and departed unseen by anyone to Robin in the forest. 'Welcome! Welcome!' cried Robin when he saw them, 'welcome, too, to the fair yeoman you bring with you. What tidings from Nottingham, Little John?' 'The proud Sheriff greets you, and sends you by my hand his cook and his silver vessels, and three hundred pounds and three also.' Robin shook his head, for he knew better than to believe Little John's tale. 'It was never by his good will that you brought such treasure to me,' he answered, and Little John, fearing that he might be ordered to take it back again, slipped away into the forest to carry out a plan that had just come into his head. He ran straight on for five miles, till he came up with the Sheriff, who was still hunting, and flung himself on his knees before him. 'Reynold Greenleaf,' cried the Sheriff, 'what are you doing here, and where have you been?' 'I have been in the forest, where I saw a fair hart of a green colour, and sevenscore deer feeding hard by.' 'That sight would I see too,' said the Sheriff. 'Then follow me,' answered Little John, and he ran back the way he came, the Sheriff following on horseback, till they turned a corner of the forest, and found themselves in Robin Hood's presence. 'Sir, here is the master-hart,' said Little John. Still stood the proud Sheriff, A sorry man was he, 'Woe be to you, Reynold Greenleaf, Thou hast betrayed me!' 'It was not my fault,' answered Little John, 'but the fault of your servants, master. For they would not give me my dinner,' and he went away to see to the supper. It was spread under the greenwood tree, and they sat down to it, hungry men all. But when the Sheriff saw himself served from his own vessels, his appetite went from him. 'Take heart, man,' said Robin Hood, 'and think not we will poison you. For charity's sake, and for the love of Little John, your life shall be granted you. Only for twelve months you shall dwell with me, and learn what it is to be an outlaw.' To the Sheriff this punishment was worse to bear than the loss of gold or silver dishes, and earnestly he begged Robin Hood to set him free, vowing he would prove himself the best friend that ever the foresters had. Neither Robin nor any of his men believed him, but he took a great oath that he would never seek to do them harm, and that if he found any of them in evil plight he would deliver them out of it. With that Robin let him go. HOW ROBIN MET FRIAR TUCK In many ways life in the forest was dull in the winter, and often the days passed slowly; but in summer, when the leaves grew green, and flowers and ferns covered all the woodland, Robin Hood and his men would come out of their warm resting places, like the rabbits and the squirrels, and would play too. Races they ran, to stretch their legs, or leaping matches were arranged, or they would shoot at a mark. Anything was pleasant, when the grass was soft once more under their feet. * * * * * 'Who can kill a hart of grace five hundred paces off?' So said Robin to his men in the bright May time; and they went into the wood and tried their skill, and in the end it was Little John who brought down the 'hart of grace,' to the great joy of Robin Hood. 'I would ride my horse a hundred miles to find one who could match with thee,' he said to Little John, and Will Scarlett, who was perhaps rather jealous of this mighty deed, answered with a laugh, 'There lives a friar in Fountains Abbey who would beat both him and you.' Now Robin Hood did not like to be told that any man could shoot better than himself or his foresters, so he swore lustily that he would neither eat nor drink till he had seen that friar. Leaving his men where they were, he put on a coat of mail and a steel cap, took his shield and sword, slung his bow over his shoulder, and filled his quiver with arrows. Thus armed, he set forth to Fountains Dale. By the side of the river a friar was walking, armed like Robin, but without a bow. At this sight Robin jumped from his horse, which he tied to a thorn, and called to the friar to carry him over the water or it would cost him his life. The friar said nothing, but hoisted Robin on his broad back and marched into the river. Not a word was spoken till they reached the other side, when Robin leaped lightly down, and was going on his way when the friar stopped him. 'Not so fast, my fine fellow,' said he. 'It is my turn now, and you shall take me across the river, or woe will betide you.' So Robin carried him, and when they had reached the side from which they had started he set down the friar and jumped for the second time on his back, and bade him take him whence he had come. The friar strode into the stream with his burden, but as soon as they got to the middle he bent his head and Robin fell into the water. 'Now you can sink or swim as you like,' said the friar, as he stood and laughed. Robin Hood swam to a bush of golden broom, and pulled himself out of the water, and while the friar was scrambling out Robin fitted an arrow to his bow and let fly at him. But the friar quickly held up his shield, and the arrow fell harmless. 'Shoot on, my fine fellow, shoot on all day if you like,' shouted the friar, and Robin shot till his arrows were gone, but always missed his mark. Then they took their swords, and at four of the afternoon they were still fighting. By this time Robin's strength was wearing, and he felt he could not fight much more. 'A boon, a boon!' cried he. 'Let me but blow three blasts on my horn, and I will thank you on my bended knees for it.' The friar told him to blow as many blasts as he liked, and in an instant the forest echoed with his horn; it was but a few minutes before 'half a hundred yeomen were racing over the lea.' The friar stared when he saw them; then, turning to Robin, he begged of him a boon also, and leave being granted he gave three whistles, which were followed by the noise of a great crashing through the trees, as fifty great dogs bounded towards him. 'Here's a dog for each of your men,' said the friar, 'and I myself for you'; but the dogs did not listen to his words, for two of them rushed at Robin, and tore his mantle of Lincoln green from off his back. His men were too busy defending themselves to take heed of their master's plight, for every arrow shot at a dog was caught and held in the creature's mouth. Robin's men were not used to fight with dogs, and felt they were getting beaten. At last Little John bade the friar call off his dogs, and as he did not do so at once he let fly some arrows, which this time left half a dozen dead on the ground. 'Hold, hold, my good fellow,' said the friar, 'till your master and I can come to a bargain,' and when the bargain was made this was how it ran. That the friar was to forswear Fountains Abbey and join Robin Hood, and that he should be paid a golden noble every Sunday throughout the year, besides a change of clothes on each holy day. This Friar had kept Fountains Dale Seven long years or more, There was neither Knight, nor Lord, nor Earl Could make him yield before. But now he became one of the most famous members of Robin Hood's men under the name of Friar Tuck. HOW ROBIN HOOD AND LITTLE JOHN FELL OUT One Whitsunday morning, when the sun was shining and the birds singing, Robin Hood called to Little John to come with him into Nottingham to hear Mass. As was their custom, they took their bows, and on the way Little John proposed that they should shoot a match with a penny for a wager. Robin, who held that he himself shot better than any man living, laughed in scorn, and told Little John that he should have three tries to his master's one, which John without more ado accepted. But Robin soon repented both of his offer and his scorn, for Little John speedily won five shillings, whereat Robin became angry and smote Little John with his hand. Little John was not the man to bear being treated so, and he told Robin roundly that he would never more own him for master, and straightway turned back into the wood. At this Robin was ashamed of what he had done, but his pride would not suffer him to say so, and he continued his way to Nottingham, and entered the Church of St. Mary, not without secret fears, for the Sheriff of the town was ever his enemy. However, there he was, and there he meant to stay. He knelt down before the great cross in the sight of all the people, but none knew him save one monk only, and he stole out of church and ran to the Sheriff, and bade him come quickly and take his foe. The Sheriff was not slow to do the monk's bidding, and, calling his men to follow him, he marched to the church. The noise they made in entering caused Robin to look round. 'Alas, alas,' he said to himself, 'now miss I Little John.' But he drew his two-handed sword and laid about him in such wise that twelve of the Sheriff's men lay dead before him. Then Robin found himself face to face with the Sheriff, and gave him a fierce blow; but his sword broke on the Sheriff's head, and he had shot away all his arrows. So the men closed round him, and bound his arms. Ill news travels fast, and not many hours had passed before the foresters heard that their master was in prison. They wept and moaned and wrung their hands, and seemed to have gone suddenly mad, till Little John bade them pluck up their hearts and help him to deal with the monk. The next morning he hid himself, and waited with a comrade, Much by name, till he saw the monk riding along the road, with a page behind him, carrying letters from the Sheriff to the King telling of Robin's capture. 'Whence come you?' asked Little John, going up to the monk, 'and can you give us tidings of a false outlaw named Robin Hood, who was taken prisoner yesterday? He robbed both me and my fellow of twenty marks, and glad should we be to hear of his undoing.' 'He robbed me, too,' said the monk, 'of a hundred pounds and more, but I have laid hands on him, and for that you may thank me.' 'I thank you so much that, with your leave, I and my friend will bear you company,' answered Little John; 'for in this forest are many wild men who own Robin Hood for leader, and you ride along this road at the peril of your life.' They went on together, talking the while, when suddenly Little John seized the horse by the head and pulled down the monk by his hood. 'He was my master,' said Little John, 'That you have brought to bale, 'Never shall you come at the King 'For to tell him that tale.' At these words the monk uttered loud cries, but Little John took no heed of him, and smote off his head, as Much had already smitten off that of the page, lest he should carry the news of what had happened back to the Sheriff. After this they buried the bodies, and, taking the letters, carried them themselves to the King. When they arrived at the Palace, in the presence of the King, Little John fell on his knees and held the letter out. 'God save you, my liege lord,' he said; and the King unfolded the letters and read them. 'There never was yeoman in Merry England I longed so sore to see,' he said. 'But where is the monk that should have brought these letters?' 'He died by the way,' answered Little John; and the King asked no more questions. Twenty pounds each he ordered his treasurer to give to Much and to Little John, and made them yeomen of the crown. After which he handed his own seal to Little John and ordered him to bear it to the Sheriff, and bid him without delay bring Robin Hood unhurt into his presence. Little John did as the King bade him, and the Sheriff, at sight of the seal, gave him and Much welcome, and set a feast before them, at which John led him to drink heavily. Soon he fell asleep, and then the two outlaws stole softly to the prison. Here John ran the porter through the body for trying to stop his entrance, and, taking the keys, hunted through the cells until he had found Robin. Thrusting a sword into his hand Little John whispered to his master to follow him, and they crept along till they reached the lowest part of the city wall, from which they jumped and were safe and free. 'Now, farewell,' said Little John, 'I have done you a good turn for an ill.' 'Not so,' answered Robin Hood, 'I make you master of my men and me,' but Little John would hear nothing of it. 'I only wish to be your comrade, and thus it shall be,' he replied. * * * * * 'Little John has beguiled us both,' said the King, when he heard of the adventure. HOW THE KING VISITED ROBIN HOOD Now the King had no mind that Robin Hood should do as he willed, and called his Knights to follow him to Nottingham, where they would lay plans how best to take captive the felon. Here they heard sad tales of Robin's misdoings, and how of the many herds of wild deer that had been wont to roam the forest in some places scarce one remained. This was the work of Robin Hood and his merry men, on whom the King swore vengeance with a great oath. 'I would I had this Robin Hood in my hands,' cried he, 'and an end should soon be put to his doings.' So spake the King; but an old Knight, full of days and wisdom, answered him and warned him that the task of taking Robin Hood would be a sore one, and best let alone. The King, who had seen the vanity of his hot words the moment that he had uttered them, listened to the old man, and resolved to bide his time, if perchance some day Robin should fall into his power. All this time and for six weeks later that he dwelt in Nottingham the King could hear nothing of Robin, who seemed to have vanished into the earth with his merry men, though one by one the deer were vanishing too! At last one day a forester came to the King, and told him that if he would see Robin he must come with him and take five of his best Knights. The King eagerly sprang up to do his bidding, and the six men clad in monks' clothes mounted their palfreys and rode down to the Abbey, the King wearing an Abbot's broad hat over his crown and singing as he passed through the greenwood. [Illustration: There is Pith in your arm said ROBIN HOOD] Suddenly at the turn of a path Robin and his archers appeared before them. 'By your leave, Sir Abbot,' said Robin, seizing the King's bridle, 'you will stay a while with us. Know that we are yeomen, who live upon the King's deer, and other food have we none. Now you have abbeys and churches, and gold in plenty; therefore give us some of it, in the name of holy charity.' 'I have no more than forty pounds with me,' answered the King, 'but sorry I am it is not a hundred, for you should have had it all.' So Robin took the forty pounds, and gave half to his men, and then told the King he might go on his way. 'I thank you,' said the King, 'but I would have you know that our liege lord has bid me bear you his seal, and pray you to come to Nottingham.' At this message Robin bent his knee. 'I love no man in all the world So well as I do my King'; he cried, 'and Sir Abbot, for thy tidings, which fill my heart with joy, to-day thou shalt dine with me, for love of my King.' Then he led the King into an open place, and Robin took a horn and blew it loud, and at its blast seven score of young men came speedily to do his will. 'They are quicker to do his bidding than my men are to do mine,' said the King to himself. * * * * * Speedily the foresters set out the dinner, venison, and white bread, and the good red wine, and Robin and Little John served the King. 'Make good cheer,' said Robin, 'Abbot, for charity, and then you shall see what sort of life we lead, that so you may tell our King.' When he had finished eating the archers took their bows, and hung rose-garlands up with a string, and every man was to shoot through the garland. If he failed, he should have a buffet on the head from Robin. Good bowmen as they were, few managed to stand the test. Little John and Will Scarlett, and Much, all shot wide of the mark, and at length no one was left in but Robin himself and Gilbert of the White Hand. Then Robin fired his last bolt, and it fell three fingers from the garland. 'Master,' said Gilbert, 'you have lost, stand forth and take your punishment.' 'I will take it,' answered Robin, 'but, Sir Abbot, I pray you that I may suffer it at your hands.' The King hesitated. 'It did not become him,' he said, 'to smite such a stout yeoman,' but Robin bade him smite on; so he turned up his sleeve, and gave Robin such a buffet on the head that he rolled upon the ground. 'There is pith in your arm,' said Robin. 'Come, shoot a main with me.' And the King took up a bow, and in so doing his hat fell back and Robin saw his face. 'My lord the King of England, now I know you well,' cried he, and he fell on his knees and all the outlaws with him. 'Mercy I ask, my lord the King, for my men and me.' 'Mercy I grant,' then said the King, 'and therefore I came hither, to bid you and your men leave the greenwood and dwell in my Court with me.' 'So shall it be,' answered Robin, 'I and my men will come to your Court, and see how your service liketh us.' ROBIN AT COURT 'Have you any green cloth,' asked the King, 'that you could sell to me?' and Robin brought out thirty yards and more, and clad the King and his men in coats of Lincoln green. 'Now we will all ride to Nottingham,' said he, and they went merrily, shooting by the way. The people of Nottingham saw them coming, and trembled as they watched the dark mass of Lincoln green drawing near over the fields. 'I fear lest our King be slain,' whispered one to another, 'and if Robin Hood gets into the town there is not one of us whose life is safe'; and every man, woman, and child made ready to fly. The King laughed out when he saw their fright, and called them back. Right glad were they to hear his voice, and they feasted and made merry. A few days later the King returned to London, and Robin dwelt in his Court for twelve months. By that time he had spent a hundred pounds, for he gave largely to the Knights and Squires he met, and great renown he had for his open-handedness. But his men, who had been born under the shadow of the forest, could not live amid streets and houses. One by one they slipped away, till only Little John and Will Scarlett were left. Then Robin himself grew home-sick, and at the sight of some young men shooting thought upon the time when he was accounted the best archer in all England, and went straightway to the King and begged for leave to go on a pilgrimage to Bernisdale. 'I may not say you nay,' answered the King, 'seven nights you may be gone and no more.' And Robin thanked him, and that evening set out for the greenwood. It was early morning when he reached it at last, and listened thirstily to the notes of singing birds, great and small. 'It seems long since I was here,' he said to himself; 'it would give me great joy if I could bring down a deer once more'; and he shot a great hart, and blew his horn, and all the outlaws of the forest came flocking round him. 'Welcome,' they said, 'our dear master, back to the greenwood tree,' and they threw off their caps and fell on their knees before him in delight at his return. THE DEATH OF ROBIN HOOD For two and twenty years Robin Hood dwelt in Sherwood Forest after he had run away from Court, and naught that the King could say would tempt him back again. At the end of that time he fell ill; he neither ate nor drank, and had no care for the things he loved. 'I must go to merry Kirkley,' said he, 'and have my blood let.' But Will Scarlett, who heard his words, spoke roundly to him. 'Not by _my_ leave, nor without a hundred bowmen at your back. For there abides an evil man, who is sure to quarrel with you, and you will need us badly.' 'If you are afraid, Will Scarlett, you may stay at home, for me,' said Robin, 'and in truth no man will I take with me, save Little John only, to carry my bow.' 'Bear your bow yourself, master, and I will bear mine, and we will shoot for a penny as we ride.' 'Very well, let it be so,' said Robin, and they went on merrily enough till they came to some women weeping sorely near a stream. 'What is the matter, good wives?' said Robin Hood. 'We weep for Robin Hood and his dear body, which to-day must let blood,' was their answer. 'Pray why do you weep for me?' asked Robin; 'the Prioress is the daughter of my aunt, and my cousin, and well I know she would not do me harm for all the world.' And he passed on, with Little John at his side. Soon they reached the Priory, where they were let in by the Prioress herself, who bade them welcome heartily, and not the less because Robin handed her twenty pounds in gold as payment for his stay, and told her if he cost her more she was to let him know of it. Then she began to bleed him, and for long Robin said nothing, giving her credit for kindness and for knowing her art, but at length so much blood came from him that he suspected treason. He tried to open the door, for she had left him alone in the room, but it was locked fast, and while the blood was still flowing he could not escape from the casement. So he lay down for many hours, and none came near him, and at length the blood stopped. Slowly Robin uprose and staggered to the lattice-window, and blew thrice on his horn; but the blast was so low, and so little like what Robin was wont to give, that Little John, who was watching for some sound, felt that his master must be nigh to death. At this thought he started to his feet, and ran swiftly to the Priory. He broke the locks of all the doors that stood between him and Robin Hood, and soon entered the chamber where his master lay, white, with nigh all his blood gone from him. 'I crave a boon of you, dear master,' cried Little John. 'And what is that boon,' said Robin Hood, 'which Little John begs of me?' And Little John answered, 'It is to burn fair Kirkley Hall, and all the nunnery.' But Robin Hood, in spite of the wrong that had been done him, would not listen to Little John's cry for revenge. 'I never hurt a woman in all my life,' he said, 'nor a man that was in her company. But now my time is done, that know I well; so give me my bow and a broad arrow, and wheresoever it falls there shall my grave be digged. Lay a green sod under my head and another at my feet, and put beside me my bow, which ever made sweetest music to my ears, and see that green and gravel make my grave. And, Little John, take care that I have length enough and breadth enough to lie in.' So he loosened his last arrow from the string and then died, and where the arrow fell Robin was buried. [Illustration: ROBIN HOOD SHOOTS HIS LAST ARROW] THE STORY OF GRETTIR THE STRONG _THE STORY OF GRETTIR THE STRONG_ About nine hundred years ago, more or less, there lived in Iceland, at a homestead called Biarg, two old folks named Asmund the Greyhaired and his wife Asdis. At the time our story begins they had two sons, Atli the eldest, and Grettir, besides daughters; sixteen years later another son was born to them, named Illugi. Atli was a general favourite, in disposition good-natured and yielding, in this the very opposite of Grettir, who held to his own way, and was, besides, silent, reserved, and rough in manner. But he is described as fair to look on, broad-faced, short-faced, red-haired and much freckled, not of quick growth in his childhood. There was little love lost between him and his father, but his mother loved the boy right well. So matters sped till Grettir was ten years old, when, one day, his father told him to go and watch the geese on the farm, fifty of them, besides many goslings. The boy went, but with an ill grace, and shortly afterwards the geese were found all dead or dying, with many of their necks wrung, at which Asmund was mightily vexed. Again, one evening, being cold, he asked the boy to warm him by rubbing his back, but Grettir, taking up a wool-carder's comb, dropped it down his father's back. The old man was furiously angry, and would have beaten Grettir, had he not run away, while Asdis, though vexed, tried her best to make peace between them. Next, Grettir was sent to tend the horses, amongst which was a favourite mare called Keingala, who always preferred the coldest and windiest spots to graze in; the boy was ill-clad and half-starved with cold, so, by way of paying Keingala out for her uncomfortable choice of pasture, he drew a sharp knife right across her shoulder and along both sides of her back. When Asmund next saw the mare and stroked her back, the hide came off beneath his hand. He taxed Grettir with the deed, but the boy sneered mockingly and said nothing. Keingala had to be killed. Such and many other scurvy tricks did Grettir play in his childhood, but meanwhile he grew in body and strength, though none as yet knew him to be strong beyond his years. This first came to be known shortly afterwards at Midfirth Water, where some ball games were being held on the ice. Grettir was now fourteen; and was matched to play with one Audun, several years older than himself. Audun struck the ball over Grettir's head, so that he could not catch it, and it bounded far away along the ice; Grettir brought it back, and in a rage threw it at Audun's forehead; Audun struck at him with his bat, but Grettir closed with him and wrestled, for a long time holding his own; but Audun was a man of full strength, and at last prevailed. Grettir's next performance brought him into more trouble. Asmund had a bosom friend named Thorkel Krafla, who paid him a visit at Biarg on his way to the Thing, or Icelandic parliament, with a retinue of sixty followers, for Thorkel was a great chief, and a man of substance. Each traveller had to carry his own provisions for the journey, including Grettir, who joined Thorkel's company. Grettir's saddle turned over, however, and his meal bag was lost, nor could he find it, notwithstanding a long search. Just then he saw a man who was in like plight with himself, having also lost his meal sack: his name was Skeggi, one of Thorkel's followers. All of a sudden Skeggi darted off, and Grettir saw him stoop and pick up a mealsack, which Skeggi claimed as his own. Grettir was not satisfied, and they fought for it; Skeggi cut at Grettir with his axe, but he wrenched it out of his hand, and clove his head in twain. Thorkel then allowed Grettir his choice: whether to go on to the Thing, or return home. He chose the first alternative; but a lawsuit was set on foot by the heirs of the dead man. Thorkel paid the necessary fines, but Grettir was outlawed, banished from the country, and had to stay abroad three years. Asmund entrusted his son to the keeping of a man called Haflidi, the captain of a ship that was sailing for Norway; father and son parted with but little sorrow between them, but Asdis accompanied the boy part of the way, and gave him a sword which had been owned by Jokul, her grandfather; for which Grettir thanked her well, saying he deemed it better than things of more worth, so he came to the ship. With the sailors he was no more popular than he had been elsewhere, for he would work only by fits and starts, as he pleased; besides, he had a gift of making very biting rhymes, which he indulged in at the expense of all on board. But when he did condescend to work he was a match for any four, or, as some say, for any eight men by reason of his strength. After they had sailed some way east over the sea, and had much thick weather, one night they ran aground on a rock near an island which turned out to be Haramsey, off Norway. The lord of that island was called Thorfinn, son of Karr the Old. When day dawned he sent down a boat to rescue the shipwrecked sailors, who were saved, with their merchandise, but their vessel broke up. Grettir remained with Thorfinn some time; and was fond of rambling about the island, going from house to house; and he made friends with one Audun, not, of course, the one who has already been mentioned. One night the two noticed a great blaze on a ness or headland, and Grettir asked the reason of it, adding, that in his country such a fire would only burn above hidden treasure. Audun told him he had better not inquire too closely into the matter, which, however, as one might expect, only whetted his curiosity the more. He was told accordingly that on that headland Karr the Old was buried; that at first father and son had but one farm on the island, but since Karr died he had so haunted the place that all the farmers who owned land were driven away. Thorfinn, therefore, now held the whole island, and to such good purpose, that whosoever enjoyed his protection was not worried by the ghost. Grettir determined to investigate, and providing himself with spades and tools, set off with Audun to dig into the 'barrow,' as these mounds of earth are called, which northern races and others used to raise over their dead. Leaving Audun to guard the rope by which he descended, Grettir found the interior of the cavern very dark, and a smell therein none of the sweetest. First he saw horse-bones, then he stumbled against the arm of a high chair wherein was a man sitting; great treasures of gold and silver lay heaped together, and under the man's feet a small chest full of silver. All this Grettir carried towards the rope, but while doing so he was suddenly seized in a strong grip; whereupon he let go the treasure and rushed at the Thing which lived in the barrow; and now they set on one another unsparingly enough. There was a battle, first one, then the other gaining a slight advantage, but at last the barrow-wight fell over on his back with a huge din; whereupon Grettir drew his sword, 'Jokul's gift,' and cut off Karr's head, laying it beside the thigh, for, in this way only, men said, could a ghost be laid. Grettir took the treasure and brought it to Thorfinn, who was not ill-pleased that his father's tomb had been rifled, for he held that wealth hidden in the ground was wealth wrongly placed, in which we shall probably agree with him. [Illustration: GRETTIR FEELS KARR'S GRIP.] After the events just described, Thorfinn went away with thirty of his men to one of his farms on the mainland, in order to keep the Yule-tide feast (Christmas). His wife and daughter, the latter of whom was ill in bed, remained at home. Now Thorfinn, some time previously, had taken a leading part in passing a law, the object of which was that all berserkers should be outlawed. These berserkers were roving bands of pirates, brave fighters, but respecting no man's property; on the contrary, their chief object was to lay violent hands on women and goods to which they had no title. It is easily to be understood that Thorfinn, in consequence of his action, had incurred their bitterest enmity. One day Grettir observed a ship approaching, rowed by twelve men; it landed near Thorfinn's boat-stand, wherein was his boat which was never launched by less than thirty men; nevertheless these twelve pushed it down to the water's edge, laid their own boat upon it, and bore it into the boat-stand. Grettir's suspicions being aroused, he went down, and after giving them a hearty welcome, asked who they were. The leader told him he was known as Thorir Paunch; that his brother was Ogmund, and the rest fellows of theirs. Grettir told them they could not have come at a better time, if, as he thought, they had some grudge against Thorfinn, for he was away from home, and would not be back till Yule was past, but his wife and daughter were in the house. 'Now am I well enough minded to take revenge on Thorfinn,' said Thorir, 'and this man is ready enough of tidings, and no need have we to drag the words out of him.' So they all went up to the farm, but the women were distracted with fear, thinking that Grettir had played false. He, however, induced the berserkers to lay aside their arms, and when evening was come, brought them beer in abundance, and entertained them with tales and merry jests. After a while he proposed to lead them to Thorfinn's treasure house: nothing loth they followed readily; when they were all inside he managed to slip out and lock them in. He then ran back for weapons: a broad-headed barbed spear, his sword and helmet. Now the berserkers knew they had been entrapped; breaking down the panelling of a wall they rushed out into the passage, where in the nick of time arrived Grettir, who thrust Thorir through with his spear; Ogmund the Evil was pressing close behind, so that the same thrust which pierced the one transfixed the other also. The remainder defended themselves with logs and whatever lay ready to hand, or tried to escape; but Grettir slew all of them save two, who for the moment escaped, but were found next day under a rock, dead from cold and wounds. Shortly afterwards Thorfinn returned, and when he was told of the wondrous deeds of Grettir, who had thus saved the honour of his house, he bade him come to him whenever he needed aid; and the two were now close friends; moreover, Grettir's fame began to spread abroad, and he became renowned all over Norway. Leaving his friend Thorfinn, he took passage in a ship belonging to one Thorkel, who lived in Heligoland. He welcomed Grettir heartily to his house, but with a man called Biorn, who lived there with him, the Icelander could by no means agree, nor indeed did others find it easy, for Biorn's temper was hasty and difficult. It happened that a savage bear wrought havoc at that time, being so grim that it spared neither man nor beast, so one night Biorn set out to slay it. The bear was in its cave, in the track leading to which Biorn lay down, with his shield over him, to wait for the beast to stir abroad as its manner was. But the beast suspected the presence of the man, and was slow to move; delayed so long indeed that Biorn fell asleep. Now the bear became brisk enough, sallied forth, hooked its claws in Biorn's shield, and threw it over the cliff. Biorn woke suddenly and ran, just escaping its clutch; but the whole proceedings had been watched, and he had to endure many taunts and jeers. Grettir went afterwards and killed the beast, though not without a terrible struggle, in which they both fell over the rocks, but the bear was underneath, and Grettir was able to stab it to the heart. More than ever then on account of this did ill-will against Grettir rankle in Biorn's breast. He sailed west to England, as master of Thorkel's ship; when he returned he met Grettir at a place called Drontheim-firth. The two took up their old quarrel again, fought on the strand, and Biorn was killed. At that time Earl Svein was ruling over Norway as regent, the rightful king being but a boy. At the court in the Earl's service was Biorn's brother, Hiarandi, who was exceedingly wroth when he heard of Biorn's death, and begged the Earl's assistance in the matter. Svein therefore sent for Thorfinn and Grettir, but Hiarandi would not agree to any terms proposed, and lay in wait to take Grettir's life. With five others he sprang out from a certain court gate, dealt a blow at him with an axe, and wounded him; but Grettir and a companion turned on them and slew them all save one, who escaped and told the Earl. There remained yet another brother of Biorn and Hiarandi to take up the feud, but he fared no better, and was also slain. Earl Svein was now 'wondrous wroth' at this tale, for said he, 'Grettir has now slain three brothers, one at the heels of the other, and I will not thus bring wrongs into the land so as to take compensation for such unmeasured misdeeds'; so he would not listen to any proposals by Thorfinn to pay blood-money. However, many more added their words to Thorfinn's, and prayed the Earl to spare Grettir's life, for, after all, he had acted in self-defence, and if his life were to be forfeit, there would be slayings throughout the whole land. These arguments at length prevailed, Grettir was allowed to go in peace, and went back to Iceland, the term of his outlawry being expired. Being now grown to man's estate, and having waxed greatly in bodily strength, he roamed about the country to see if there were any with whom he might match himself, and took it very ill that he found none. About this time, strange rumours were flying about to the effect that a farm belonging to one Thorhall was haunted. Thorhall was an honest man and very rich in cattle and livestock, but could hardly get a shepherd to stay in his service; whereat, being sore perplexed, he went for advice to Skapti the Lawman. Skapti promised to get him a shepherd called Glam, a Swede, for which Thorhall thanked him. On his return he missed two dun cows, went to look for them, and on the way met a man carrying faggots, who said his name was Glam. He was great of stature, uncouth in appearance, his eyes grey and glaring, and his hair wolf-grey. Thorhall told him Skapti had recommended him, adding that the place was haunted, but Glam made light of this: 'Such bugs will not scare me,' quoth he. There was a church at Thorhall-stead, but Glam loathed church-song, being godless, foul-tempered and surly, and no man could abide him, Thorhall's wife least of all. So time wore on till Christmas-eve, when Glam called for his meat, but was told that no Christian man would eat meat on that day. He insisted; and the housewife gave it, though prophesying evil would come of it. Glam took the food and went out growling and grumbling. He was heard in the early morning on the hills, but not as the day wore on; then a snowstorm came, and Glam returned not that night nor yet the day following, so search parties were sent out, who found the sheep scattered wide about in fens, beaten down by the storm, or strayed up into the mountains. Then they came to a great beaten place high up in a valley, where it seemed as though there had been wrestling, stones and earth torn up, and signs of a severe struggle; looking closer, they found Glam dead, his body blue and swollen to the size of an ox. They tried to bring the body down to the church, but could only move it a very little way; they returned, therefore, and told how they had tracked steps as great as if a cask bottom had been stamped down, leading from the beaten place up to beneath sheer rocks high up the valley, and along the track great stains of blood. From this men thought that the evil wight which had killed Glam had got such wounds as had sufficed for him, but none ever could say for certain. The second day after Christmas men were sent again to bring Glam's body to the church, but though horses were put to drag it, they could not move the corpse except down hill, so Glam was buried where he lay. Now within a little time men became aware that Glam lay not quiet; he walked well-nigh night and day, and took to riding the house roofs at night, so much so that he nearly broke them in. The folk were exceedingly afraid thereat; many fainted or went mad, while others incontinently fled there and then. Another shepherd, big and strong, came to take Glam's place; he was nowise dismayed by the hauntings, but deemed it good sport rather than not when Glam rode the house-roofs. But when another Christmas came the shepherd was missed; search was made, and he was found on the hill-side by Glam's cairn, his neck broken, and every bone in his body smashed. Then Glam waxed more mighty than ever; the cattle bellowed and roared, and gored each other; the byre cracked, and a cattle-man who had been long in Thorhall's service was found dead, his head in one stall and feet in another. None could go up the dale with horse or hound, because it was straightway slain, and it was no easy task to get servants to remain at the steading. Things had come to this pass when Grettir rode over to Thorhall-stead, where the owner gave him good welcome, though warning him that few cared to stay long under his roof. Grettir's horse was locked up in the stable, and the first night nothing happened; but on the second the stable was broken into, the horse dragged out to the door, and every bone of him broken. Next night Grettir sat up to watch; and when a third of the night was past, he heard a terrible din as of one riding the roof, and driving his heels against the thatch so that every rafter cracked again. He went to the door, and saw Glam, whose head, as it appeared to him, was monstrously big. Glam came slowly in and took hold of a bundle lying on the seat, but Grettir planted his foot against a beam, seized the bundle also, and pulled against Glam with such strength that the wrapper was rent between them. Glam wondered who might this be that pulled with such strength against him, when Grettir rushed in, seized him round the waist, and tried to force him down backwards; but he shrank all aback by reason of Glam's strength, which, indeed, seemed to be almost greater than his own. A wondrous hard wrestling bout was that; but at last Grettir, gathering up his strength for a sudden effort, drove against Glam's breast, at the same moment pushing with both feet against the half-sunken stone that stood in the threshold of the door. For this Glam was not ready, therefore he reeled backwards and spun against the door, so that his shoulders caught against the upper part of it; the roof burst--both rafters and frozen thatch--and he fell open-armed backwards out of the house with Grettir over him. It was bright moonlight without, with drift scudding over the moon; at that instant the moon's face cleared, and Glam glared up against her. By that sight only Grettir confessed himself dismayed beyond all that he had ever seen; nor, for weariness and fear together, could he draw his sword to strike off Glam's head withal. But Glam was crafty beyond other ghosts, so that now he spoke: 'Exceeding eager hast thou been to meet me, Grettir, but it will be deemed no wonder if this meeting work thee harm. This must I tell thee, that thou now hast but half the strength and manhood which was thy lot if thou hadst not met me; I may not take from thee the strength that was thine before, but this may I rule--that thou shalt never be mightier than thou now art. Hitherto thou hast earned fame by thy deeds, but henceforth will wrongs and manslayings fall on thee, and the most part of thy doings will turn to thy woe and ill-hap, an outlaw shalt thou be made, and ever shall it be thy lot to dwell abroad. Therefore this fate I lay upon thee, ever in those days to see these eyes of mine with thine eyes, and thou wilt find it hard to be alone, and that shall drag thee unto death.' Grettir's wits came back to him, and therewith he drew his short sword, cut off Glam's head, and laid it at his thigh. Glam's body was burnt, the ashes put into a beast's skin and buried. Thorhall, overjoyed at the deliverance, treated Grettir handsomely, giving him a good horse and decent clothes, for his own had been torn to pieces in the struggle. Grettir's fame spread far abroad for this deed, and none was deemed his equal for boldness and prowess. Yet Glam's curse began already to work, for Grettir dared not go out after nightfall, for then he seemed to see all kinds of horrors. It became a proverb in the land that Glam gives Glam-sight to those who see things otherwise than as they are, which we now express by the word 'glamour.' Now Grettir had a strong wish to go to Norway, for Earl Svein had fled the country after being beaten in a battle, and Olaf the Saint held sole rule as king. There was also a man named Thorir of Garth who had been in Norway, and was a friend of the king; this man was anxious to send out his sons to become the king's men. The sons accordingly sailed, and came to a haven at Stead, where they remained some days, during stormy weather. Grettir also had sailed after them, and the crew bore down on Stead, being hard put to it by reason of foul weather, snow and frost; and they were all worn, weary and wet. To save expense they did not put into the harbour, but lay to beside a dyke, where, though perished with cold, they could not light a fire. As the night wore on they saw that a great fire was burning on the opposite side of the sound up which they had sailed, and fell to talking and wondering whether by possibility any man might fetch that fire. Grettir said little, but made ready for swimming; he had on but a cape and sail-cloth breeches. He girt up the cape and tied a rope strongly round his middle, and had with him a cask; then he leaped overboard and swam across. There he saw a house, and heard much talking and noise, so he turned towards it, and found it to be a house of refuge for coasting sailors; twelve men were inside sitting round a great fire on the floor, drinking, and these were the sons of Thorir. When Grettir burst in he knew not who was there, he himself seemed huge of bulk, for his cape was frozen all over into ice; therefore the men took him to be some evil troll, and smote at him with anything that lay to hand; but Grettir put all blows aside, snatched up some firebrands, and swam therewith back to the ship. Grettir's comrades were mightily pleased, and bepraised him and his journey and his prowess. [Illustration: GRETTIR OVERTHROWS THORIR REDBEARD] Next morning they crossed the sound, but found no house, only a great heap of ashes, and therein many bones of men. They asked if Grettir had done this misdeed; but he said it had happened even as he had expected. The men said wherever they came that Grettir had burnt those people; and the news soon spread that the victims were the sons of Thorir of Garth. Grettir therefore now grew into such bad repute that he was driven from the ship, and scarcely anyone would say a good word for him. As matters were so hopeless he determined to explain all to the king, and offer to free himself from the slander by handling hot iron without being burned. His ill-luck still pursued him, for when all was ready in the church where the ceremony was about to take place, a wild-looking lad, or, as some said, an unclean spirit, started up from no one knew where, and spoke such impertinent words to Grettir that he felled him with a blow of his fist. After this the king would not allow the ceremony to go on: 'Thou art far too luckless a man to abide with us, and if ever man has been cursed, of all men must thou have been,' said he; and advised him to go back to Iceland in the summer. Meanwhile Asmund the Greyhaired died, and was buried at Biarg, and Atli succeeded to his goods, but was soon afterwards basely murdered by a neighbouring chief who bore him ill-will for his many friendships, and grudged him his possessions. Thorir of Garth brought a suit at the Thing to have Grettir outlawed for the burning of his sons; but Skapti the Lawman thought it scarcely fair to condemn a man unheard, and spoke these wise words: 'A tale is half told if one man tells it, for most folk are readiest to bring their stories to the worser side when there are two ways of telling them.' Thorir, however, was a man of might, and had powerful friends; these between them pushed on the suit, and with a high hand rather than according to law obtained their decree. Thus was Grettir outlawed for a deed of which he was innocent. These three pieces of bad news greeted him all at once on his return to Iceland: his father's death, his brother's murder, and his own outlawry. One of the first things he did was to avenge his brother's murder, but there was a price on his head, and he wandered about from place to place in the wilderness. On one occasion, as he lay asleep, some men of Icefirth came upon him, and though they were ten in number they had much ado to take him; but at last they bound him, and put up a gallows, for they intended to hang him. Fortunately for Grettir, at that moment there rode along the wife of the ruling chief of that district, who interposed and set him free, on his promise not to stir up strife in that neighbourhood. His next adventure was at a place called Ernewaterheath where he had built himself a hut, and lived by fishing in the river. There were other outlaws, who, on hearing that Grettir was in the neighbourhood, made a bargain with one Grim that he should slay him. Grim begged Grettir to take him into his hut, which he agreed to do, as he was so frightened when alone in the dark; nevertheless, having his suspicions of the man, he kept his short sword always within reach. One day Grim came back from fishing, and thought Grettir was asleep, for he made no movement when Grim suddenly stamped his foot; thinking he now had his chance, he stole on tip-toe to the bedside, took Grettir's short sword and unsheathed it. But at the very moment when Grim had it raised aloft to stab Grettir, the supposed sleeping man sprang up, knocked Grim down, wrenched the sword out of his hand and killed him. Next, Grettir's enemy Thorir of Garth heard of his whereabouts, and prevailed upon one Thorir Redbeard to attempt to slay him. So Redbeard laid his plans, with the object, as it is quaintly phrased, of 'winning' Grettir. He, however, declined to be 'won,' for Redbeard fared no better than Grim. He tried to slay the outlaw while he was swimming back from his nets, but Grettir sank like a stone and swam along the bottom till he reached a place where he could land unseen by Redbeard. He then came on him from behind, while Redbeard was still looking for his appearance out of the water; heaved him over his head, and caused him to fall so heavily that his weapon fell out of his hand. Grettir seized it and smote off his head. Thorir of Garth was anything but satisfied with the result of his endeavour to have Grettir killed, and gathered together a force of nearly eighty men to take him; but this time Grettir was forewarned by a friend, and took up a position in a very narrow pass. When Thorir's men came up and attacked him he slew them one by one till he had killed eighteen and wounded many more, so that Thorir said, 'Lo, now we have to do with trolls and not men,' and bade the rest retire. Shortly afterwards he collected some twenty men and rode off again to search for Grettir. This time he was within an ace of coming upon the outlaw unawares; but Grettir and a friend had just time to conceal themselves when Thorir rode by. After the party had passed, an idea occurred to Grettir. 'They will not deem their journey good if we be not found,' he said; so, though much against the advice of his friend, he disguised himself in a slouch hat and other clothes, took a staff and intercepted Thorir's band at a point where he knew they must pass. They asked him whether he had seen any men riding over the heath. 'Yes,' he said, 'the men you seek I have seen, and you have missed them only by a very little; they are there on the south side of these bogs to the left.' On hearing this, off galloped Thorir and his men, but the bogs were a sort of quagmire, wherein the horses stuck fast; and remained wallowing and struggling for the greater part of the day, while the riders 'gave to the devil withal the wandering churl who had so befooled them.' Grettir now deemed it advisable to go about the country in disguise, and, under the name of Guest, came to a place called Sandheaps, much haunted by trolls. Two winters before he arrived the husband of the good-wife had mysteriously disappeared during her absence, none knew whither; her name was Steinvor. A loud crashing had been heard in the night about the man's bed, but the folk were too frightened to rise and find out the cause; in the morning Steinvor came back, but her husband was gone. Again, the next year, while she was away at church, a house-servant remained behind; but he too vanished, and bloodstains were found about the outer door. Grettir was told of this when he came to Sandheaps on Christmas-eve, staying there under the name of Guest. Steinvor, as usual, went away to worship, and remained absent that night, leaving Grettir at home. He sat up to watch, and about midnight he heard a great noise outside, shortly after which there came into the hall a huge troll-wife, with a trough in one hand and a monstrous chopper in the other. Seeing Grettir she rushed at him, but he closed with her, and there was a terrible wrestling match. She was the stronger, and dragged him from the house, breaking down all the fittings of the door; down she dragged him to the river which flowed through the farm, and Grettir, exhausted with the struggle, was well-nigh at the limit of his endurance. Making one last great effort, he managed to draw his short sword and strike off the hag's arm at the shoulder; then was he free, and she fell into the gulf and was carried down the rapids. This, at least, was Grettir's story; but the men of the neighbourhood say that day dawned on them while they were still wrestling, and that therefore the troll burst; for this trolls do, according to Norse tradition, if they happen to be caught above ground by the rising sun. Steinvor came back with the priest, who asked Grettir where he thought the two men were who had disappeared. He replied they were, he thought, in the gulf; but if the priest would help him he would find out. The priest agreed. Accordingly, taking a rope with them, they followed the stream down to a waterfall where they saw a cave up under the cliff--a sheer rock the cliff was, nearly fifty fathoms down to the water. The priest's heart misgave him, but Grettir determined to make the attempt; so, driving a peg into the ground, he made the rope fast to it and bade the priest watch it; then he tied a stone to the end and let it sink into the water. When all was ready, he took his short sword and leapt into the water. Disappearing from the priest's view, he dived under the waterfall--and hard work it was, for the whirlpool was strong; but he reached a projecting rock on which he rested awhile. A great cave was under the waterfall, and the river fell over it from the sheer rocks. Grettir climbed into the cave, where he found a great fire flaming, and a giant sitting beside it, huge and horrible to look upon. He smote at the new-comer with a broadsword, but Grettir avoided the blow, and returned such a mighty stroke with his own sword that the giant fell dead at once. The priest on the bank, seeing blood washed down by the swirling waters, and thinking Grettir was killed, fled in alarm and spread the report of his death. Grettir meanwhile stayed in the cave till far on into the night; he found there the bones of two men, which he put in a bag; swimming with them to the rope, he shook it, but as the priest had gone he had to draw himself up by strength of hands. He took the bones to the church, where he left them, returning himself to Sandheaps. When the priest saw Grettir, the latter taxed him with breach of faith in quitting the rope, which charge the priest must needs admit; however, no great harm had resulted, the bones were buried, and the district was freed from hauntings. Grettir received much credit, in so far as he had cleansed the land from these evil wights who had wrought the loss of the men there in the dale. Our hero remained in hiding at Sandheaps, but Thorir of Garth heard of him and sent men to take him. Grettir accordingly left the place and went to Maddervales, to Gudmund the Rich, of whom he begged shelter. Gudmund, however, dared not harbour him, but advised him to seek shelter in an isle called Drangey in Skagafirth. The place, he said, was excellent for defence, for without ladders no one could land. Grettir agreed to go, and went home to Biarg to bid his mother farewell. His brother, Illugi, was now fifteen years old, a handsome boy, and he overheard Grettir's conversation with his mother about his proposed departure to Drangey. 'I will go with thee, brother,' said he, 'though I know not that I shall be of any help to thee, unless that I shall be ever true to thee, nor run from thee whiles thou standest up.' Asdis bade them farewell, warning Grettir against sorcery; yet well she knew that she would never see either of her sons again. They left Biarg, going north towards Drangey; and on the way met with a big ill-clad loon called Thorbiorn Noise, a man too lazy to work, and a great swaggerer; but they allowed him to join them. Now Drangey was an island whose cliffs rose sheer up from the sea; there was good pasturage on it, and many sheep and cattle, owned by about twenty men, who amongst them held the island in shares. Two men called Hialti and Thorbiorn Angle, being the richest men, had the largest shares. When the men got ready to fetch their beasts from the island for slaughter, they found it occupied, which they thought strange; but supposing the men in possession to be shipwrecked sailors, they rowed to the place where the ladders were, but found these drawn up. Persuasion was of no avail, so the baffled owners retired, and in one way or another made over their respective shares to Angle, on the understanding that he would free the island from these unwelcome intruders. The months wore on, and brought no change; but now Grettir said he would go to the mainland and get victuals. Disguising himself, he carried out his plan, leaving Illugi and Noise to guard the ladders. Sports were being held at a place called Heron-ness, and the stranger was asked if he would wrestle. 'Time was,' he said, 'when he had been fond of it, but he had now given it up; yet, upon condition of peace and safe conduct being assured to him until such time as he returned home, he was willing to try a bout.' This was agreed to, whereupon he cast aside his disguise, and stood revealed as Grettir the outlaw. All saw that they had been beguiled, yet, for their oath's sake, they could do nothing. First Hialti alone tried to throw Grettir, but met with nothing but a mighty fall; then he and his brother Angle tried together, but though each of them had the strength of two men they were no match for their antagonist, and had to retire discomfited. Then Grettir went back to Drangey. Two winters had now been spent on the island, but firewood was hard to come by; Noise was sent down to gather drifted logs from the sea, but he grew lazier and grumbled more and more every day, letting the fire out on one occasion, whereas his duty was to keep it burning. Grettir determined to swim to the mainland and bring back wood; in this he was successful, though the distance was a sea mile, whereat all said his prowess both on land and sea was marvellous. Meanwhile Angle, having been baffled in a second attempt to land and drive out Grettir, induced a young man called Hoering, an expert climber, to try to scale the cliffs, promising him if successful a very large reward. Angle rowed him over, and Hoering did, indeed, scale the precipice, but young Illugi was on the watch, chased him round the island, and Hoering, sore pressed, leapt over the cliff and was killed. [Illustration: The Witch Thurid cuts a charm on the log.] About this time, Grettir having been so many years in outlawry, many thought that the sentence should be annulled; and it was deemed certain that he would be pardoned in the next ensuing summer; but they who had owned the island were exceedingly discontented at the prospect of his acquittal, and urged Angle either to give back the island or slay Grettir. Now Angle had a foster-mother, Thurid; she was old and cunning in witchcraft, which she had learnt in her youth; for though Christianity had now been established in the island, yet there remained still many traces of heathendom. Angle and she put out in a ten-oared boat to pick a quarrel with Grettir, of which the upshot was that the outlaw threw a huge stone into the boat, where the witch lay covered up with wrappings, and broke her leg. Angle had to endure many taunts at the failure of all his attempts to outplay Grettir. One day, Thurid was limping along by the sea, when she found a large log, part of the trunk of a tree. She cut a flat space on it, carved magic characters, or runes, on the root, reddened them with her blood, and sang witch-words over them; then she walked backwards round it, and widdershins--which means in a direction against the sun--and thrust the log out to sea under many strong spells, in such wise that it should drive out to Drangey. In the teeth of the wind it went, till it came to the island, where Illugi and Grettir saw it, but knowing it boded them ill, they thrust it out from shore; yet next morning was it there again, nearer the ladders than before; but again they drove it out to sea. The days wore on to summer, and a gale sprang up with wet; the brothers being short of firewood, Noise was sent down to the shore to look for drift, grumbling at being ordered out in bad weather, when, lo! the log was there again, and he fetched it up. Grettir was angry with Noise, and not noticing what the log was, hewed at it with his axe, which glanced from the wood and cut into his leg, right down to the bone. Illugi bound it up, and at first it seemed as though the wound was healed. But after a time his leg took to paining Grettir, and became blue and swollen, so that he could not sleep, and Illugi watched by him night and day. At this time Thurid advised Angle to make another attempt on the island; he therefore gathered a force of a dozen men together, and set sail in very foul weather, but no sooner had they reached open sea than the wind lulled, so they came to Drangey at dusk. Noise had been told to guard the ladders, and had gone out as usual with very ill grace; he thought to himself he would not draw them up, so he lay down there and fell asleep, remaining all day long in slumber till Angle came to the island. Mounting the ladders, he and his men found Noise snoring at the top; arousing him roughly, they learned from him what had happened, and how Grettir lay sick in the hut with Illugi tending him. Angle thrashed Noise soundly for betraying his master, and the men made for the hut. Illugi guarded the door with the greatest valour, and when they thrust at him with spears he struck off all the spear heads from the shafts. But some of the men leapt up on to the roof, tore away the thatch, and broke one of the rafters. Grettir thrust up with a spear and killed one man, but he could not rise from his knee by reason of his wound; the others leapt down and attacked him; young Illugi threw his shield over him and made defence for both in most manly wise. Grettir killed another man, whose body fell upon him, so that he could not use his sword; wherefore Angle at that moment was able to stab him between the shoulders, and many another wound they gave him till they thought he was dead. Angle took Grettir's short sword and struck at the head of the body with such force that a piece of the sword-blade was nicked out. So died Grettir, the bravest man of all who ever dwelt in Iceland. The gallant young Illugi was offered his life by Angle if he would promise not to try to avenge Grettir; but he scorned the offer, and was slain next day; the brothers were buried in a cairn on the island. Noise was taken aboard the boat, but bore himself so ill that he too was killed. Now Angle thought to claim from Thorir of Garth the reward set upon Grettir's head; but the murderer was very ill spoken of in the land: first, because he had used sorcery, which was against the law; next, that he had acted a cowardly part in bearing arms against a half-dead man. A suit of outlawry was brought against him in the Thing; but seeing that it would go against him he escaped to Norway. In that country lived an elder half-brother of Grettir, who had heard of his fate and determined to avenge him; neither knew the other by sight. Angle, however, becoming uneasy, went to Micklegarth (Constantinople), whither he was followed by Thorstein Dromond. One day, at a weapon-showing, or exhibition of arms, Angle drew the short sword which had belonged to Grettir; it was praised by all as a good weapon, but the notch in the edge was a blemish. Angle related how he had slain Grettir, and how the notch came to be there. Thereupon Thorstein, who was present, knew his man, and asked to be allowed, like the rest, to see the short sword; Angle gave it to him, whereupon Thorstein clove his head in two with it, and Angle fell to earth dead and dishonoured. Thus Grettir was avenged. The End. * * * * * EDITED BY ANDREW LANG. * * * * * THE BLUE FAIRY BOOK. With 138 Illustrations. Crown 8vo. gilt edges, 6s. THE RED FAIRY BOOK. With 100 Illustrations. Crown 8vo. gilt edges, 6s. THE GREEN FAIRY BOOK. With 99 Illustrations. Crown 8vo. gilt edges, 6s. THE YELLOW FAIRY BOOK. With 104 Illustrations. Crown 8vo. gilt edges, 6s. THE PINK FAIRY BOOK. With 67 Illustrations. Crown 8vo. gilt edges, 6s. THE GREY FAIRY BOOK. With 65 Illustrations. Crown 8vo. gilt edges, 6s. THE VIOLET FAIRY BOOK. With 8 Coloured Plates and 54 other Illustrations. Crown 8vo. gilt edges, 6s. THE BLUE POETRY BOOK. With 100 Illustrations. Crown 8vo. gilt edges, 6s. THE BLUE POETRY BOOK. School Edition, without Illustrations. Fcp. 8vo. 2s. 6d. THE TRUE STORY BOOK. With 66 Illustrations. Crown 8vo. gilt edges, 6s. THE RED TRUE STORY BOOK. With 100 Illustrations. Crown 8vo. gilt edges, 6s. THE ANIMAL STORY BOOK. With 67 Illustrations. Crown 8vo. gilt edges, 6s. THE RED BOOK OF ANIMAL STORIES. With 65 Illustrations. Crown 8vo. gilt edges, 6s. THE ARABIAN NIGHTS ENTERTAINMENTS. With 66 Illustrations. Crown 8vo. gilt edges, 6s. * * * * * LONGMANS, GREEN, & CO., 39 Paternoster Row, London New York and Bombay. * * * * * 
22053	----	Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original illustrations. See 22053-h.htm or 22053-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/2/2/0/5/22053/22053-h/22053-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/2/2/0/5/22053/22053-h.zip) STORIES OF KING ARTHUR AND HIS KNIGHTS Retold from Malory's "Morte dArthur" by U. WALDO CUTLER [Frontispiece: King Arthur] _The goodliest fellowship of famous knights_ _Whereof this world holds record._ TENNYSON George G. Harrap & Co. Ltd. London ---- Bombay ---- Sydney First published January 1905 by GEORGE G. HARRAP & COMPANY 39-41 Parker Street, Kingsway, London, W.C., Reprinted: December 1905; July 1906; May 1907; January 1909; September 1909; July 1910; July 1911; October 1912; October 1913; March 1915; February 1917; August 1917; May 1918; October 1919; June 1920; October 1921; October 1922; June 1923; January 1925; April 1936; September 1927; October 1928; January 1930; January 1931; April 1932 CONTENTS INTRODUCTION CHAPTER I. OF THE BIRTH OF KING ARTHUR II. UTHER'S SON, RIGHTWISE KING OF ALL ENGLAND III. HOW ARTHUR GAT HIS SWORD EXCALIBUR IV. BALIN AND BALAN V. THE NOBLE ORDER OF THE ROUND TABLE VI. THE LADIES' KNIGHT VII. WISE MERLIN'S FOOLISHNESS VIII. A STAG-HUNT AND WHAT CAME OF IT IX. THE TREACHERY OF MORGAN LE FAY X. SIR LAUNCELOT OF THE LAKE XI. A NIGHT-TIME ADVENTURE OF SIR LAUNCELOT XII. HOW SIR LAUNCELOT CAME INTO THE CHAPEL PERILOUS XIII. THE KNIGHT, THE LADY, AND THE FALCON XIV. HOW A KITCHEN-PAGE CAME TO HONOUR XV. HOW SIR GARETH FOUGHT FOR THE LADY OF CASTLE PERILOUS XVI. HOW SIR GARETH RETURNED TO THE COURT OF KING ARTHUR XVII. HOW YOUNG TRISTRAM SAVED THE LIFE OF THE QUEEN OF LYONESSE XVIII. SIR TRISTRAM'S FIRST BATTLE XIX. SIR TRISTRAM AND THE FAIR ISOUD XX. HOW SIR TRISTRAM DEMANDED THE FAIR ISOUD FOR KING MARK, AND HOW SIR TRISTRAM AND ISOUD DRANK THE LOVE POTION XXI. HOW SIR TRISTRAM DEPARTED FROM TINTAGIL, AND WAS LONG IN THE FOREST XXII. HOW KING MARK WAS SORRY FOR THE GOOD RENOWN OF SIR TRISTRAM XXIII. HOW SIR PERCIVALE OF GALIS SOUGHT AND FOUND SIR LAUNCELOT XXIV. OF THE COMING OF SIR GALAHAD XXV. HOW THE QUEST OF THE HOLY GRAIL WAS BEGUN XXVI. HOW GALAHAD GAT HIM A SHIELD XXVII. SIR GALAHAD AT THE CASTLE OF MAIDENS XXVIII. SIR LAUNCELOT'S REPENTANCE XXIX. SIR PERCIVALE'S TEMPTATION XXX. THE VICTORY OF SIR BORS OVER HIMSELF XXXI. HOW SIR LAUNCELOT FOUND THE HOLY GRAIL XXXII. THE END OF THE QUEST XXXIII. SIR LAUNCELOT AND THE FAIR MAID OF ASTOLAT XXXIV. OF THE GREAT TOURNAMENT ON CANDLEMAS DAY XXXV. QUEEN GUENEVER'S MAY-DAY RIDE AND WHAT CAME OF IT XXXVI. OF THE PLOT AGAINST SIR LAUNCELOT XXXVII. HOW SIR LAUNCELOT DEPARTED FROM THE KING AND FROM JOYOUS GARD XXXVIII. HOW KING ARTHUR AND SIR GAWAINE INVADED SIR LAUNCELOT'S REALM XXXIX. OF SIR MORDRED'S TREASON XL. OF ARTHUR'S LAST GREAT BATTLE IN THE WEST XLI. OF THE PASSING OF KING ARTHUR XLII. OF THE END OF THIS BOOK ILLUSTRATIONS KING ARTHUR . . . . . . . . . . . . (W. B. Margetson) _Frontispiece_ THE DEDICATION . . . . . . . . . . . (J. Pettie, R.A.) MERLIN AND NIMUE . . . . . . . . . . (Burne-Jones) SIR TRISTRAM AND THE FAIR ISOUD . . (D. G. Rosetti) SIR GALAHAD . . . . . . . . . . . . (G. F. Watts) SIR LAUNCELOT AT THE CROSS . . . . . (Stella Langdale) ELAINE . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . (J. M. Strudwick) THE PASSING OF ARTHUR . . . . . . . (Stella Langdale) "We have from the kind Creator a variety of mental powers, to which we must not neglect giving their proper culture in our earliest years, and which cannot be cultivated either by logic or metaphysics, Latin or Greek. We have an imagination, before which, since it should not seize upon the very first conceptions that chance to present themselves, we ought to place the fittest and most beautiful images, and thus accustom and practise the mind to recognise and love the beautiful everywhere." Quoted from Wieland by Goethe in his Autobiography Introduction Among the best liked stories of five or six hundred years ago were those which told of chivalrous deeds--of joust and tourney and knightly adventure. To be sure, these stories were not set forth in printed books, for there were no printed books as early as the times of the first three King Edwards, and few people could have read them if there had been any. But children and grown people alike were eager to hear these old-time tales read or recited by the minstrels, and the interest in them has continued in some measure through all the changing years and tastes. We now, in the times of the seventh King Edward, still find them far more worth our while than many modern stories. For us they have a special interest, because of home setting and Christian basis, and they may well share in our attention with the legends of Greece and Rome. In these early romances of chivalry, Arthur and his knights of the Round Table are by far the most popular heroes, and the finding of the Holy Grail is the highest achievement of knightly valour. The material for the Arthur stories came from many countries and from many different periods of history. Much of it is wholly fanciful, but the writers connected all the incidents directly or indirectly with the old Briton king of the fifth century, who was the model of knighthood, "without fear and without reproach." Perhaps there was a real King Arthur, who led the Britons against the Saxon invaders of their land, who was killed by his traitor nephew, and who was buried at Glastonbury,--the valley of Avilion of the legends; perhaps there was a slight historical nucleus around which all the romantic material was crystallising through the centuries, but the Arthur of romance came largely from the imagination of the early writers. And yet, though our "own ideal knight" may never have trod the soil of Britain or Roman or Saxon England, his chivalrous character and the knightly deeds of his followers are real to us, if we read them rightly, for "the poet's ideal was the truest truth." Though the sacred vessel--the Holy Grail--of the Christ's last supper with His disciples has not been borne about the earth in material form, to be seen only by those of stainless life and character, it is eternally true that the "pure in heart" are "blessed," "for they shall see God." This is what the Quest of the Holy Grail means, and there is still many a true Sir Galahad, who can say, as he did, "My strength is as the strength of ten, Because my heart is pure," and who attains the highest glory of knighthood, as before his clear vision "down dark tides the glory glides, And starlike mingles with the stars." We call these beautiful stories of long ago Stories of Chivalry, for, in the Middle Ages, chivalry influenced all that people did and said and thought. It began in the times of Charlemagne, a hundred years before our own King Alfred, and only very gradually it made its way through all the social order. Charlemagne was really a very great man, and because he was so, he left Western Europe a far better place to live in than he found it. Into the social life of his time he brought something like order and justice and peace, and so he greatly helped the Christian Church to do its work of teaching the rough and warlike Franks and Saxons and Normans the gentle ways of thrift and helpfulness. Charlemagne's "heerban," or call to arms, required that certain of his men should attend him on horseback, and this mounted service was the beginning of what is known as chivalry. The lesser nobles of each feudal chief served their overlords on horseback, _à cheval_, in times of war; they were called _knights_, which originally meant servants,--German _knechte_; and the system of knighthood, its rules, customs, and duties, was called chivalry,--French _chevalerie_. Chivalry belongs chiefly to the twelfth, thirteenth, and fourteenth centuries,--to about the time between King Richard of the Lion Heart and Prince Hal. There is no trace of ideas peculiar to it in the writings of the old Anglo-Saxons or in the _Nibelungen Lied_ of Germany. Geoffrey of Monmouth, who died, it is said, in the year 1154, is about the earliest writer who mentions customs that belong especially to chivalry. The Crusades, of Geoffrey's century and of the one following, gave much opportunity for its growth and practice; but in the fifteenth century chivalrous fashions and fancies began to seem absurd, and later, perhaps partly through the ridicule of that old-time book "Don Quixote," chivalry was finally laughed quite out of existence. The order of knighthood was given only after years of training and discipline. From his seventh year to his fourteenth the nobleman's son was a _page_ at the court or in the castle of his patron, learning the principles of religion, obedience, and gallantry. At fourteen, as a _squire_, the boy began a severer course of training, in order to become skilled in horsemanship, and to gain strength and courage, as well as the refinements and graces necessary in the company of knights and ladies. Finally, at twenty-one, his training was complete, and with elaborate and solemn formality the _squire_ was made a _knight_. Then, after a strict oath to be loyal, courteous, and brave, the armour was buckled on, and the proud young chevalier rode out into the world, strong for good or ill in limb, strong in impenetrable armour, strong in a social custom that lifted him above the common people about him. When rightly exercised chivalry was a great blessing to the people of its time. It offered high ideals of pure-minded, warm-hearted, courtly, courageous Christian manhood. It did much to arouse thought, to quicken sympathy, to purify morals, to make men truly brave and loyal. Of course this ideal of character was not in the days of chivalry--ideals are not often now--very fully realised. The Mediaeval, like the Modern, abused his power of muscle, of sword, of rank. His liberty as a knight-errant sometimes descended into the licence of a highwayman; his pride in the opportunity for helpfulness grew to be the braggadocio of a bully; his freedom of personal choice became the insolence of lawlessness; his pretended purity and justice proved wanton selfishness. Because of these abuses that crept into the system, it is well for the world that gunpowder at last came, to break through the knight's coat of mail, to teach the nobility respect for common men, roughly to end this age of so much superficial politeness and savage bravery, and to bring in a more democratic social order. The books of any age are for us a record of how the people of that age thought, how they lived, and what kind of men and women they tried to be. The old romances of chivalry give us clear pictures of the knights and ladies of the Middle Ages, and we shall lose the delight and the profit they may give us, if we think only of the defects of chivalry, and close our eyes to the really worthy motives of those far-off times, and so miss seeing what chivalry was able to do, while it lasted, to make men and women better and happier. Before reading the Arthur stories themselves it is well to know something about the way they have been built up, as one writer after another has taken the material left by predecessors, and has worked into it fresh conceptions of things brave and true. First there was the old Latin chronicle of Nennius, the earliest trace of Arthurian fact or fancy, with a single paragraph given to Arthur and his twelve great battles. This chronicle itself may have been based on yet earlier Welsh stories, which had been passed on, perhaps for centuries, by oral tradition from father to son, and gradually woven together into some legendary history of Oldest England in the local language of Brittany, across the English Channel. This original book is referred to by later writers, but was long ago lost. Geoffrey of Monmouth says it was the source of his material for his "Historia Britonum." Geoffrey's history, in Latin prose, written some time about the middle of the twelfth century, remains as the earliest definite record of the legends connected with King Arthur. Only a little later Geoffrey's Latin history was translated by Wace and others into Norman French, and here the Arthur material first appeared in verse form. Then, still later in the twelfth century, Walter Map worked the same stories over into French prose, and at the same time put so much of his own knowledge and imagination with them, that we may almost say that he was the maker of the Arthur romances. Soon after the year twelve hundred,--a half century after Geoffrey of Monmouth first set our English ancestors to thinking about the legendary old hero of the times of the Anglo-Saxon conquest--Layamon, parish priest of Ernly, in Worcestershire, gave to the English language (as distinct from the earlier Anglo-Saxon) his poem "Brut." This was a translation and enlargement of Wace's old French poem having Arthur as hero. So these stories of King Arthur, of Welsh or Celtic origin, came through the Latin, and then through French verse and prose, into our own speech, and so began their career down the centuries of our more modern history. After giving ideas to generation after generation of romance writers of many countries and in many languages, these same romantic stories were, in the fifteenth century, skilfully brought together into one connected prose narrative,--one of the choicest of the older English classics, "Le Morte Darthur," by Sir Thomas Malory. Those were troublous times when Sir Thomas, perhaps after having himself fought and suffered in the Wars of the Roses then in progress, found some quiet spot in Warwickshire in which to put together in lasting form the fine old stories that already in his day were classics. Malory finished his book in 1470, and its permanence for all time was assured fifteen years later, when Caxton, after the "symple connynge" that God had sent him (to use the quaint forms of expression then common), "under the favour and correctyon of al noble lordes and gentylmen emprysed to emprynte a book of the noble hystoryes of the sayd Kynge Arthur and of certeyn of his knyghtes after a copye unto him delyuerd whyche copye Syr Thomas Malorye dyd take oute of certeyn bookes of Frensche and reduced it in to Englysche." This hard-headed business man,--this fifteenth-century publisher,--was rather doubtful about the Briton king of a thousand years before his day, and to those urging upon him the venture of printing Malory's book he answered: "Dyuers men holde oppynyon that there was no suche Arthur and that alle suche bookes as been maad of hym ben fayned and fables by cause that somme cronycles make of him no mencyon ne remember him noo thynge ne of his knyghtes." But the arguments of those in favour of the undertaking prevailed, greatly to the advantage of the four centuries that have followed, during which "Le Morte Darthur" has been a constant source of poetic inspiration. Generation after generation of readers and of writers have drawn life from its chapters, and the new delight in Tennyson's "Idylls of the King," almost of our own time, shows that the fountain has not yet been drained dry. Malory's "Morte Darthur" is a long book, and its really great interest is partly hidden from us by forms of expression that belong only to the time when it was first written. Besides this, the ideas of what was right and proper in conduct and speech--moral standards--were far lower in Malory's day than they are now. The purpose of this new little volume is to bring the old tales freshly to the attention of young people of the present time. It keeps, as far as may be, the exact language and the spirit of the original, chooses such stories as best represent the whole, and modifies these only in order to remove what could possibly hide the thought, or be so crude in taste and morals as to seem unworthy of the really high-minded author of five hundred years ago. It aims also so to condense the book that, in this age of hurry, readers may not be repelled from the tales merely because of their length. Chivalry of just King Arthur's kind was given up long ago, but that for which it stood--human fellowship in noble purpose--is far older than the institution of knighthood or than even the traditions of the energetic, brave, true, helpful King Arthur himself. It links us with all the past and all the future. The knights of the twentieth century do not set out in chain-armour to right the wrongs of the oppressed by force of arms, but the best influences of chivalry have been preserved for the quickening of a broader and a nobler world than was ever in the dreams of knight-errant of old. Modern heroes of the genuine type owe more than they know to those of Arthur's court who swore: "To reverence the King, as if he were Their conscience, and their conscience as their King, To break the heathen and uphold the Christ, To ride abroad redressing human wrongs, To speak no slander, no, nor listen to it, To honour his own word as if his God's, To lead sweet lives in purest chastity, To love one maiden only, cleave to her, And worship her by years of noble deeds, Until they won her." "Antiquity produced heroes, but not gentlemen," someone has said. In the days of Charlemagne and Alfred began the training which, continued in the days of Chaucer and Sir Thomas Malory and many, many more, has given to this our age that highest type of manhood, the Christian gentleman. U. W. C. Stories of King Arthur CHAPTER I OF THE BIRTH OF KING ARTHUR It befell in the days of Uther Pendragon, when he was king of all England, that there was a mighty duke in Cornwall that held war against him a long time. And the duke was named the Duke of Tintagil. Ten miles away from his castle, called Terrabil, there was, in the castle Tintagil, Igraine of Cornwall, that King Uther liked and loved well, for she was a good and fair lady, and passing wise. He made her great cheer out of measure, and desired to have her love in return; but she would not assent unto him, and for pure anger and for great love of fair Igraine King Uther fell sick. At that time there lived a powerful magician named Merlin, who could appear in any place he chose, could change his looks as he liked, and at will could do wonderful things to help or to harm knights and ladies. So to King Uther came Sir Ulfius, a noble knight, and said, "I will seek Merlin, and he shall do you remedy so that your heart shall be pleased." So Ulfius departed, and by adventure met Merlin in beggar's array, and made him promise to be not long behind in riding to Uther's pavilion. Soon Merlin stood by the king's side and said: "I know all your heart, and promise ye shall have your desire, if ye will be sworn to fulfil my wish." This the king solemnly agreed to do, and then Merlin said: "After ye shall win Igraine as wife, a child shall be born to you that is to be given unto me to be brought up as I will; this shall be for your honour and the child's avail." That night King Uther met in battle the Duke of Tintagil, who had protected Igraine in her castle, and overcame him. Then Igraine welcomed Uther as her true lover, for Merlin had given him the appearance of one dear to her, and, the barons being all well accorded, the two were married on a morning with great mirth and joy. When the time came that Igraine should bear a son, Merlin came again unto the King to claim his promise, and he said: "I know a lord of yours in this land, a passing true man and a faithful, named Sir Ector, and he shall have the nourishing of your child. Let the young Prince be delivered to me at yonder privy postern, when I come for him." So the babe, Arthur Pendragon, bound in a cloth of gold, was taken by two knights and two ladies to the postern gate of the castle and delivered unto Merlin, disguised as a poor man, and by him was carried forth to Sir Ector, whose wife nourished him as her own child. Then within two years King Uther fell sick of a great malady. Wherefore all the barons made great sorrow, and asked Merlin what counsel were best, for few of them had ever seen or heard of the young child, Arthur. On the morn all by Merlin's counsel came before the King, and Merlin said: "Sir, shall your son Arthur be king, after your days, of this realm with all the appurtenance?" Then Uther Pendragon turned him and said in hearing of them all, "I give him God's blessing and mine, and bid him righteously and honourably to claim the crown upon forfeiture of my blessing." Therewith he died, and he was buried as befitted a king, and the Queen, fair Igraine, and all the barons made great sorrow. CHAPTER II UTHER'S SON, RIGHTWISE KING OF ALL ENGLAND Then stood the kingdom in great jeopardy a long while, for every lord strengthened himself, and many a one thought to be king rather than be ruled by a child that they had never known. All this confusion Merlin had foreseen, and he had taken the young prince away, to keep him safe from the jealous barons until he should be old enough to rule wisely for himself. Even Sir Ector did not know that the boy growing up with his own son Kay was the King's child, and heir to the realm. When now young Arthur had grown into a tall youth, well trained in all the exercises of honourable knighthood, Merlin went to the Archbishop of Canterbury and counselled him to send to all the lords of the realm and all the gentlemen of arms, that they should come to London at Christmas time, since God of His great mercy would at that time show by miracle who should be rightwise king of the realm. The Archbishop did as Merlin advised, and all the great knights made them clean of their life so that their prayer might be the more acceptable unto God, and when Christmas came they went unto London, each one thinking that perchance his wish to be made king should be granted. So in the greatest church of the city (whether it was St Paul's or not the old chronicle maketh no mention) all were at their prayers long ere day. When matins were done and they came out of the church, there was seen in the churchyard a great square stone, in the midst of which was an anvil of steel, a foot high, with a fair sword naked at the point sticking through it. Written in gold about the sword were letters that read thus: "Whoso pulleth out this sword from this stone and anvil is rightwise king born of all England." [Illustration: The Dedication.] All the people marvelled at the stone and the inscription, and some assayed--such as would be king--to draw out the sword. But none might stir it, and the Archbishop said: "He is not here that shall achieve this sword, but doubt not God will make him known. This now is my counsel, that we cause to be chosen ten knights, men of good fame, to guard this sword until the rightful possessor shall appear." So it was ordained, and it was proclaimed that every man should assay that would, to win the sword. And upon New Year's Day the barons held jousts and a tournament for all knights that would engage. All this was ordained for to keep the lords and the commons together, for the Archbishop trusted that God would soon make him known that should win the sword. So upon New Year's Day the barons rode to the field, some to joust and some to tourney; and it happened that Sir Ector rode also, and with him Sir Kay, his son, that had just been made knight, and young Arthur that was his foster-brother. As they rode to the joust-ward Sir Kay suddenly missed his sword, which he had left at his father's lodging, and he begged young Arthur to ride and fetch it. "I will gladly," said Arthur, and he hastened off home. But the lady and all the household were out to see the jousting, and he found nobody at home to deliver him the sword. Then was Arthur troubled, and said to himself, "I will ride to the churchyard and take the sword that sticketh in the stone, for my brother Sir Kay shall not be without a sword this day." So when he came to the great stone Arthur alighted, and tied his horse to the stile. He then went straight to the tent of the guards, but found no knights there, for they were at the jousting. So he took the sword by the handles, and lightly and fiercely pulled it out of the anvil; then he mounted his horse and rode his way till he came to his brother Sir Kay, and delivered him the sword. As soon as Sir Kay saw the sword, he knew well it was that one of the stone, and so he rode away to his father, Sir Ector, and said: "Sir, lo here is the sword of the stone; wherefore I must be king of this land." When Sir Ector beheld the sword, all three returned to the church and entered it. Anon Sir Ector made Sir Kay to swear upon a book how he came by that sword. And Sir Kay answered that Arthur had brought it to him. "And how gat ye the sword?" said he to Arthur; and when Sir Ector heard how it had been pulled from the anvil, he said to Arthur: "Now I understand ye must be king of this land." "Wherefore I?" said Arthur, "and for what cause?" "Sir," said Ector, "for God will have it so; for there should never man have drawn out this sword but he that shall be rightwise king. Now let me see whether ye can put the sword there as it was, and pull it out again." "That is no mastery," said Arthur, and so he put it into the stone. Therewith Sir Ector assayed to pull out the sword, and failed. Then Sir Kay pulled at it with all his might, but it would not yield. "Now shall ye assay again," said Sir Ector to Arthur. "I will well," said Arthur, and pulled it out easily a second time. Now was Sir Ector sure that Arthur was of higher blood than had been thought, and that the rightful king had been made known. And he told his foster-son all, how he was not his father, but had taken him to nourish at Merlin's request. Arthur was grieved indeed when he understood that Sir Ector was not his father, and that the good lady that had fostered and kept him as her own son was not his true mother, and he said to Sir Ector, "If ever it be God's will that I be king, as ye say, ye shall desire of me what I may do, and I shall not fail you." Therewithal they went unto the Archbishop and told him how the sword was achieved, and by whom. And all the barons came thither, that whoever would might assay to take the sword. But there before them all none might take it out but Arthur. Now many lords became wroth, and said it was great shame unto them all and to the realm to be governed by a boy. They contended so at that time that the matter was put off till Candlemas, when all the barons should meet there again. A pavilion was set over the stone and the sword, and the ten knights were ordained to watch there day and night, five being always on guard. So at Candlemas many more great lords came thither to win the sword, but none might prevail except Arthur. The barons were sore aggrieved at this, and again put it off in delay till the high feast of Easter. And as Arthur sped afore, so did he at Easter; yet there were some of the great lords that had indignation that Arthur should be their king, and put it off in a delay till the feast of Pentecost. At the feast of Pentecost all manner of men assayed to pull at the sword, yet none might prevail but Arthur; and he pulled it out afore all the lords and commons that were there. Wherefore all the commons cried at once, "We will have Arthur unto our king; we will put him no more in delay, for we all see that it is God's will that he shall be our king, and who that holdeth against it we will slay as traitor." And they kneeled down all at once, both rich and poor, and begged mercy of Arthur, because they had delayed so long. And Arthur forgave them, and took the sword between both his hands, and offered it upon the altar where the Archbishop was, and so was he made knight of the best man that was there. And anon was the coronation made, and there Arthur swore unto his lords and the commons to be a true king, to stand for justice all the days of his life. Then he made all the lords that were subject to the crown to come in, and to do service as they ought to do. And many great wrongs that had been done since the death of King Uther were righted, and to lords, knights, ladies, and gentlemen were given back the lands of which they had been unjustly deprived. When the king had thus established justice in all the countries about London, he made Sir Kay seneschal of England, and other officers he appointed also that should aid in keeping back his enemies and holding his realm in peace and orderliness. CHAPTER III HOW ARTHUR GAT HIS SWORD EXCALIBUR On a day there came into the court of the young King a squire on horseback, bringing a knight, his master, mortally wounded, and seeking justice against the murderer. Then came up Griflet, that was but a squire, a young man of the age of King Arthur, and asked to be given the order of knighthood, that he might ride out against the knight that had done the evil deed, who dwelt by a well in the forest. Arthur was loath to bring this passing brave youth into peril by giving him so high an adventure; but at the desire of Griflet the King at the last gave him the order of knighthood, and he rode away till he came to the fountain. There he saw the pavilion of the knight, and his horse all saddled and bridled, and his shield of divers colours, and a great spear hanging on a tree hard by. Griflet struck the shield with the butt of his spear, so that it fell clattering down to the ground. With that the knight came out of the pavilion and said, "Fair knight, why smote ye down my shield?" "For I will joust with you," said Griflet. "It is better ye do not," said the knight, "for ye are but a young and late-made knight, and your might is nothing to mine." But Griflet would have it so, and the two ran together with such force that Griflet's spear was all shattered, and horse and rider fell down sore wounded. When the knight saw the youth lying on the ground, he was heavy of heart; and he unlaced his helm to give him air, and finally setting him on his horse, sent him with cheering words back to the court. Here great dole was made for him because of his wounds, and Arthur was passing wroth for the hurt of Sir Griflet. The next morning ere day the King ordered his best horse, and in full armour rode out alone to encounter the knight of the fountain. It was a strong battle they had. Arthur's spear was all shattered, and his horse fell to the ground. Then they fought with swords with many great strokes and much blood-shed on both sides. Finally by a mighty blow from his enemy,--a passing big man of might,--Arthur's sword was smitten in two pieces, and he was called upon to yield himself as overcome and recreant, or die. "As for death," said King Arthur, "welcome be it when it cometh; but to yield me unto thee as recreant, I had rather die than to be so shamed." Therewithal came Merlin, and made known who Arthur was. Then by enchantment he caused the knight to fall into a deep sleep, and bore Arthur away to a hermit to be cured of his wounds. When, after three days of rest and healing, he was riding with Merlin through the forest, King Arthur said, "I have no sword." "No matter," said Merlin; "there is one near by that I can perhaps get for you." So they rode on till it chanced that they passed a fair and broad lake. In the midst of the water Arthur became aware of an arm clothed in white samite[1] holding aloft a beautiful sword. "Lo! there is the sword of which I spake," said Merlin, "and yonder is the Lady of the Lake ready to help you to it, if ye speak fair to her." Anon came the damsel unto Arthur and saluted him, and he her again. "Damsel," said Arthur, "what sword is it that the arm holdeth above the water yonder? I would it were mine, for I have no sword." "Sir Arthur King," said the damsel, "that sword is mine, and if ye will give me a gift when I ask it you, go ye into yonder barge and row yourself to the sword, and take it and the scabbard with you." So Sir Arthur and Merlin alighted and tied their horses to a tree, and then they went into the magic boat. Soon they were beside the sword that the hand held up. Arthur took it by the handle, the arm and the hand went down beneath the water, and the two travellers rowed back to the land and went forth. As they rode along Arthur looked on the sword, which had the name Excalibur, that is as much as to say Cut-steel, and he liked it passing well, for the handle was all set with precious stones. "Which like you better," said Merlin, "the sword or the scabbard?" "The sword," replied Arthur. "Ye are unwise," said Merlin; "the scabbard is worth ten of the sword, for while ye have the scabbard upon you, ye shall lose no blood; therefore keep well the scabbard always with you." In this way Arthur came by Excalibur, and many an adventure he was to have with it, and was to suffer great danger when by evil interference it was, as we shall see, for a time stolen from him. With it in hand the hardest fight went well in the end, for the scabbard kept him from weakness, and a mysterious power lay in the strong, true blade that none could withstand, until the time came for King Arthur to give back the sword to the Lady of the Lake and to die of the wounds of a traitor. So King Arthur and Merlin rode on, and when they came back safe to Carlion and the court the knights were passing glad. Some wondered that the king would risk himself abroad so alone, but all men of valour said it was merry to be under such a chief that would put his person in adventure as other poor knights did. [1] Samite: silk stuff CHAPTER IV BALIN AND BALAN On a day there came a messenger to King Arthur saying that King Ryons of North Wales, a strong man in body, and passing proud, had discomfited and overcome eleven kings, and each of these to do him homage had cut his beard clean off as trimming for King Ryons' royal mantle. One place of the mantle still lacked trimming; wherefore he sent for Arthur's beard, and if he did not receive it he would enter England to burn and slay, and never would he leave till he had Arthur, head and all. "Well," said Arthur to the messenger, "thou hast said thy message, the most insolent ever sent unto a king. Thou seest my beard is full young yet to make a trimming of it. Tell thou thy king I owe him no homage, but ere long he shall do me homage on both his knees." So the messenger departed. Among those who, at Arthur's call, gathered at Camelot to withstand King Ryons' invasion of the land was a knight that had been Arthur's prisoner half a year and more for some wrong done to one of the court. The name of this knight was Balin, a strong, courageous man, but poor and so poorly clothed that he was thought to be of no honour. But worthiness and good deeds are not all only in arrayment. Manhood and honour is hid within man's person, and many an honourable knight is not known unto all people through his clothing. This Balin felt deeply the insult of King Ryons, and anon armed himself to ride forth to meet with him and mayhap to destroy him, in the hope that then King Arthur would again be his good and gracious lord. The meanwhile that this knight was making ready to depart on this adventure, there came to Arthur's court the Lady of the Lake, and she now asked of him the gift that he promised her when she gave him his sword Excalibur. "Ask what ye will," said the King, "and ye shall have it, if it lie in my power to give." Thereupon she demanded Balin's head, and would take none other thing. "Truly," said King Arthur, "I may not grant this with my honour," and Balin was allowed to make ready for the adventure with King Ryons. But ere he had left the court he saw the Lady of the Lake. He went straight to her, and with his sword lightly smote off her head before King Arthur, for he knew her as the untruest lady living, one that by enchantment and sorcery had been the destroyer of many good knights. "Alas! for shame," said Arthur. "Why have ye done so? Ye have shamed me and all my court, for this was a lady that I was beholden to, and hither she came under my safe conduct. I shall never forgive you that trespass. What cause soever ye had, ye should have spared her in my presence; therefore withdraw you out of my court in all haste that ye may." So Balin,--called Balin the Wild for his savage and reckless nature,--departed with his squire, and King Arthur and all the court made great mourning, and had shame at the death of the Lady of the Lake. Then the King buried her richly. In sorrow over the evil he had wrought and the disfavour of his king, Balin turned his horse towards a great forest, and there by the armour he was ware of his brother Balan. And when they were met, they put off their helms and kissed together, and wept for joy. Anon the knight Balin told his brother of the death of the Lady of the Lake, and said: "Truly I am right heavy of heart that my lord Arthur is displeased with me, for he is the most honourable knight that reigneth on earth, and his love I will get or else I will put my life in adventure with King Ryons, that lieth now at the castle Terrabil. Thither will we ride together in all haste, to prove our honour and prowess upon him." "I will gladly do that," said Balan; "we will help each other as brothers ought to do." So they took their way to find King Ryons, and as they rode along together they encountered him in a straight way with threescore knights. Anon Balin and Balan smote him down from his horse, and slew on the right hand and the left hand more than forty of his men. The remnant fled, and King Ryons yielded him unto their grace as prisoner. So they laid him on a horse-litter, for he was fiercely wounded, and brought him to Camelot. There they delivered him to the porters and charged them with him; and then they two returned to further adventure. And Balin rode towards the castle of King Pellam to revenge the wrongs of knights and ladies on a treacherous knight named Garlon. He had a fifteen days' journey thither, and the day he came unto the castle there began a great feast. Balin was well received, and led to a chamber, where he laid off his armour. They also brought him robes to his pleasure, and would have had him leave his sword behind him. "Nay," said Balin, "that do I not, for it is the custom of my country for a knight always to have his weapon with him, and that custom will I keep, or else I will depart as I came." Then they gave him leave to wear his sword, and so he went unto the hall and was set among the knights of honour. Soon he saw the false knight Garlon, and thought to himself: "If I slay him here I shall not escape, and if I leave him now, peradventure I shall never meet with him again at such a good time, and much harm will he do if he live." Then this Garlon espied that Balin watched him, and he came and smote Balin on the face, and said: "Knight, why watchest thou me so? Eat thy meat, and do that thou camest for." Then Balin said, "I will do that I came for," and rose up fiercely and clove his head to the shoulders. Anon all the knights arose from the table to set on Balin, and King Pellam himself caught in his hand a grim weapon and smote eagerly at Balin, but Balin put his sword betwixt his head and the stroke. With that his sword was broken in sunder, and he, now weaponless, ran into the chamber to seek some weapon, and so, from chamber to chamber, but no weapon could he find, and alway King Pellam came after him. At last Balin entered into a chamber that was marvellously well furnished and richly, wherein was a bed arrayed with cloth of gold, the richest that might be thought, and thereby a table of clean gold, and upon the table a marvellous spear, strangely wrought. And when Balin saw that spear he took it in his hand, and turned to King Pellam and smote him passing hard with it so that he fell down in a swoon. Therewith the castle roof and walls brake and fell to the earth, and Balin also, so that he might not stir foot nor hand, for through that dolorous stroke the most part of the castle that was fallen down lay upon him and Pellam. After three days Merlin came thither, and he took up Balin and gat him a good horse, for his was dead, and bade him ride out of the country. Merlin also told him that his stroke had turned to great dole, trouble, and grief, for the marvellous spear was the same with which Longius, the Roman soldier, smote our Lord Jesus Christ to the heart at the crucifixion. Then departed Balin from Merlin, never to meet him again, and rode forth through the fair countries and cities about Pellam Castle, and found people dead, slain on every side. And all that were left alive cried: "O Balin, thou hast caused great damage in these countries, for by the dolorous stroke thou gavest unto King Pellam three countries are destroyed, and doubt not but the vengeance will fall on thee at the last." When Balin was out of those countries he was passing glad, and after many days he came by a cross, whereon were letters of gold written that said, "It is not for any knight alone to ride towards this castle." Then saw he an old hoary gentleman coming towards him that said, "Balin the Wild, thou passest thy bounds to come this way; therefore turn again and it will avail thee." The old gentleman vanished away, and then Balin heard a horn blow, as if for the death of a beast in the chase. "That blast," said he, "is blown for me, for I am the prize, yet am I not dead." Anon he saw a hundred ladies and many knights, that welcomed him with fair semblance, and made him passing good cheer seemingly, and led him into the castle, where there were dancing and minstrelsy, and all manner of joy. Then the chief lady of the castle said, "Knight, you must have ado with a knight close by that keepeth an island, for there may no man pass this way but he must joust, ere he go farther." "That is an unhappy custom," said Balin, "that a knight may not pass this way unless he joust, but since that is my duty, thereto am I ready. Travelling men are oft weary, and their horses also; but though my horse be weary my heart is not weary." "Sir," said the knight then to Balin, "me thinketh your shield is not good; I will lend you a better." So Balin took the shield that was unknown, and left his own, and rode unto the island. He put himself and his horse in a great boat, and when he came on the other side he met with a damsel, and she said, "O Knight Balin, why hast thou left thine own shield? Alas! thou hast put thyself in great danger, for by thine own shield thou shouldst have been known. It is a great pity, for of thy prowess and hardiness thou hast no equal living." "Me repenteth," said Balin, "that ever I came within this country, but I may not turn now again for shame, and what adventure shall fall to me, be it life or death, I will take the adventure that shall come to me." Then he looked on his armour, and understood he was well armed, for which he was thankful, and so he mounted upon his horse. Then before him he saw come riding out of a castle a knight in red armour, and his horse was all trapped in the same colour. When this knight in red beheld Balin, he thought he was like his brother; but because he knew not his shield, he deemed it was not he. And so they couched their spears and came marvellously fast together, and they smote each other in the shields; but their spears were so heavy and their course so swift that horse and man were borne down, and both knights lay in a swoon. Balin was bruised sore with the fall of his horse, for he was weary with travel, and Balan (for the knight in red was none other) was the first that rose to his feet. He drew his sword and went towards Balin, who arose and went against him. But Balan smote Balin first, striking through his shield and cleaving his helm. Then Balin smote him in return with that unhappy sword that had already wrought so great harm, and the blow well nigh felled his brother Balan. So they fought there together till their breaths failed. Then Balin looked up to the castle, and saw the towers stand full of ladies; so they went to battle again and wounded each other dolefully. Then they breathed ofttimes, and yet again went unto battle, until all the place there was blood-red from the great wounds that either had smitten other, and their hauberks became unriveted so that naked they were on every side. At last Balan, the younger brother, withdrew a little and laid himself down. Then said Balin the Wild, "What knight art thou? for ere now I found never a knight that matched me." "My name is," said he, "Balan, brother to the good knight Balin." "Alas!" said Balin, "that ever I should see this day." Thereupon he fell backward in a swoon. Then Balan crept on all fours to his brother and put oft his helm, but he might not know him, his visage was so disguised by blood and wounds. But when Balin awoke, he said, "O Balan, my brother, thou hast slain me and I thee, wherefore all the wide world shall speak of us both." "Alas!" said Balan; "that ever I saw this day, that through mishap I might not know thee! Because thou hadst another shield I deemed thou wert another knight." "Alas!" said Balin, "all this was caused by an unhappy knight in the castle, that made me leave mine own shield, to the destruction of us both." Then anon Balan died, and at midnight after, Balin; so both were buried together, and the lady of the castle had Balan's name written on the tomb and how he was there slain by his brother's hand, but she knew not Balin's name. In the morn came Merlin and wrote Balin's inscription also in letters of gold: "Here lieth Balin the Wild, that smote the dolorous stroke." Soon after this was done Merlin came to King Arthur and told him of the dolorous stroke that Balin gave King Pellam, and how Balin and Balan fought together the most marvellous battle that ever was heard of, and how they buried both in one tomb. "Alas!" said King Arthur; "this is the greatest pity that ever I heard tell of two knights, for in the world I know not such two knights." Thus endeth the tale of Balin and Balan, two brethren born in Northumberland, good knights both. CHAPTER V THE NOBLE ORDER OF THE ROUND TABLE Arthur was indeed king, but enemies long held out against his just authority. When he went into Wales to be crowned at the city of Carlion, he let cry a great feast to be holden at Pentecost. Unto this feast came the six kings of that region with many of their knights, and Arthur thought it was to do him honour. But when he made joy of their coming and sent them great presents, the kings would none receive, and said they had no joy to receive gifts of a beardless boy that was come of low birth. They sent him word that they were come to give him gifts with hard swords betwixt the neck and the shoulders, for it was great shame to all of them to see such a boy have rule of so noble a realm as this land was. This answer was told King Arthur, who now betook himself to a strong tower and five hundred good men with him. Here the six kings laid siege to him, but he was well victualled; and soon Merlin came and bade him fear not, but speak boldly to his enemies, "for," said he, "ye shall overcome them all, whether they will or nill." So the King armed himself and all his knights and came out to do battle with his enemies. Then three hundred good men of the best that were with the kings went straight over unto King Arthur, which comforted him greatly. So he set upon the hosts of the six kings, and he and his men did marvellous deeds of arms. Therewith he put them back, and then the commons of Carlion arose with clubs and staves and slew many of the enemy, and so they fled away. Since the enemy were still passing strong, Merlin counselled King Arthur to send letters well devised beyond the sea to the two brethren, marvellous good men of their hands, named one King Ban of Benwick and the other King Bors of Gaul, and to say to them that, if they would come and help King Arthur in his wars, he in turn would be sworn unto them to help them in their wars against King Claudas, a mighty man that strove with them for a castle. So there were made letters in the pleasantest wise, according to King Arthur's desire, and Ulfius and Brastias, the messengers, rode forth well horsed and well armed, and so passed the sea and came to the city of Benwick. Here they had good cheer as long as they tarried, and received the answer that King Ban and King Bors would come unto King Arthur in all the haste they might. Now those six kings in Wales had by their means gotten unto them five other kings, and all swore together that for weal or woe they would not leave each other till they had destroyed Arthur. So their whole host drew towards Arthur, now strengthened by Ban and Bors with their followers that had crossed from Gaul to his aid. Then followed a great battle, and they did on both sides great deeds of arms until at the last Merlin counselled Arthur to fight no longer, since the eleven kings had more on hand than they were ware of, and would soon depart home; for a messenger would come and tell them that lawless people as well as Saracens, forty thousand in number, had entered their lands and were burning and slaying without mercy. So the great battle was ended, and the eleven kings went to their own country. Now King Arthur, King Ban, and King Bors came with their following into the country of Cameliard, and there aided King Leodegrance against an enemy of that land. King Leodegrance thanked them for their goodness, and made them great cheer ere King Ban and King Bors departed back towards Benwick. In Cameliard Arthur had the first sight of Guenever, the King's daughter, and ever afterwards he loved her. So when peace was once more in his land, King Arthur asked counsel of Merlin about seeking her as his wife, for to him she was the most valiant and fairest lady living or to be found. "Sir," said Merlin, "as for her beauty, she is one of the fairest alive, but if ye loved her not so well as ye do, I could choose better for you. Yet when a man's heart is set, he will be loath to change." So Merlin was sent forth to King Leodegrance, and he told him of King Arthur's desire. King Leodegrance was glad that so worthy a king of prowess and of nobleness would wed his daughter, and promised him as wedding gift,--not lands, for he had enough and needed none,--but what would please him much more, the Table Round, which Uther Pendragon had given to the King of Cameliard,--a table made by Merlin at which an hundred and fifty knights might be seated. So Guenever, attended by Merlin and an hundred good knights (all King Leodegrance could spare, so many had been slain in his wars) with the Round Table rode with great pomp by water and by land to London. There King Arthur made great joy of their coming, for he had long loved Guenever. Also the gift pleased him more than right great riches. And the marriage and the coronation were ordained with all speed in the most honourable wise that could be devised. Merlin was sent to espy out in all the land fifty knights of most prowess and honour, who should make up the full number for the Round Table. Only twenty-eight could he find worthy enough, and these Merlin fetched to Arthur's court. And Merlin made sieges (seats), an hundred and fifty in all, for the knights, and he placed in every knight's siege his name in letters of gold. On that same day King Arthur founded the great order of the Round Table, the fame of which was to last for all time. An hundred and twenty-eight were then sworn as Knights of the Table Round, and every year at the high feast of Pentecost others were to be added as they showed themselves worthy. Only one siege was long empty, the Siege Perilous, for no man should sit therein but one, and if any one of unworthy life were so hardy as to sit therein, he should be destroyed. With great ceremony each one took the vows of true knighthood, solemnly promising to do no wicked deed, to be loyal to the King, to give mercy to those asking it, always to be courteous and helpful to ladies, and to fight in no wrongful quarrel for wordly gain, upon pain of death or forfeiture of knighthood and King Arthur's favour. Unto this were all the knights of the Round Table sworn, both old and young. To dishonour knighthood was the greatest disgrace; to prove themselves worthy of knightly honour by strong, brave, courteous, loyal bearing under great difficulties was the highest end of living. So King Arthur stablished all his knights, and to them that were not rich he gave lands; and they rode abroad to right the wrongs of men, and to give help to the oppressed. With their aid he secured order and justice throughout his realm, and then the weakest man might do his work in peace, and prosper. CHAPTER VI THE LADIES' KNIGHT The King was wedded unto Dame Guenever at Camelot with great solemnity. Just as all were sitting at the high feast that followed the marriage, there came running into the hall a white hart, followed by a whole pack of hounds with a great cry, and the hart went about the Table Round. At a fierce bite from one of the dogs the hart made a great leap, and overthrew a knight that sat at the table, and so passed forth out of the hall again, with all the dogs after him. When they were gone the King was glad, for they made such a noise, but Merlin said, "Ye may not leave this adventure so lightly. Let call Sir Gawaine, for he must bring again the white hart." "I will," said the King, "that all be done by your advice." So Sir Gawaine was called, and he took his charge and armed himself for the adventure. Sir Gawaine was one of King Arthur's nephews, and had just been made a knight, for he had asked of the King the gift of knighthood on the same day that he should wed fair Guenever. So Sir Gawaine rode quickly forth, and Gaheris his brother rode with him, instead of a squire, to do him service. As they followed the hart by the cry of the hounds, they came to a great river. The hart swam over, and they followed after, and so at length they chased him into a castle, where in the chief courtyard the dogs slew the hart before Sir Gawaine and young Gaheris came up. Right so there came a knight out of a room, with a sword drawn in his hand, and he slew two of the greyhounds even in the sight of Sir Gawaine, and the remnant he chased with his sword out of the castle. When he came back he said, "O my white hart, me repenteth that thou art dead, for my sovereign lady gave thee to me, and poorly have I kept thee. Thy death shall be dear bought, if I live." Anon he came fiercely towards Sir Gawaine, and they struck mightily together. They clove their shields and broke their helms and hauberks so that the blood ran down to their feet. At the last Sir Gawaine smote the knight so hard that he fell to the earth; and then he cried for mercy and yielded himself, and besought Sir Gawaine as he was a knight and gentleman to save his life. "Thou shalt die," said Sir Gawaine, "for slaying of my hounds." "I will make amends," said the knight, "unto my power." Sir Gawaine would no mercy have, but unlaced his helm to strike off his head, when at that instant came his lady out of a chamber. She fell upon her husband just as the blow descended, and so Sir Gawaine smote off her head by misadventure, and the knight was saved. "Alas!" said Gaheris, "that is foul and shamefully done; that shame shall never depart from you. Ye should give mercy unto them that ask mercy, for a knight without mercy is without honour." Sir Gawaine was so astonished at the death of the fair lady that he knew not what he did, and he said unto the knight, "Arise, I will give thee mercy; and go thou unto King Arthur, and tell him how thou art overcome by the knight that went in the quest of the white hart." "I care not for mercy now," said the knight, "for thou hast slain my lady that I loved best of all earthly things it matters not whether I live or die." Then Sir Gawaine went into the castle and made ready to rest there all night. "What will ye do?" said Gaheris; "will ye unarm you in this country? Ye may believe ye have many enemies here." He had no sooner said that word than there came four knights well armed, and anon they made Sir Gawaine and Gaheris yield themselves as prisoners, in spite of the brave battle wherein Sir Gawaine was sore wounded in the arm. Early on the morrow there came to Sir Gawaine in the prison one of the ladies of the castle, and said, "Sir Knight, what cheer?" "Not good," said he. "It is your own fault," said the lady, "for ye have done a passing foul deed in the slaying of the lady, which will be great disgrace unto you. Be ye not of King Arthur's kin?" "Yes, truly," said Sir Gawaine. "My name is Gawaine, and my mother is King Arthur's sister." "Ah, then are ye nephew unto King Arthur," said the lady, "and I shall so speak for you that ye shall have conduct to King Arthur, for love of him." Then anon they delivered Sir Gawaine under this promise, that he should bear the dead lady to the court, the severed head hanging about his neck. Right so he rode forth unto Camelot, and Merlin made him tell of his adventure, and how he slew the lady, and how he would give no mercy unto the knight, whereby the lady was slain. Then the King and the Queen were greatly displeased with Sir Gawaine, and by ordinance of the Queen there was set a quest of ladies on Sir Gawaine, and they ordered him for ever while he lived to be with all ladies, and to fight for their quarrels; and that ever he should be courteous, and never refuse mercy to him that asketh mercy. Thus was Gawaine sworn upon the four Evangelists that he should never be against lady nor gentlewoman, except if he fought for a lady and his adversary fought for another. Thus endeth the adventure of Sir Gawaine, that he did at the marriage of King Arthur. CHAPTER VII WISE MERLIN'S FOOLISHNESS Arthur was now established as king over all the land. The great council hall at Camelot, that is Winchester, had been built, some say by Merlin's skill; and the most loyal and the bravest knights of the world had been gathered at Arthur's court to do honour to him and his fair Queen Guenever. Merlin was Arthur's wisest helper and most powerful friend, as he had before been the helper and friend of his father Uther, for whom he had made the Round Table, signifying the roundness of the world. We have seen how he hid the young Arthur away from the jealousy of the wild barons, and how, by his power over men and his knowledge of what would be, he had saved the King's life and guided his wise rule. The old magician Bleise, that dwelt in Northumberland, was Merlin's master, and he it was that wrote down all the battles of Arthur with his enemies word by word as Merlin told him, and all the battles that were done in Arthur's days, until Merlin was lost, as we shall see, through his own foolishness. On a time Merlin told King Arthur that he should not endure long, but for all his crafts he should be put in the earth alive. Also he told many things that should befall, and how the king would miss him, so that rather than all his lands he would wish to have him again. "Ah," said King Arthur, "since ye know of this, provide against it, and put away by your crafts that misadventure." "Nay," said Merlin, "it cannot be done." For Merlin, now grown an old man in his dotage, had fallen under the spell of a damsel of the court named Nimue. With her he soon departed from the King, and evermore went with her wheresoever she went. Ofttimes he wished to break away from her, but he was so held that he could not be out of her presence. Ever she made him good cheer, till she had learned from him all she desired of his secret craft, and had made him swear that he would never do any enchantment upon her. [Illustration: Merlin and Nimue] They went together over the sea unto the land of Benwick, where Ban was king, that had helped Arthur against his enemies. Here Merlin saw young Launcelot, King Ban's son, and he told the queen that this same child should grow to be a man of great honour, so that all Christendom should speak of his prowess. So the queen was comforted of her great sorrow that she made for the mortal war that King Claudas waged on her lord and on her lands. Then afterwards Nimue and Merlin departed into Cornwall, and by the way he showed her many wonders, and wearied her with his desire for her love. She would fain have been delivered of him, for she was afraid of him, almost believing him a devil's son, and yet she could not put him away by any means. And so on a time it happened that Merlin showed to her a wonderful cavern in the cliff, closed by an enchanted stone. By her subtle working she soon made Merlin remove the stone and go into the cavern to let her know of the marvels there. Then she so wrought through the magic he had taught her that the stone was placed back again, so that he never came out for all the craft that he could do. And then she departed and left him there. On a day a certain knight rode to see adventures, and happened to come to the rock where Nimue had put Merlin, and there he heard him make great lamentation. The knight would gladly have helped him, and tried to move the great stone; but it was so heavy that a hundred men might not lift it up. When Merlin knew that the knight sought his deliverance, he bade him leave his labour, for all was in vain. He could never be helped but by her that put him there. So Merlin's prophecy of his own end was fulfilled, and he passed from the world of men. Arthur truly missed his old friend and marvelled what had become of him. Afterwards, when the last great battle came, he would have given everything to have Merlin with him again, but it could not be. CHAPTER VIII A STAG-HUNT AND WHAT CAME OF IT It befell that Arthur and many of his knights rode on hunting into a deep forest, and King Arthur, King Uriens of Gore that was the husband of Arthur's sister Morgan le Fay, and Sir Accolon of Gaul followed a great hart so fast that within a while they were ten miles from their fellowship. At the last they chased so sore that they slew their horses underneath them. Then were they all three on foot, and ever they saw the hart afore them passing weary and hard bestead[1]. "Let us go on foot," said King Uriens, "till we meet with some lodging." Then were they ware of the hart that lay on a great water bank, and a dog biting on his throat, and more other hounds came after. King Arthur now blew the prize[2] and dight[3] the hart. But the three knights were in sore straits, so far from home, and without horses, and they began to look about the world. Then Arthur saw afore him in a great lake a little ship, all apparelled with silk down to the water, coming right unto them, and it landed on the sands. They went on board, all three, to see what was in the ship. Soon it was dark night, and there suddenly were about them an hundred torches set upon all the sides of the ship boards, and it gave great light. Therewithal there came out twelve fair damsels, and they set forth for the knights a supper of all meats that they could think. Then they showed them richly beseen[4] chambers for the night, where the three huntsmen slept marvellously. But when they awoke next morning, everything had been changed through the sorcery of Morgan le Fay, that was secretly plotting against her brother, to destroy him. King Uriens awoke in his own bed in Camelot, and Arthur found himself in a dark prison, with many woeful knights complaining about him, and they soon told him for what cause they were there. The lord of the castle where they were prisoners was the falsest knight alive, a treacherous, cowardly man, named Sir Damas. He had a younger brother, Sir Ontzlake, a good knight of prowess, well beloved of all people, from whom he was keeping back unjustly a full fair manor. Great war had been betwixt these brothers. Ontzlake was a far better fighter than the cowardly Damas, and yet he could not bring the elder to give over the younger brother's inheritance. He offered to fight for it, and wished Sir Damas to find a knight to fight in his stead, if he himself dared not engage. But Sir Damas was so hated that there was never one would fight for him, though he had by force taken all the knights of that whole region and brought them to his prison for to make them willing to take up his cause. Many had died there, and the twenty that were yet alive were lean and spent with hunger, but no one of them would stand against Sir Ontzlake. Anon there came a damsel unto Arthur and asked him, "What cheer?" "I cannot say," said he. "Sir," said she, "if ye will fight for my lord, ye shall be delivered out of prison, and else ye escape never with life." "Now," said Arthur, "that is hard, yet had I liefer to fight with a knight than to die in prison," and so it was agreed that he should do the battle on this covenant, that he should be delivered and all the prisoners. With that all the twenty knights were brought out of the dark prison into the hall, and set free, but they all abode to see the battle. Now turn we unto Accolon of Gaul, that was with King Arthur and King Uriens on the stag-hunt and that fell asleep on the magic ship. When he awoke he found himself beside a deep well, within half a foot of its edge, in great peril of death. "Heaven save my lord King Arthur and King Uriens," said he, "for these damsels in the ship have betrayed us. They were devils and no women, and if I may escape this misadventure, I shall destroy all false damsels that use enchantments, wherever I may find them." Right then there came a dwarf with a great mouth and a flat nose, and saluted Sir Accolon and said he came from Queen Morgan le Fay. "She greeteth you well," said he, "and biddeth you be of strong heart, for ye shall fight to-morn with a knight at the hour of prime, and therefore she hath sent you here Excalibur, Arthur's sword, and the scabbard, and she biddeth you as ye love her, that ye do the battle to the uttermost without any mercy, like as ye promised her when ye spake together in private." Sir Accolon believed he fully understood the message, and he said he should keep his promise now that he had the sword. Just then a knight, who was no other than Sir Ontzlake himself, with a lady and six squires, came up on horseback, saluted Sir Accolon, and begged him to come and rest himself at his manor. So Accolon mounted upon a spare horse and rode to the manor, where he had passing good cheer. Meantime Sir Damas sent to his brother, Sir Ontzlake, and bade him make ready to fight the next day with a good knight who had agreed to do battle for the disputed heritage; and it happened through Morgan le Fay's trickery that Accolon was lodged with Sir Ontzlake at the very time when this message came. Now Sir Ontzlake was sore troubled at the message, for he had been wounded in both thighs by a spear a short time before, and was suffering much. Still, wounded as he was, he would have taken the battle in hand, had not Sir Accolon offered to fight in his stead, because Morgan le Fay had sent Excalibur and the sheath for the battle with the knight on the morrow. Then Sir Ontzlake was passing glad, and sent word unto his brother, Sir Damas, that he had a knight who would be ready in the field by to-morrow at the hour of prime. So it was arranged that Sir Arthur and Sir Accolon, unknown to one another, were to fight over the quarrel of the two brothers. Preparations were made accordingly, and all the knights and commons of the country were there to see the encounter. Just as Arthur was ready upon horseback, there came a damsel from Morgan le Fay bringing unto him a sword like unto Excalibur, and the scabbard, and said: "Morgan le Fay sendeth you here your sword for great love." He thanked her, not knowing that the sword and scabbard were counterfeit, and brittle and false. They went eagerly to the battle, and gave many great strokes. Sir Accolon had all advantage on his side, for he had the real Excalibur, Morgan le Fay having so ordained that King Arthur should have been slain that day. King Arthur's sword never bit like Sir Accolon's, and almost every stroke Sir Accolon gave wounded sore, so that it was a marvel that Arthur stood. Almost from the first it seemed to him that the sword in Accolon's hand must be Excalibur, but he was so full of knighthood that knightly he endured the pain of the many wounds, and held out as well as he might until his sword brake at the cross and fell in the grass among the blood. Now he expected to die, but he held up his shield, and lost no ground, nor bated any cheer. All men that beheld him said they never saw knight fight so well as Arthur did, considering the blood that he bled, and they were sorry for him. But Accolon was so bold because of Excalibur that he grew passing hardy, and called upon Arthur to yield himself as recreant. "Nay," said Sir Arthur, "I may not so, for I have promised to do the battle to the uttermost by the faith of my body while my life lasteth, and therefore I had rather die with honour than live with shame; and if it were possible for me to die an hundred times, I had rather die so oft than yield myself to thee; for, though I lack weapon I shall lack no honour, and if thou slay me weaponless that shall be thy shame." But Accolon cared not for shame, and would not spare. He gave Arthur such a stroke that he fell nigh to the earth; yet he pressed upon Accolon with his shield, and with the pommel of his sword in his hand gave such a blow that Accolon fell back a little. Now it chanced that one of the damsels of the court, she that had put Merlin under the stone, had come into the field for love of King Arthur, for she knew how Morgan le Fay had determined that Arthur should be slain; therefore she came to save his life. She saw how full of prowess Arthur was, and grieved that so good a knight should be slain through false treason. So when Accolon gave another blow, the sword Excalibur fell out of his hand to the earth. Arthur lightly leaped to it and got it in his hand, and forthwith knew that it was his own Excalibur. Then he saw the scabbard hanging by Accolon's side, and anon pulling it from him, he threw it off as far as he might throw it. Therewith Sir Arthur rushed upon Accolon with all his might and pulled him to the earth. He then snatched off his helmet for the final blow, and the fierce battle was at an end. "Slay me ye may well," said Accolon, "if it please you, for ye are the best knight that ever I found, and I see well that God is with you." But now Sir Arthur thought he must have seen this knight, and asked, "Of what country art thou, and of what court?" And when Sir Accolon told him his name, then he remembered him of his sister, Morgan le Fay, and of the enchantment of the ship. He made Accolon tell how he came by the sword, and then Arthur knew all the plot of his sister and of Accolon to have the King slain and herself made queen. For the first time Arthur now let Accolon know against whom he had been fighting. The fallen knight cried aloud for mercy, when he learned that he had nearly slain the King, and said to all the knights and men that were then there gathered together, "O lords, this noble knight that I have fought withal, which I sorely repent of, is the best man of prowess, of manhood, and of honour in the world, for it is King Arthur himself, the liege lord of us all, and with mishap and with misadventure have I done this battle with the king and lord in whose power I am." Then all the people fell down on their knees, and called upon King Arthur for mercy, which he forthwith granted. The King was sorely hurt and Accolon's wounds were even worse. Arthur made haste to settle the quarrel of the brothers Sir Damas and Sir Ontzlake by giving the latter his rights and charging Sir Damas upon pain of death never to distress knights-errant that ride on their adventures, and then was carried off to a near-by abbey, and Sir Accolon with him, to have their wounds searched. Within four days Sir Accolon died from loss of blood during the fight, but King Arthur was well recovered. When Accolon was dead the King let send him on a horse-bier with six knights unto Camelot and said, "Bear him to my sister Morgan le Fay, and say that I send him to her as a present, and tell her that I have my sword Excalibur again and the scabbard." So they departed with the body. [1] Hard bestead: in a bad plight. [2] Prize: death note. [3] Dight: dressed. [4] Beseen: of good appearance. CHAPTER IX THE TREACHERY OF MORGAN LE FAY The meanwhile Morgan le Fay thought that King Arthur was slain, and that she might now be queen of the land, with Sir Accolon as King. Then came tidings unto her that Accolon was dead and King Arthur had his sword again. When Queen Morgan wist all this she was so sorrowful that near her heart brake, but because she would not it were known, outward she kept her countenance, and made no semblance of sorrow. But well she wist, if she remained till her brother Arthur came thither, there should no gold go for her life. Then she went unto Queen Guenever, and asked her leave to ride into the country. "Ye may abide," said Queen Guenever, "till your brother the King come home." "I may not," said Morgan le Fay, "for I have such hasty tidings that I may not tarry." "Well," said Guenever, "ye may depart when ye will." So early on the morn, ere it was day, she took her horse and rode all that day and most part of the night, and on the morn by noon she came to the abbey of nuns where lay King Arthur. Knowing he was there, she asked where he was at that time; and they answered how he had laid him in his bed to sleep, for he had had but little rest these three nights. Then she alighted off her horse, and thought for to steal away Excalibur his sword. So she went straight unto his chamber, and no man durst disobey her commandment. There she found Arthur asleep in his bed, and Excalibur in his right hand naked. When she saw that, she was passing heavy that she might not come by the sword without awaking him, and that she wist well would be her death. Then she took the scabbard, and went her way on horseback. When the King a woke and missed his scabbard, he was wroth, and he asked who had been there. They said his sister Queen Morgan had been there, and had put the scabbard under her mantle, and was gone. "Alas," said Arthur, "falsely have ye watched me." "Sir," said they all, "we durst not disobey your sister's commandment." "Ah," said the King, "let fetch the best horse that may be found, and bid Sir Ontzlake arm him in all haste, and take another good horse and ride with me." So anon the King and Ontzlake were well armed, and rode after this lady; and so they came by a cross, and asked a cowherd if there came any lady late riding that way. "Sir," said the poor man, "right late came a lady riding with forty horses, and to yonder forest she rode." Then they spurred their horses and followed fast. Within a while Arthur had a sight of Morgan le Fay, and he chased as fast as he might. When she espied him following her, she rode a greater pace through the forest till she came to a plain. She saw she might not escape, wherefore she rode unto a lake thereby, and said, "Whatsoever becometh of me, my brother shall not have this scabbard." And then she let throw the scabbard in the deepest of the water, where it sank anon, for it was heavy of gold and precious stones. Thereupon Queen Morgan rode into a valley where many great stones were, and when she saw that she must be overtaken, she shaped herself, horse and man, by enchantment, unto great marble stones. Anon came Sir Arthur and Sir Ontzlake, but they might not know the lady from her men, nor one knight from another. "Ah," said the King, "here may ye see the vengeance of God, and now I am sorry that this misadventure is befallen." And then he looked for the scabbard, but it could not be found, so he returned to the abbey where he came from. When Arthur was gone, Queen Morgan turned all into the likeness as she and they were before, and said, "Sirs, now may we go where we will." So she departed into the country of Gore, and there was she richly received, and made her castles and towns passing strong, for always she feared much King Arthur. When the King had well rested him at the abbey, he rode unto Camelot, and found his Queen and his barons right glad of his coming. And when they heard of his strange adventures as is afore rehearsed, they all had marvel of the falsehood of Morgan le Fay, and many knights wished her burned because of her wicked enchantments. "Well," said the King, "I shall so be avenged on her, if I live, that all Christendom shall speak of it." On the morn there came a damsel from Morgan to the King, and she brought with her the richest mantle that ever was seen in that court, for it was set as full of precious stones as one might stand by another, and there were the richest stones that ever the King saw. And the damsel said, "Your sister sendeth you this mantle, and desireth that ye should take this gift of her, and in what thing she hath offended you, she will amend it at your own pleasure." When the King beheld this mantle it pleased him much, but he said little. With that came one of the Damsels of the Lake unto the King and said, "Sir, I must speak with you in private." "Say on," said the King, "what ye will." "Sir," said the damsel, "put not on you this mantle till ye have seen more, and in no wise let it come on you or any knight of yours, till ye command the bringer thereof to put it upon her." "Well," said King Arthur, "it shall be done as ye counsel me." And then he said unto the damsel that came from his sister, "Damsel, this mantle that ye have brought me I will see upon you." "Sir," said she, "it will not beseem me to wear a king's garment." "By my head," said Arthur, "ye shall wear it ere it come on my back, or any man's that here is." And so the King made it to be put upon her, and forthwithal she fell down dead, and nevermore spake word after, but burned to coals. Then was the King wonderfully wroth, more than he was beforehand, and said unto King Uriens, "My sister, your wife, is alway about to betray me, and well I wot either ye or your son Sir Uwaine is of counsel with her to have me destroyed; but as for you," said the King to King Uriens, "I deem not greatly that ye be of her counsel, for she plotted with Accolon to destroy you as well as me. Therefore I hold you excused; but as for your son, Sir Uwaine, I hold him suspected, and therefore I charge you put him out of my court." So Sir Uwaine was discharged. And when Sir Gawaine wist that, he made himself ready to go with his cousin. So they two departed, and rode into a great forest, and came to an abbey of monks, where they were well lodged. But when the King wist that Sir Gawaine was departed from the court, there was made great sorrow among all the estates. "Now," said Gaheris, Gawaine's brother, "we have lost two good knights for the sake of one." CHAPTER X SIR LAUNCELOT OF THE LAKE When King Arthur, after long wars, rested and held a royal feast with his allies and noble knights of the Round Table, there came into his hall, he sitting on his throne royal, twelve ambassadors from Rome, and said to him: "The high and mighty emperor Lucius sendeth to the king of Britain greeting, commanding thee to acknowledge him for thy lord and to send the tribute due from this realm unto the empire according to the statutes and decrees made by the noble and worthy Julius Caesar, conqueror of this realm and first emperor of Rome. And if thou refuse his demand and commandment, know thou for certain that he shall make strong war against thee, thy realms and lands, and shall chastise thee and thy subjects, so that it shall be warning perpetual unto all kings and princes not to deny their tribute unto the noble empire which dominateth the universal world." Some of the young knights hearing this message would have run on the ambassadors to slay them, saying that it was a rebuke unto all the knights there present to suffer them to say so to the King. But King Arthur commanded that none should do them any harm, and anon let call all his lords and knights of the Round Table to council upon the matter. And all agreed to make sharp war on the Romans, and to aid after their power. So the messengers were allowed to depart, and they took ship at Sandwich and passed forth by Flanders, Almaine, the mountains and all Italy until they came unto Rome. There they said to Lucius, "Certainly he is a lord to be feared, for his estate is the royalest that ever we saw, and in his person he is the most manly man that liveth, and is likely to conquer all the world, for unto his courage it is too little; wherefore we advise you to keep well your marches and straits[1] in the mountains." Then Lucius made ready a great host and marched into Gaul, and Arthur met him there with his army. The old chronicles tell of the great battles that were fought and the brave deeds of knights and lords, how Arthur himself with Excalibur cleft the head of Lucius, and at length passed over the mountains into Lombardy and Tuscany, and so came into Rome. On a day appointed, as the romance telleth, he was crowned emperor by the Pope's hand with all the royalty that could be made. After he had established all his lands from Rome unto France, and had given lands and realms unto his servants and knights, to each after his desert in such wise that none complained, rich nor poor, all his lords and all the great men of estate assembled before him and said: "Blessed be God, your war is finished and your conquest achieved, insomuch that we know none so great nor mighty that dare make war against you; wherefore we beseech you to return homeward and give us licence to go home to our wives, from whom we have been long, and to rest us, for your journey is finished with honour." So they all came over sea, and landed at Sandwich, where Queen Guenever came and met the King. And he was nobly received of all the commons in every city and borough, and great gifts were presented to him at his home-coming, to welcome him. Of all the knights that, when Arthur came into England, had increased in honour, Sir Launcelot of the Lake in especial excelled in deeds of arms both for life and death. His parents, King Ban of Benwick and his fair queen, Elaine, had first named him Galahad, and, as has already been said, Merlin, before he disappeared under the stone, had foretold that within twenty years he should be known over the whole world as a great and worthy knight. It is no marvel, therefore, that Launcelot is the first knight that the French book maketh mention of after King Arthur came from Rome. He passed with Arthur into England, where he was received gladly and was made a knight of the Round Table. Queen Guenever had him in great favour above all other knights, and in return he was loyal to her above all other ladies and damsels all his life, and for love of her he did many deeds of arms, and saved her from the fire through his noble chivalry. Therefore jealous people spoke evil of Sir Launcelot and the Queen, because they were of less prowess and honour than he, and thereby great mischief arose in Arthur's court. From this came Arthur's overthrow in the end, and the downfall of his noble realm. But for long years Launcelot was the glory of knighthood, and he vied with King Arthur himself in deeds of prowess and of chivalrous courtesy in the tournament and on adventure. [1] Strait: narrow pass. CHAPTER XI A NIGHT-TIME ADVENTURE OF SIR LAUNCELOT In fulfilment of his oath as a knight of the Round Table Sir Launcelot rode into many strange and wild countries and through many waters and valleys. He slew Sir Turquine, who watched to destroy knights, and he clove the head of another false traitor who attended to destroy and distress ladies, damsels, and gentlewomen. Other wrongs besides these he righted, and bravely withstood many a struggle. Now on a day it chanced that he passed a deep forest, where, as often before, he found strait lodging. But he was brave and strong, and feared no hardship provided he did nothing contrary to his honour as a worthy knight. As he was riding over a long bridge there started upon him suddenly a passing foul churl, who struck his horse upon the nose and asked Sir Launcelot why he rode over that bridge without licence. "Why should I not ride this way?" said Sir Launcelot; "it is the way I choose to ride." "Thou shall not choose," said the churl, and began to beat him with his great club shod with iron. Sir Launcelot drew his sword, and made short work of this rough porter. Then he rode right on to the end of the bridge, through the fair village, where all the people in vain gave him warning, and on straight into the green courtyard of the castle, which was Tintagil, in Cornwall. Anon there came upon him two great giants, with horrible clubs in their hands. With shield and sword he soon laid on the earth one of these giants. The other ran away for fear of the horrible strokes, and Sir Launcelot entered the hall. Here he set free three-score gentlewomen, who for seven years had been prisoners of the two giants, working all manner of silk works for their food. "Show me such cheer as ye have," said Sir Launcelot, "and what treasure there is in this castle I give you for a reward for your grievance." Then soon he mounted his horse again, and rode away upon further adventure. One night he came to the courtyard of an old gentleman, who lodged him with a good will, and there he had good cheer for himself and his horse. When time was his host brought him into a fair garret over the gate to his bed. There Sir Launcelot unarmed him, set his armour beside him, and went to bed, and anon fell asleep. Soon afterward there came one on horseback, and knocked at the gate in great haste. When Sir Launcelot heard this, he arose up and looked out at the window, and saw by the moonlight three knights come after that one man; all three lashed on him at once with swords, and that one knight turned on them knightly again and defended himself. "Truly," said Sir Launcelot, "yonder one knight shall I help, for it were shame for me to see three knights on one, and if he be slain I am partner in his death." Therewith he took his armour and let himself down from the window by a sheet to the four knights. "Turn you knights unto me," cried Sir Launcelot aloud, "and leave your fighting with that knight." And then they all three left Sir Kay, for it was he who was so hard bestead, and turned unto Sir Launcelot. And there began great battle, for they alighted, all three, and struck many great strokes at Sir Launcelot, and assailed him on every side. Sir Kay would have helped him, but Sir Launcelot suffered him not, and anon within six strokes he had struck all three to the earth. Sir Launcelot made them yield themselves to Sir Kay and promise to go next Whitsunday to the court as prisoners of Queen Guenever. So they were suffered to depart, and Sir Launcelot knocked at the gate with the pommel of his sword. The host came, and they entered, Sir Kay and he. "Sir," said the host, "I thought you were in your bed." "So I was," said Sir Launcelot, "but I arose and leaped out at my window to help an old fellow of mine." When they came nigh the light, Sir Kay knew well that it was Sir Launcelot, and therewith he kneeled down and thanked him for all his kindness that he had holpen him from death. "Sir," said Sir Launcelot, "I have done nothing but that I ought to do, and ye are welcome, and here shall ye repose you and take your rest." So when Sir Kay was unarmed he asked for meat; there was meat fetched him, and he ate strongly. Then they went to their beds, and Sir Launcelot and Sir Kay were lodged together in one bed. On the morn Sir Launcelot arose early, and left Sir Kay sleeping. He put on Sir Kay's armour and took his shield, and so went to the stable. He here got Sir Kay's horse, took leave of his host, and so departed. Then soon afterward Sir Kay arose. He missed Sir Launcelot, and then he espied that his armour and his horse had been taken. "Now by my faith," said he, "I know well that he will grieve some of the court of King Arthur, for my armour and horse will beguile all knights; they will believe it is I, and will be bold to him. And because I have his armour and shield I am sure I shall ride in peace." Then soon afterward Sir Kay thanked his host and departed. So Sir Launcelot rode into a deep forest, and there in a dell he saw four knights standing under an oak, and they were of Arthur's court. Anon as they espied Sir Launcelot they thought by his arms it was Sir Kay. "Now by my faith," said Sir Sagramour, one of the four knights, "I will prove Sir Kay's might"; so he got his spear in his hand, and came toward Sir Launcelot. Therewith Sir Launcelot was ware, and knew him well; and he smote Sir Sagramour so sore that horse and man fell both to the earth. "Lo, my fellows," said Sir Ector, another of the four, "yonder ye may see what a buffet he hath; that knight is much bigger than ever was Sir Kay. Now shall ye see what I may do to him." So Sir Ector got his spear in his hand and galloped toward Sir Launcelot, and Sir Launcelot smote him through shield and shoulder so that horse and man went to the earth, and ever his spear held. "By my faith," said Sir Uwaine, "yonder is a strong knight, and I am sure he hath slain Sir Kay; and I see by his great strength it will be hard to match him." Therewithal Sir Uwaine gat his spear in his hand and rode toward Sir Launcelot. Sir Launcelot knew him well, and so he met him on the plain, and gave him such a buffet that he was stunned, and long he wist not where he was. "Now see I well," said Sir Gawaine, the last of the four knights, "I must encounter with that knight." Then he dressed his shield and gat a good spear in his hand, and then they let run their horses with all their mights, and either knight smote other in midst of the shield. But Sir Gawaine's spear brake, and Sir Launcelot charged so sore upon him that his horse reversed up-so-down. Much sorrow had Sir Gawaine to get clear of his horse, and so Sir Launcelot passed on a pace, and smiled, and said, "God give him joy that made this spear, for there came never a better in my hand." Then the four knights went each one to other and comforted each other. "What say ye to this deed?" said Sir Gawaine. "He is a man of great might, for that one spear hath felled us four. I dare lay my head it is Sir Launcelot; I know it by his riding." CHAPTER XII HOW SIR LAUNCELOT CAME INTO THE CHAPEL PERILOUS On a day as Sir Launcelot rode a great while in a deep forest, he was ware of an old manor beyond a bridge. And he passed over the bridge, that was old and feeble, and came into a great hall, where he saw lie a dead knight, that was a seemly man. And therewithal came out a lady weeping and wringing her hands, and she said: "Oh, knight, too much sorrow hast thou brought me." "Why say ye so?" said Sir Launcelot; "I did never this knight any harm; therefore, fair lady, be not displeased with me, for I am full sore aggrieved at your grievance." "Truly sir," she said, "I know it is not ye that have slain my husband, for he that did that deed is sore wounded, and he is never likely to recover; that I assure you." "What was your husband's name?" asked Sir Launcelot. "Sir," said she, "his name was Sir Gilbert, one of the best knights of the world, and he that hath slain him, I know not his name." "God send you better comfort," said Sir Launcelot, and so he departed and went into the forest again, and there he met with a damsel who knew him well, and said aloud, "Well are ye come, my lord; and now I require thee on thy knighthood help my brother that is sore wounded, and never ceaseth bleeding, for this day fought he with Sir Gilbert and slew him in plain battle. My brother was sore wounded, and a sorceress that dwelleth in a castle hard by told me this day that my brother's wounds should never be whole till I could find a knight that would go into the Chapel Perilous where he should find a sword and a bloody cloth that the wounded knight was wrapped in. A piece of that cloth and the sword should heal my brother's wounds, if his wounds were searched with the sword and the cloth." "This is a marvellous thing," said Sir Launcelot, "but what is your brother's name?" "Sir," said she, "his name is Sir Meliot." "That me repenteth," said Sir Launcelot, "for he is a fellow of the Table Round, and to help him I will do all in my power." "Then, sir," said she, "follow this highway, and it will bring you into the Chapel Perilous, and here I shall wait till God send you again; except you I know no knight living that may achieve that adventure." So Launcelot departed, and when he came unto the Chapel Perilous, he alighted and tied his horse to the little gate of the churchyard. And soon he saw on the front of the chapel many fair rich shields turned up-so-down, and many of these shields he had seen borne by knights that he had known aforetime. Then he saw standing there by him thirty great knights, taller by a yard than any man that ever he had seen, all clad in black armour, ready with their shields, and their swords drawn. They all grinned and gnashed at Sir Launcelot, and when he saw their countenances, he put his shield afore him, and took his sword in his hand ready unto battle. He started to go right past the giants, and then they scattered on every side and gave him the way. Therewith he waxed all bold and entered into the chapel, where he saw no light but a dim lamp burning, and soon became aware of a corpse covered with a cloth of silk. Sir Launcelot stooped down and cut off a piece of that cloth, whereupon the earth under him seemed to quake a little, and at this he feared. Then he saw a fair sword lying by the dead knight. This he gat into his hand and hied out of the chapel. As soon as ever he was in the chapel yard all the giants spake to him with a grimly voice, and said: "Knight, Sir Launcelot, lay that sword from thee, or else thou shalt die." "Whether I live or die," said Sir Launcelot, "no loud words will get it again; therefore fight for it if ye will." Then he immediately passed right through their midst, and beyond the chapel yard there met him a fair damsel, who said, "Sir Launcelot, leave that sword behind thee, or thou wilt die for it." "I leave it not," said Sir Launcelot, "for any entreaties." "It is well," said she. "If thou didst leave that sword thou shouldst never see Queen Guenever again. Now, gentle knight, I request one thing of thee. Kiss me but once." "Nay," said Sir Launcelot, "God forbid that I should do that." "It is well, sir," said she; "if thou hadst kissed me thy life days had been done. But now, alas, I have lost all my labour, for I ordained this chapel to win thee. Once I had Sir Gawaine well nigh within my power, but he fought with that knight that lieth there dead in yonder chapel, Sir Gilbert, and smote off his left hand and so escaped. Sir Launcelot, I have loved thee these seven years, but now I know no woman may have thy love but Queen Guenever." "Ye say well," said Sir Launcelot. "God preserve me from your subtile crafts." Thereupon he took his horse and so departed from her, and soon met the damsel, Sir Meliot's sister. Anon she led him to the castle where Sir Meliot lay, pale as the earth from bleeding. Sir Launcelot leaped unto him and touched his wounds with Sir Gilbert's sword, and then wiped his wounds with a part of the cloth that Sir Gilbert was wrapped in, and anon he was as whole a man as ever he had been in all his life. And then there was great joy between them. They made Sir Launcelot all the cheer that they might, and on the morn he took his leave of Sir Meliot and his sister, and rode away. CHAPTER XIII THE KNIGHT, THE LADY, AND THE FALCON And Sir Launcelot by fortune came to a fair castle, and as he passed by he was ware of a falcon that came flying over his head toward a high elm. As the bird flew into the tree to take her perch, the long lines about her feet caught on a bough, and when she would take flight again she hung fast by the legs. Sir Launcelot saw how the fair falcon hung there, and he was sorry for her. Meanwhile came a lady out of the castle and cried aloud, "O Launcelot, Launcelot, as thou art the flower of all knights, help me to get my hawk. I was holding my hawk and she slipped from me, and if my lord my husband knows that she is lost he will slay me." "What is your lord's name?" said Sir Launcelot. "Sir," said the lady, "his name is Sir Phelot, a knight of Northgalis." "Well, fair lady," said Launcelot, "since ye know my name, and request me as a courteous knight to help you, I will do what I may to get your hawk. And yet truly I am an ill climber, and the tree is passing high, with few boughs to cling to." Thereupon Sir Launcelot alighted, and tied his horse to the elm. Then the lady helped him to unarm, and with might and force he climbed up to the falcon. He tied the lines to a great rotten branch, brake it off, and threw it and the hawk down. Anon the lady gat the hawk in her hand, and thereupon came Sir Phelot suddenly out of the grove, all armed and with his naked sword in his hand. He called up to Sir Launcelot and said, "O knight, now have I found thee as I would"; and he stood at the foot of the tree to slay him. "Ah lady," said Sir Launcelot, "why have ye betrayed me?" "She hath done," said Sir Phelot, "but as I commanded her; there is no help for it; thine hour is come, and thou must die." "It were shame unto thee," said Sir Launcelot, "for thee, an armed knight, to slay an unarmed man by treason." "Thou gettest no other grace," said Sir Phelot; "therefore help thyself if thou canst." "Alas," said Sir Launcelot, "that ever knight should die weaponless." Then he looked above and below him, and saw a big leafless bough. This he brake off; then he climbed down with it in his hand, and, observing how his horse stood, he suddenly leaped down to the ground on the farther side of the horse from the knight. Then Sir Phelot lashed at him eagerly, thinking to slay him. But Sir Launcelot put away the stroke with the branch, and then with it gave Sir Phelot such a blow on one side of the head that he fell down in a swoon to the ground. Then Sir Launcelot took his sword out of his hand and struck his head from his body. "Alas," cried the lady, "why hast thou slain my husband?" "I am not the cause," said Sir Launcelot, "for with falsehood ye would have slain me by treason, and now it is fallen on you both." Thereupon Sir Launcelot gat all his armour as well as he might, and put it on for fear of further attack, since the knight's castle was so near. As soon as he might he took his horse, and, thanking God that he had escaped that adventure, he went on his adventures over many wild ways, through marsh and valley and forest. At Pentecost he returned home, and the King and all the court were passing glad of his coming. And ever now and now came all the knights back, those that had encountered with Sir Launcelot, those that he had set free from prison, and all those that knew of his great deeds of arms. And they all bare record of Sir Launcelot's prowess, so at that time he had the greatest name of any knight of the world, and most he was honoured of high and low. CHAPTER XIV HOW A KITCHEN-PAGE CAME TO HONOUR Arthur was holding the high feast of Pentecost at a city and castle called in those days Kink-Kenadon, upon the sands nigh Wales, and he sat at meat with all the knights of the Round Table. Then came into the hall two men well beseen and richly, and upon their shoulders there leaned the goodliest young man and the fairest that ever any of the knights had seen. He was higher than the other two by a foot and a half, broad in the shoulders, well visaged, and the fairest and largest handed that ever man saw; but he acted as though he might not walk nor support himself unless he leaned upon their shoulders. They went with him right unto the high dais without saying of any words. Then this much young man pulled himself away, and easily stretched up straight, saying: "King Arthur, God you bless and all your fair fellowship of the Round Table. For this cause I am come hither, to pray you to give me three gifts. They shall not be so unreasonable but that ye may honourably grant them me, and to you no great hurt nor loss. The first I will ask now, and the other two gifts I will ask this day twelvemonth wheresoever ye hold your high feast." "Now ask," said Arthur, "and ye shall have your asking." "Now, sir, this is my petition for this feast, that you will give me meat and drink sufficiently for this twelve-month, and at that day I will ask mine other two gifts." "This is but a simple asking," said the King; "ye shall have meat and drink enough; I never refuse that to any, neither my friend nor my foe. But what is your name I would know?" "I cannot tell you," said he. The King marvelled at this answer, but took him to Sir Kay, the steward, and charged him that he should give the youth of all manner of meats and drinks of the best, and also that he should have all manner of finding as though he were a lord's son. "That need not be," said Sir Kay, "to do such cost upon him; for I dare undertake he is a villain born, and never will make a man, for had he come of gentlemen he would have asked of you horse and armour; but such as he is, so he asketh. And since he hath no name, I shall give him the name Beaumains, that is Fair-hands, and into the kitchen I shall bring him, and there he shall have rich broth every day, so that he shall be as fat by the twelvemonth's end as a pork hog." So the two men departed, and left him to Sir Kay, who scorned him and mocked him. Thereat was Sir Gawaine wroth, and especially Sir Launcelot bade Sir Kay leave off his mocking, "for," said he, "I dare wager he shall prove a man of great honour." "It may not be by any reason," said Sir Kay, "for as he is, so hath he asked." So Sir Kay ordered that a place be made for him, and Fair-hands went to the hall door, and sat down among boys and lads, and there he ate sadly. After meat Sir Launcelot bade him come to his chamber, where he should have meat and drink enough, and so did Sir Gawaine; but he refused them all; he would do none other but as Sir Kay commanded him. As touching Sir Gawaine, he had reason to proffer him lodging, meat, and drink, for he was nearer kin to him than he knew. But what Sir Launcelot did was of his great gentleness and courtesy. Thus Fair-hands was put into the kitchen, and lay nightly as the boys of the kitchen did. And so he endured all that twelvemonth, and never displeased man nor child, but always he was meek and mild. But ever when there was any jousting of knights, that would he see if he could. And where were any masteries done, thereat would he be, and there might none cast bar nor stone to him by two yards. Then would Sir Kay say, "How like you my boy of the kitchen?" So it passed on till the least of Whitsuntide, which at that time the King held at Carlion in the most royal wise that might be, as he did every year. As he again sat at meat, there came a damsel into the hall and saluted the King, and prayed him for succour. "For whom?" said the King; "what is the adventure?" "Sir," she said, "I have a lady of great honour and renown, and she is besieged by a tyrant so that she may not out of her castle. And because your knights are called the noblest of the world, I come to you to pray you for succour." "What is the name of your lady? and where dwelleth she? and who is he, and what is his name, that hath besieged her?" "Sir King," she said, "as for my lady's name, that shall not ye know from me at this time, but I let you know she is a lady of great honour and of great lands. And as for the tyrant that besiegeth and destroyeth her lands, he is called the Red Knight of the Red Lawns." "I know him not," said the King. "Sir," said Sir Gawaine, "I know him well, for he is one of the most dangerous knights of the world. Men say that he hath seven men's strength, and from him I escaped once full hard with my life." "Fair damsel," said the King, "there be knights here would do their best to rescue your lady, but because ye will not tell her name, nor where she dwelleth, therefore none of my knights that be here now shall go with you by my will." "Then must I speak further," said the damsel. With these words Fair-hands came before the King, while the damsel was there, and thus he said: "Sir King, God reward you, I have been these twelve months in your kitchen, and have had my full sustenance, and now I will ask my two gifts that be behind." "Ask upon my peril," said the King. "Sir, these shall be my two gifts. First, that ye will grant me this adventure of the damsel, and second, that ye shall bid Launcelot of the Lake to make me knight, for of him I will be made knight, and else of none. I pray you let him ride after me, and make me knight when I request him." "All this shall be done," said the King. "Fie on thee," said the damsel, "shall I have none but one that is your kitchen-page?" Then was she wroth, and took her horse and departed. Thereupon there came one to Fair-hands, and told him that his horse and armour was come for him, with all things that he needed in the richest manner. Thereat all the court had much marvel from whence came all that gear. When he was armed and came into the hall to take leave of King Arthur and Sir Gawaine and Sir Launcelot, there were but few so goodly knights as he was. He prayed Sir Launcelot that he would hie after him, and so departed and rode after the damsel. Many people followed after Fair-hands to behold how well he was horsed and trapped in cloth of gold, but he had neither shield nor spear. Then Sir Kay said all openly in the hall, "I will ride after my boy of the kitchen, to see whether he will know me for his better." Sir Launcelot and Sir Gawaine counselled him to abide at home; nevertheless he made ready and took his horse and his spear and rode off. Just as Fair-hands overtook the damsel, Sir Kay came up, and said, "Fair-hands, what sir, know ye not me?" Then he turned his horse, and knew it was Sir Kay, that had done him all the despite, as we have heard afore. "Yea," said Fair-hands, "I know you for an ungentle knight of the court and therefore beware of me." Therewith Sir Kay put his spear in its rest, and ran straight upon him, and Fair-hands came on just as fast with his sword in his hand. And so he put away his spear with his sword, and with a foin[1] thrust him through the side, so that Sir Kay fell down as if he were dead. Then Fair-hands alighted down and took Sir Kay's shield and his spear, had his dwarf mount upon Sir Kay's horse, and started upon his own horse and rode his way. All this Sir Launcelot saw, and so did the damsel. By this time Sir Launcelot had come up, and Fair-hands offered to joust with him. So they rushed together like boars, and for upwards of an hour they had a hard fight, wherein Sir Launcelot had so much ado with Fair-hands that he feared himself to be shamed. At length he said, "Fair-hands, fight not so sore; your quarrel and mine is not so great but we may leave off." "That is truth," said Fair-hands, "but it doth me good to feel your might, and yet, my lord, I showed not my uttermost." "Well," said Sir Launcelot, "I promise you I had as much to do as I might to save myself from you unashamed; therefore ye need have no fear of any earthly knight." "Hope ye then," said Fair-hands, "that I may anywhere stand as a proved knight?" "Yea," said Launcelot, "do as ye have done, and I shall be your warrant." "Then I pray you give me the order of knighthood," said Fair-hands. "Then must ye tell me your name," said Launcelot, "and of what kin ye be born." "Sir, if ye will not make me known, I will," said Fair-hands. "That I promise you by the faith of my body, until it be openly known," said Sir Launcelot. "Then, sir," he said, "my name is Gareth; I am own brother unto Sir Gawaine." "Ah! sir," said Launcelot, "I am more glad of you than I was, for ever me thought ye should be of great blood, and that ye came not to the court either for meat or for drink." Then Sir Launcelot gave him the order of knighthood, and Sir Gareth went his way. Sir Launcelot now came to Sir Kay and had him carried home upon his shield. He was with difficulty healed of his wounds, and all men scorned him. In especial Sir Gawaine and Sir Launcelot said it was not for Sir Kay to rebuke the young man, for full little he knew of what birth he was and for what cause he came to this court. [1] Foin: reach forth. CHAPTER XV HOW SIR GARETH FOUGHT FOR THE LADY OF CASTLE PERILOUS After the damsel rode Fair-hands, now well provided with shield and spear, and known to Sir Launcelot, at least, as Sir Gareth and nephew to King Arthur. When he had overtaken the damsel, anon she said: "What dost thou here? Thou smellest all of the kitchen; thy clothes be foul with the grease and tallow that thou gainedst in King Arthur's kitchen; therefore turn again, foul kitchen-page. I know thee well, for Sir Kay named thee Fair-hands. What art thou but a lubber and a turner of spits, and a ladle washer?" "Damsel," said Fair-hands, "say to me what ye will, I will not go from you, for I have undertaken, in King Arthur's presence, to achieve your adventure, and so shall I finish it, or I shall die therefore." Thus as they rode along in the wood, there came a man flying all that ever he might. "Whither wilt thou?" said Fair-hands. "O lord," he said, "help me, for yonder in a dell are six thieves that have taken my lord and bound him, and I am afeard lest they will slay him." So Fair-hands rode with the man until they came to where the knight lay bound, and the thieves hard by. Fair-hands struck one unto the death, and then another, and at the third stroke he slew the third thief; and then the other three fled. He rode after them and overtook them, and then those three thieves turned again and assailed Fair-hands hard, but at the last he slew them also, and returned and unbound the knight. The knight thanked him, and prayed him to ride with him to his castle there a little beside, and he should honourably reward him for his good deeds. "Sir," said Fair-hands, "I will no reward have except as God reward me. And also I must follow this damsel." When he came nigh her, she bade him ride from her, "for," said she, "thou smellest all of the kitchen; thinkest thou that I have joy of thee? All this deed thou hast done is but mishapped thee, but thou shalt see a sight that shall make thee turn again, and that lightly." Then the same knight who was rescued from the thieves rode after that damsel, and prayed her to lodge with him that night. And because it was near night the damsel rode with him to the castle, and there they had great cheer. At supper the knight set Sir Fair-hands afore the damsel. "Fie, fie," said she, "sir knight, ye are uncourteous to set a kitchen-page afore me; him beseemeth better to stick a swine than to sit afore a damsel of high parentage." Then the knight was ashamed at her words, and took Fair-hands up and set him at a sideboard, and seated himself afore him. So all that night they had good cheer and merry rest. On the morn the damsel and Fair-hands thanked the knight and took their leave, and rode on their way until they came to a great forest. Therein was a great river with but one passage, and there were ready two knights on the farther side, to prevent their crossing. Fair-hands would not have turned back had there been six more, and he rushed into the water. One of the two encountered with him in the midst of the stream, and both spears were broken. Then they drew their swords and smote eagerly at one another. At the last Sir Fair-hands smote the other upon the helm so that he fell down stunned in the water, and there was he drowned. Then Sir Fair-hands spurred his horse upon the land, where the other fell upon him, and they fought long together. At the last Sir Fair-hands clove his helm and his head, and so rode unto the damsel and bade her ride forth on her way. "Alas," she said, "that ever a kitchen-page should have that fortune to destroy two such doughty knights. Thou thinkest thou hast done doughtily, but that is not so, for the first knight's horse stumbled, and so he was drowned in the water; it was never by thy force or by thy might. And as for the second knight, by mishap thou camest behind him and slewest him." "Damsel," said Fair-hands, "ye may say what ye will, but whomsoever I have ado with I trust to God to serve him ere he depart, and therefore I reck not what ye say, provided I may win your lady." "Fie, fie, foul kitchen-knave, thou shalt see knights that shall abate thy boast. I see all that ever thou doest is but by misadventure, and not by prowess of thy hands." "Fair damsel," said he, "give me goodly language, and then my care is past. Ye may say what ye will; what knights soever I shall meet, I fear them not, and wheresoever ye go I will follow you." So they rode on till even-song time, and ever she chid him and would not cease. And then they came to a black lawn, and there was a black hawthorn, and thereon hung a black banner, and on the other side there hung a black shield, and by it stood a black spear great and long, and a great black horse covered with silk, and a black stone fast by, whereon sat a knight all armed in black harness, and his name was the Knight of the Black Lawns. The damsel, when she saw this knight, bade Fair-hands flee down the valley. "Grammercy," said he, "always ye would have me a coward." With that the Black Knight, when she came nigh him, spake and said, "Damsel, have ye brought this knight of King Arthur to be your champion?" "Nay, fair knight," said she, "this is but a kitchen-knave, that was fed in King Arthur's kitchen for alms. I cannot be rid of him, for with me he rideth against my will. Would that ye should put him from me, or else slay him, if ye may, for he is a troublesome knave, and evilly he hath done this day." "Thus much shall I grant you," said the Black Knight: "I shall put him down upon one foot, and his horse and his harness he shall leave with me, for it were shame to me to do him any more harm." When Sir Fair-hands heard him say thus, he said, "Sir knight, thou art full generous with my horse and my harness; I let thee know it cost thee naught, and whether thou like it or not, this lawn will I pass, and neither horse nor harness gettest thou of me, except as thou win them with thy hands. I am no kitchen-page, as the damsel saith I am; I am a gentleman born, and of more high lineage than thou, and that will I prove on thy body." Then in great wrath they drew back with their horses, and rushed together as it had been the thunder. The Black Knight's spear brake, and Fair-hands thrust him through both his sides, whereupon his own spear brake also. Nevertheless the Black Knight drew his sword and smote many eager strokes of great might, and hurt Fair-hands full sore. But at the last he fell down off his horse in a swoon, and there he died. When Fair-hands saw that the Black Knight had been so well horsed and armed, he alighted down and armed himself in the dead man's armour, took his horse, and rode after the damsel. When she saw him come nigh, she said, "Away, kitchen-knave, out of the wind, for the smell of thy foul clothes offendeth me. Alas that ever such a knave as thou art should by mishap slay so good a knight as thou hast done. All this is my ill luck, but hard by is one that shall requite thee, and therefore again I counsel thee, flee." "It may be my lot," said Fair-hands, "to be beaten or slain, but I warn you, fair damsel, I will not flee away or leave your company for all that ye can say, for ever ye say that they will kill me or beat me, yet it happeneth that I escape and they lie on the ground. Therefore it were as good for you to stop thus all day rebuking me, for away will I not till I see the uttermost of this journey, or else I will be slain or truly beaten; therefore ride on your way, for follow you I will, whatsoever happen." As they rode along together they saw a knight come driving by them all in green, both his horse and his harness; and when he came nigh the damsel he asked her, "Is that my brother the Black Knight that ye have brought with you?" "Nay, nay," said she, "this unlucky kitchen-knave hath slain your brother through mischance." "Alas," said the Green Knight, "that is great pity that so noble a knight as he was should so unfortunately be slain, and by a knave's hand, as ye say that he is. Ah! traitor, thou shalt die for slaying my brother; he was a full noble knight." "I defy thee," said Fair-hands, "for I make known to thee I slew him knightly and not shamefully." Therewithal the Green Knight rode unto a horn that was green that hung on a green thorn, and there he blew three deadly notes, whereupon came two damsels and armed him lightly. Then he took a great horse and a green shield and a green spear, and the two knights ran together with all their mights. They brake their spears unto their hands, and then drew their swords. Now they gave many sad strokes, and either of them wounded other full ill. At the last Fair-hands' horse struck the Green Knight's horse upon the side, and it fell to the earth. Then the Green Knight left his horse lightly, and prepared to fight on foot. That saw Fair-hands, and therewithal he alighted, and they rushed together like two mighty champions a long while, and sore they bled both. With that came the damsel and said, "My lord, the Green Knight, why for shame stand ye so long fighting with the kitchen-knave? Alas, it is shame that ever ye were made knight, to see such a lad match such a knight, as if the weed overgrew the corn." Therewith the Green Knight was ashamed, and gave a great stroke of might, and clave Fair-hands' shield through. When the young knight saw his shield cloven asunder he was a little ashamed of that stroke and of her language, and then he gave the other such a buffet upon the helm that he fell on his knees, and Fair-hands quickly pulled him upon the ground grovelling. Then the Green Knight cried for mercy, and yielded himself unto Sir Fair-hands, and prayed him to slay him not. "All is in vain," said Fair-hands, "for thou shalt die unless this damsel that came with me pray me to save thy life." Therewithal he unlaced his helm as if to slay him. "Let be," said the damsel, "thou foul kitchen-knave, slay him not, for if thou do, thou shalt repent it." "Damsel," said Fair-hands, "your charge is to me a pleasure, and at your commandment his life shall be saved, and else not. Sir Knight with the green arms, I release thee quit at this damsel's request, for I will not make her wroth; I will fulfil all that she chargeth me." And then the Green Knight kneeled down and did him homage with his sword, promising for ever to become his man together with thirty knights that held of him. Then said the damsel, "Me repenteth, Green Knight, of your damage and of the death of your brother the Black Knight; of your help I had great need, for I fear me sore to pass this forest." "Nay, fear ye not," said the Green Knight, "for ye shall lodge with me this night, and to-morn I shall help you through this forest." So they took their horses and rode to his manor, which was fast there beside. And ever the damsel rebuked Fair-hands, and would not suffer him to sit at her table. But the Green Knight took him and set him at a side table, and did him honour, for he saw that he was come of noble blood and had proved himself a full noble knight. All that night he commanded thirty men privily to watch Fair-hands for to keep him from all treason. And on the morn they arose, and after breaking their fast they took their horses and rode on their way. As the Green Knight conveyed them through the forest he said, "My lord Fair-hands, I and these thirty knights shall be always at your summons, both early and late at your call wherever ye will send us." "It is well," said Fair-hands; "when I call upon you ye must go unto King Arthur with all your knights." So the Green Knight took his leave, and the damsel said unto Fair-hands, "Why followest thou me, thou kitchen-boy; cast away thy shield and thy spear and flee, for thou shalt not pass a pass here, that is called the pass Perilous." "Damsel," said Fair-hands, "who is afraid let him flee, for it were shame to turn again since I have ridden so long with you." "Well," said she, "ye shall soon, whether ye will or not." In like manner on the next day Sir Fair-hands overcame a third brother, the Red Knight, and in like manner the damsel would have Fair-hands spare his life. Albeit she spake unto him many contemptuous words, whereof the Red Knight had great marvel, and all that night made three-score men to watch Fair-hands that he should have no shame or villainy. The Red Knight yielded himself to Fair-hands with fifty knights, and they all proffered him homage and fealty at all times to do him service. "I thank you," said Fair-hands; "this ye shall grant me when I call upon you, to come afore my lord King Arthur and yield yourselves unto him to be his knights." "Sir," said the Red Knight, "I will be ready and my fellowship at your summons." So again upon the morn Sir Fair-hands and the damsel departed, and ever she rode chiding him in the foulest manner. "Damsel," said Fair-hands, "ye are uncourteous so to rebuke me as ye do, for me seemeth I have done you good service, and ever ye threaten me I shall be beaten with knights that we meet; but ever for all your boasts they lie in the dust or in the mire, and therefore I pray you rebuke me no more. When ye see me beaten or yielded as recreant, then may ye bid me go from you shamefully, but first I let you wit I will not depart from you, for I were worse than a fool if I should depart from you all the while that I win honour." "Well," said she, "right soon there shall come a knight that shall pay thee all thy wages, for he is the most man of honour of the world, except King Arthur." "The more he is of honour," said Fair-hands, "the more shall be my honour to have ado with him. Have no doubt, damsel, by the grace of God I shall so deal with this knight that within two hours after noon I shall overcome him, and then shall we come to the siege of your lady's castle seven miles hence by daylight." "Marvel have I," said the damsel, "what manner of man ye be, for it may never be otherwise but that ye be come of noble blood, for so foul and shamefully did never woman rule a knight as I have done you, and ever courteously ye have suffered me, and that came never but of gentle blood." "Damsel," said Fair-hands, "a knight may little do that may not suffer a damsel, for whatsoever ye said unto me I took no heed to your words, for the more ye said the more ye angered me, and my wrath I wreaked upon them that I had ado withal. And therefore all the missaying that ye missaid me furthered me in my battle, and caused me to think to show and prove myself at the end what I was. For peradventure, though I had meat in King Arthur's kitchen, yet I might have had meat enough in other places. All that I did to prove and to assay my friends, and whether I be a gentleman born or not, I let you wit, fair damsel, I have done you gentleman's service, and peradventure better service yet will I do ere I depart from you." "Alas," she said, "good Fair-hands, forgive me all that I have missaid or done against thee." "With all my heart," said he, "I forgive it you, and damsel, since it liketh you to say thus fair to me, wit ye well it gladdeth mine heart greatly, and now me seemeth there is no knight living but I am able enough for him." With this Sir Persant of Inde, the fourth of the brethren that stood in Fair-hands' way to the siege, espied them as they came upon the fair meadow where his pavilion was. Sir Persant was the most lordly knight that ever thou lookedst on. His pavilion and all manner of thing that there is about, men and women, and horses' trappings, shields and spears were all of dark blue colour. Anon he and Fair-hands prepared themselves and rode against one another that both their spears were shattered to pieces, and their horses fell dead to the earth. Then they fought two hours and more on foot, until their armour was all hewn to pieces, and in many places they were wounded. At the last, though loath to do it, Fair-hands smote Sir Persant above upon the helm so that he fell grovelling to the earth, and the fierce battle was at an end. Like his three brethren before, Sir Persant yielded himself and asked for mercy, and at the damsel's request Fair-hands gladly granted his life, and received homage and fealty from him and a hundred knights, to be always at his commandment. On the morn as the damsel and Sir Fair-hands departed from Sir Persant's pavilion, "Fair damsel," said Persant, "whitherward are ye away leading this knight?" "Sir," she said, "this knight is going to the siege that besiegeth my sister in the Castle Perilous." "Ah, ah," said Persant, "that is the Knight of the Red Lawns, the most perilous knight that I know now living, a man that is without mercy, and men say that he hath seven men's strength. God save you, sir, from that knight, for he doth great wrong to that lady, which is great pity, for she is one of the fairest ladies of the world, and me seemeth that this damsel is her sister. Is not your name Linet?" "Yea, sir," said she, "and my lady my sister's name is Dame Liones. Now, my lord Sir Persant of Inde, I request you that ye make this gentleman knight or ever he fight with the Red Knight." "I will with all my heart," said Sir Persant, "if it please him to take the order of knighthood of so simple a man as I am." But Fair-hands thanked him for his good will, and told him he was better sped, as the noble Sir Launcelot had already made him knight. Then, after Persant and the damsel had promised to keep it close, he told them his real name was Gareth of Orkney, King Arthur's nephew, and that Sir Gawaine and Sir Agravaine and Sir Gaheris were all his brethren, he being the youngest of them all. "And yet," said he, "wot not King Arthur nor Sir Gawaine what I am." The book saith that the lady that was besieged had word of her sister's coming and a knight with her, and how he had passed all the perilous passages, had won all the four brethren, and had slain the Black Knight, and how he overthrew Sir Kay, and did great battle with Sir Launcelot, and was made knight by him. She was glad of these tidings, and sent them wine and dainty foods and bade Sir Fair-hands be of good heart and good courage. The next day Fair-hands and Linet took their horses again and rode through a fair forest and came to a spot where they saw across the plain many pavilions and a fair castle and much smoke. And when they came near the siege Sir Fair-hands espied upon great trees, as he rode, how there hung goodly armed knights by the necks, nigh forty of them, their shields about their necks with their swords. These were knights that had come to the siege to rescue Dame Liones, and had been overcome and put to this shameful death by the Red Knight of the Red Lawns. Then they rode to the dykes, and saw how strong were the defences, and many great lords nigh the walls, and the sea upon the one side of the walls, where were many ships and mariners' noise, with "hale" and "ho." Fast by there was a sycamore tree, whereupon hung a horn, the greatest that ever they saw, of an elephant's bone. This the Knight of the Red Lawns had hung up there that any errant knight might blow it, if he wished the Knight of the Red Lawns to come to him to do battle. The damsel Linet besought Fair-hands not to blow the horn till high noon, for the Red Knight's might grew greater all through the morn, till, as men said, he had seven men's strength. "Ah, fie for shame, fair damsel," said Fair-hands, "say ye never so more to me, for, were he as good a knight as ever was, I shall never fail him in his most might, for either I will win honour honourably, or die knightly in the field." Therewith he spurred his horse straight to the sycamore tree, and blew the horn so eagerly that all the siege and all the castle rang thereof. And then there leaped out knights out of their tents, and they within the castle looked over the walls and out at windows. Then the Red Knight of the Red Lawns armed himself hastily, and two barons set his spurs upon his heels, and all was blood red,--his armour, spear, and shield. And an earl buckled his helm upon his head, and then they brought him a red steed, and so he rode into a little vale under the castle, that all that were in the castle and at the siege might behold the battle. Sir Fair-hands looked up at a window of the castle, and there he saw the Lady Liones, the fairest lady, it seemed to him, that ever he looked upon. She made courtesy down to him, and ever he looked up to the window with glad countenance, and loved her from that time and vowed to rescue her or else to die. "Leave, Sir Knight, thy looking," said the Red Knight, "and behold me, I counsel thee, and make thee ready." Then they both put their spears in their rests, and came together with all the might that they had. Either smote other in the midst of the shield with such force that the breastplates, horse-girths, and cruppers brake, and both fell to the earth stunned, and lay so long that all they that were in the castle and in the siege thought their necks had been broken. But at length they put their shields afore them, drew their swords, and ran together like two fierce lions. Either gave other such buffets upon the helm that they reeled backward; then they recovered both, and hewed off great pieces of their harness and their shields. Thus they fought till it was past noon, and never would stint, till at last they lacked wind both, and stood panting and blowing a while. Then they went to battle again, and thus they endured till even-song time, and none that beheld them might know whether was like to win. Then by assent of them both they granted either other to rest; and so they sat down on two molehills, and unlaced their helms to take the cool wind. Then Sir Fair-hands looked up at the window, and there he saw the fair lady, Dame Liones. She made him such countenance that his heart waxed light and jolly; and therewith he bade the Red Knight of the Red Lawns make ready to do battle to the uttermost. So they laced up their helms and fought freshly. By a cross stroke the Red Knight of the Red Lawns smote Sir Fair-hands' sword from him, and then gave him another buffet on the helm so that he fell grovelling to the earth, and the Red Knight fell upon him to hold him down. Then Linet cried to him aloud and said that the lady beheld and wept. When Sir Fair-hands heard her say so he started up with great might, gat upon his feet, and leaped to his sword. He gripped it in his hand, doubled his pace unto the Red Knight, and there they fought a new battle together. Now Sir Fair-hands doubled his strokes and smote so thick that soon he had the better of the Red Knight of the Red Lawns, and unlaced his helm to slay him, whereupon he yielded himself to Fair-hands' mercy. Sir Fair-hands bethought him upon the knights that he had made to be hanged shamefully, and said, "I may not with my honour save thy life." Then came there many earls and barons and noble knights, and prayed Fair-hands to save his life and take him as prisoner. Then he released him upon this covenant that he go within to the castle and yield himself there to the lady, and if she would forgive him he might have his life with making amends to the lady of all the trespass he had done against her and her lands. The Red Knight of the Red Lawns promised to do as Sir Fair-hands commanded and so with all those earls and barons he made his homage and fealty to him. Within a while he went unto the castle, where he made peace with the Lady Liones, and departed unto the court of King Arthur. There he told openly how he was overcome and by whom, and also he told all the battles of Fair-hands from the beginning unto the ending. "Mercy," said King Arthur and Sir Gawaine, "we marvel much of what blood he is come, for he is a noble knight." But Sir Launcelot had no marvel, for he knew whence he came, yet because of his promise he would not discover Fair-hands until he permitted it or else it were known openly by some other. Dame Liones soon learned through her brother Sir Gringamore that the knight who had wrought her deliverance was a king's son, Sir Gareth of Orkney, and nephew of King Arthur himself. And she made him passing good cheer, and he her again, and they had goodly language and lovely countenance together. And she promised the noble knight Sir Gareth certainly to love him and none other the days of her life. Then there was not a gladder man than he, for ever since he saw her at the window of Castle Perilous he had so burned in love for her that he was nigh past himself in his reason. CHAPTER XVI HOW SIR GARETH RETURNED TO THE COURT OF KING ARTHUR Now leave we Sir Gareth there with Sir Gringamore and his sisters, Liones and Linet, and turn we unto King Arthur that held the next feast of Pentecost at Carlion. And there came the Green Knight with his fifty knights, and they yielded themselves all unto King Arthur. And so there came the Red Knight, his brother, and yielded himself and three-score knights with him. Also there came the Blue Knight, brother to them, and his hundred knights, and yielded themselves. These three brethren told King Arthur how they were overcome by a knight that a damsel had with her, and called him Fair-hands. Also they told how the fourth brother, the Black Knight, was slain in an encounter with Sir Fair-hands, and of the adventure with the two brethren that kept the passage of the water; and ever more King Arthur marvelled who the knight might be that was in his kitchen a twelvemonth and that Sir Kay in scorn named Fair-hands. Right as the King stood so talking with these three brethren there came Sir Launcelot of the Lake and told him that there was come a goodly lord with six hundred knights. The King went out, and there came to him and saluted him in a goodly manner the Red Knight of the Red Lawns, and he said, "I am sent to you by a knight that is called Fair-hands, for he won me in plain battle, hand for hand. No knight has ever had the better of me before. I and my knights yield ourselves to your will, as he commanded, to do you such service as may be in our power." King Arthur received him courteously, as he had before received the three brethren, and he promised to do them honour for the love of Sir Fair-hands. Then the King and they went to meat, and were served in the best manner. And as they sat at the table, there came in the Queen of Orkney, with ladies and knights a great number. And her sons, Sir Gawaine, Sir Agravaine, and Gaheris arose and went to her, and saluted her upon their knees and asked her blessing, for in fifteen years they had not seen her. Then she spake on high to her brother, King Arthur, "Where have ye done my young son, Sir Gareth? He was here amongst you a twelvemonth, and ye made a kitchen-knave of him, which is shame to you all." "Oh dear mother," said Sir Gawaine, "I knew him not." "Nor I," said the King; "but thanked be God, he is proved an honourable knight as any of his years now living, and I shall never be glad till I may find him. Sister, me seemeth ye might have done me to know of his coming, and then, had I not done well to him, ye might have blamed me. For when he came to this court, he came leaning upon two men's shoulders, as though he might not walk. And then he asked of me three gifts,--one the same day, that was that I would give him meat for that twelvemonth. The other two gifts he asked that day a twelvemonth, and those were that he might have the adventure of the damsel Linet, and that Sir Launcelot should make him knight when he desired him. I granted him all his desire, and many in this court marvelled that he desired his sustenance for a twelvemonth, and thereby deemed many of us that he was not come of a noble house." "Sir," said the Queen of Orkney unto King Arthur, her brother, "I sent him unto you right well armed and horsed, and gold and silver plenty to spend." "It may be," said the King, "but thereof saw we none, save that same day as he departed from us, knights told me that there came a dwarf hither suddenly, and brought him armour and a good horse, full well and richly beseen, and thereat we had all marvel from whence that riches came. Then we deemed all that he was come of men of honour." "Brother," said the queen, "all that ye say I believe, for ever since he was grown he was marvellously witted, and ever he was faithful and true to his promise. But I marvel that Sir Kay did mock him and scorn him, and give him the name Fair-hands. Yet Sir Kay named him more justly than he knew, for I dare say, if he be alive, he is as fair-handed a man and as well disposed as any living." "Sister," said Arthur, "by the grace of God he shall be found if he be within these seven realms. Meanwhile let us be merry, for he is proved to be a man of honour, and that is my joy." So then goodly letters were made and a messenger sent forth to the Lady Liones, praying her to give best counsel where Sir Gareth might be found. She answered that she could not then tell where he was; but she let proclaim a great tournament at her castle, and was sure that Sir Gareth would be heard of there. So King Arthur and all his knights of valour and prowess came together at the Lady Liones' castle by the Isle of Avilion, and great deeds of arms were done there, but most of all Sir Gareth gained honour, though no one knew that it was he until a herald rode near him and saw his name written about his helm. Wit ye well the King made great joy when he found Sir Gareth again, and ever he wept as he had been a child. With that came his mother, the Queen of Orkney, and when she saw Sir Gareth really face to face she suddenly fell down in a swoon. Then Sir Gareth comforted his mother in such a wise that she recovered, and made good cheer. And the Lady Liones came, among all the ladies there named the fairest and peerless. And there the King asked his nephew Sir Gareth whether he would have that lady to his wife. "My lord," said he, "wit ye well that I love her above all ladies." "Now, fair lady," said King Arthur, "what say ye?" "Most noble King," said Dame Liones, "wit ye well that my Lord Gareth is to me more dear to have and to hold as my husband than any king or prince that is christened, and if ye will suffer him to have his will and free choice, I dare say he will have me." "That is truth," said Sir Gareth, "and if I have not you and hold not you as my wife I wed no lady." "What, nephew," said the King, "is the wind in that door! Wit ye well I would not for the stint of my crown be causer to withdraw your hearts. Ye shall have my love and my lordship in the uttermost wise that may lie in my power." Then was there made a provision for the day of marriage, and by the King's advice it should be at Michaelmas following at Kink-Kenadon by the seaside. And when the day came the Bishop of Canterbury made the wedding betwixt Sir Gareth and the Lady Liones with great solemnity. And at the same time Gaheris was wedded to Linet. When this solemnisation was done there came in the Green Knight, the Red Knight, and all the others that had yielded themselves to Sir Gareth, and did homage and fealty to hold their lands of him for ever, and desired to serve him at the feast. And the kings and queens, princes, earls, and barons, and many bold knights went unto meat, and well may ye wit that there was all manner of meat plenteously, all manner of revels, and games, with all manner of minstrelsy that was used in those days. So they held the court forty days with great solemnity. And this Sir Gareth was a noble knight, and a well ruled, and fair languaged. CHAPTER XVII HOW YOUNG TRISTRAM SAVED THE LIFE OF THE QUEEN OF LYONESSE There was a king called Meliodas, as likely a knight as any living, and he was lord of the country of Lyonesse. At that time King Arthur reigned supreme over England, Wales, Scotland, and many other realms, howbeit there were many lords of countries that held their lands under King Arthur. So also was the King of France subject to him, and the King of Brittany, and all the lordships as far as Rome. The wife of this King Meliodas was a full good and fair lady, called Elizabeth, the sister of King Mark of Cornwall. Well she loved her lord, and he her again, and there was much joy betwixt them. There was a lady in that country who bore ill will towards this king and queen, and therefore upon a day, as he rode on hunting, for he was a great chaser, she by an enchantment made him chase a hart by himself alone till he came to an old castle, where anon she had him taken prisoner. When Queen Elizabeth missed her lord she was nigh out of her wit, and she took a gentlewoman with her and ran into the forest to seek him. When she was far in the forest and might go no farther, she sank down exhausted. For the default of help she took cold there, and she soon knew that she must die. So she begged her gentlewoman to commend her to King Meliodas, and to say that she was full sorry to depart out of this world from him, and that their little child, that was to have such sorrow even in his infancy, should be christened Tristram. Therewith this queen gave up the ghost and died. The gentlewoman laid her under the shadow of a great tree, and right so there came the barons, following after the queen. When they saw that she was dead they had her carried home, and much dole[1] was made for her. The morn after his queen died King Meliodas was delivered out of prison, and the sorrow he made for her, when he was come home, no tongue might tell. He had her richly interred, and afterwards, as she had commanded afore her death, had his child christened Tristram, the sorrowful born child. For seven years he remained without a wife, and all that time young Tristram was nourished well. Then, when he wedded King Howell's daughter of Brittany and had other children, the stepmother was wroth that Tristram should be heir to the country of Lyonesse rather than her own son. Wherefore this jealous queen resolved to become rid of her stepson, and she put poison into a silver cup in the chamber where Tristram and her children were together, intending that when Tristram was thirsty he should drink it. But it happened that the queen's own son espied the cup with poison, and, because the child was thirsty and supposed it was good drink, he took of it freely. Therewithal he died suddenly, and when the queen wist of the death of her son, wit ye well that she was heavy of heart. But yet the king understood nothing of her treason. Notwithstanding all this the queen would not leave her jealousy, and soon had more poison put in a cup. By fortune King Meliodas, her husband, found the cup where was the poison, and being much thirsty he took to drink thereout. Anon the queen espied him and ran unto him and pulled the cup from him suddenly. The king marvelled why she did so, and remembered how her son was suddenly slain with poison. Then he took her by the hand, and said: "Thou false traitress, thou shalt tell me what manner of drink this is." Therewith he pulled out his sword, and swore a great oath that he should slay her if she told him not the truth. Then she told him all, and by the assent of the barons she was condemned to be burned as a traitress, according to the law. A great fire was made, and just as she was at the fire to take her execution young Tristram kneeled afore King Meliodas and besought of him a boon. "I grant it," said the king, whereupon the youth demanded the life of the queen, his stepmother. "That is unrightfully asked," said King Melodias, "for she would have slain thee, if she had had her will, and for thy sake most is my cause that she should die." But Tristram besought his father to forgive her, as he himself did, and required him to hold his promise. Then said the king, "Since ye will have it so, I give her to you; go ye to the fire and take her, and do with her what ye will." So Sir Tristram went to the fire, and by the commandment of the king delivered her from death. But thereafter King Meliodas would never have aught to do with her, though by the good means of young Tristram he at length forgave her. Ever after in her life she never hated her stepson more, but loved him and had great joy of him, because he saved her from the fire. But the king would not suffer him to abide longer at his court. [1] Dole: sorrow; mourning. CHAPTER XVIII SIR TRISTRAM'S FIRST BATTLE King Melodias sought out a gentleman that was well learned, and taught, and with him, named Gouvernail, he sent young Tristram away from Lyonesse court into France, to learn the language and customs and deeds of arms. There he learned to be a harper passing all others of his time, and he also applied himself well to the gentlemanly art of hawking and hunting, for he that gentle is will draw unto him gentle qualities and follow the customs of noble gentlemen. The old chronicle saith he adopted good methods for the chase, and the terms he used we have yet in hawking and hunting. Therefore the book of forest sports is called the Book of Sir Tristram. When he well could speak the language and had learned all that he might in that country, he came home again, and remained in Cornwall until he was big and strong, of the age of nineteen years, and his father, King Meliodas, had great joy of him. Then it befell that King Anguish of Ireland sent to King Mark of Cornwall for the tribute long paid him, but now seven years behind. King Mark and his barons gave unto the messenger of Ireland the answer that they would no tribute pay, and bade him tell his king that if he wished tribute he should send a trusty knight of his land to fight for it against another that Cornwall should find to defend its right. With this the messenger departed into Ireland. When King Anguish understood the answer, he was wonderfully wroth, and called unto him Sir Marhaus, the good and proved knight, brother unto the queen of Ireland, and a knight of the Round Table, and said to him: "Fair brother, I pray you go into Cornwall for my sake, and do battle for the tribute that of right we ought to have." Sir Marhaus was not loath to do battle for his king and his land, and in all haste he was fitted with all things that to him needed, and so he departed out of Ireland and arrived in Cornwall even fast by the castle of Tintagil. When King Mark understood that the good and noble knight Sir Marhaus was come to fight for Ireland, he made great sorrow, for he knew no knight that durst have ado with him. Sir Marhaus remained on his ship, and every day he sent word unto King Mark that he should pay the tribute or else find a champion to fight for it with him. Then they of Cornwall let make cries in every place, that what knight would fight to save the tribute should be rewarded so that he should fare the better the term of his life. But no one came to do the battle, and some counselled King Mark to send to the court of King Arthur to seek Sir Launcelot of the Lake, that at that time was named for the marvellousest knight of all the world. Others said it were labour in vain to do so, because Sir Marhaus was one of the knights of the Round Table, and any one of them would be loath to have ado with other. So the king and all his barons at the last agreed that it was no boot to seek any knight of the Round Table. Meanwhile came the language and the noise unto young Tristram how Sir Marhaus abode battle fast by Tintagil, and how King Mark could find no manner of knight to fight for him. Then Sir Tristram was wroth and sore ashamed that there durst no knight in Cornwall have ado with Sir Marhaus, and he went unto his father, King Meliodas, and said: "Alas, that I am not made knight; if I were, I would engage with him. I pray you give me leave to ride to King Mark to be made knight by him." "I will well," said the father, "that ye be ruled as your courage will rule you." So Tristram went unto his uncle, who quickly gave him the order of knighthood, and anon sent a messenger unto Sir Marhaus with letters that said he had found a young knight ready to take the battle to the uttermost. Then in all haste King Mark had Sir Tristram horsed and armed in the best manner that might be had or gotten for gold or silver, and he was put into a vessel, both his horse and he, and all that to him belonged both for his body and for his horse, to be taken to an island nigh Sir Marhaus' ships, where it was agreed that they should fight. And when King Mark and his barons beheld young Sir Tristram depart to fight for the right of Cornwall, there was neither man nor woman of honour but wept to see so young a knight jeopard himself for their right. When Sir Tristram was arrived at the island, he commanded his servant Gouvernail to bring his horse to the land and to dress his horse rightly, and then, when he was in the saddle well apparelled and his shield dressed upon his shoulder, he commanded Gouvernail to go to his vessel again and return to King Mark. "And upon thy life," said he, "come thou not nigh this island till thou see me overcome or slain, or else that I win yonder knight." So either departed from other. When Sir Marhaus perceived this young knight seeking to encounter with himself, one of the most renowned knights of the world, he said, "Fair sir, since thou hopest to win honour of me, I let thee wit honour mayest thou none lose by me if thou mayest stand me three strokes, for I let thee wit for my noble deeds, proved and seen, King Arthur made me knight of the Table Round." Then they put spears in rest and ran together so fiercely that they smote either other down, horse and all. Anon they pulled out their swords and lashed together as men that were wild and courageous. Thus they fought more than half a day, and either was wounded passing sore, so that the blood ran down freshly from them upon the ground. By then Sir Tristram waxed more fresh than Sir Marhaus, and better winded, and bigger, and with a mighty stroke he smote Sir Marhaus upon the helm such a buffet, that it went through his helm and through the coif of steel and through the brain-pan, and the sword stuck so fast in the helm and in his brain-pan that Sir Tristram pulled thrice at his sword or ever he might pull it out from his head; and there Marhaus fell down on his knees, the edge of Tristram's sword left in his brain-pan. Suddenly Sir Marhaus rose grovelling, and threw his sword and his shield from him, and so ran to his ships and fled his way, sore groaning. Anon he and his fellowship departed into Ireland, and, as soon as he came to the king his brother, he had his wounds searched, and in his head was found a piece of Sir Tristram's sword. No surgeons might cure this wound, and so he died of Sir Tristram's sword. That piece of the sword the queen his sister kept ever with her, for she thought to be revenged, if she might. Now turn we again unto Sir Tristram, that was sore wounded by a spear-thrust of Sir Marhaus so that he might scarcely stir. He sat down softly upon a little hill, and bled fast. Then anon came Gouvernail, his man, with his vessel, and Sir Tristram was quickly taken back into the castle of Tintagil. He was cared for in the best manner possible, but he lay there a month and more, and ever he was like to die of the stroke from Sir Marhaus' spear, for, as the French book saith, the spear's head was envenomed. Then was King Mark passing heavy, and he sent after all manner of surgeons, but there was none that would promise him life. At last there came a right wise lady, and she said plainly that he should never be whole unless he went into the same country that the venom came from, and in that country he should be holpen, or else never. When King Mark understood that, he let provide for Sir Tristram a fair vessel, well victualled, and therein was put Sir Tristram and Gouvernail, with him. Sir Tristram took his harp with him, and so they put to sea to sail into Ireland. CHAPTER XIX SIR TRISTRAM AND THE FAIR ISOUD By good fortune Sir Tristram with Gouvernail arrived in Ireland fast by a castle where King Anguish and the queen were. As he came to land he sat and harped in his bed a merry lay, such as none in Ireland ever heard afore that time. And when the king and queen were told of this stranger that was such a harper, anon they sent for him and let search his wounds, and then asked him his name. Then he answered, "I am of the country of Lyonesse; my name is Tramtrist, and I was thus wounded in a battle, as I fought for a lady's right." "Truly," said King Anguish, "ye shall have all the help in this land that ye may. But I let you wit in Cornwall I had a great loss as ever king had, for there I lost the best knight of the world. His name was Marhaus, a full noble knight of the Table Round." Then he told Sir Tristram wherefore Sir Marhaus was slain. Sir Tristram made semblant as if he were sorry, and yet better knew he how it was than the king. The king for great favour had Tramtrist put in his daughter's keeping, because she was a noble surgeon. When she searched his wound she found that therein was poison, and so she healed him within a while. Therefore Tramtrist cast great devotion to the Fair Isoud, for she was at that time the fairest maid of the world. He taught her to harp, and she soon began to have a great fancy unto him. Then soon he showed himself to be so brave and true a knight in the jousts that she had great suspicion that he was some man of honour proved, and she loved him more than heretofore. Thus was Sir Tramtrist long there well cherished by the king and the queen and especially by Isoud the Fair. Upon a day as Sir Tramtrist was absent, the queen and Isoud roamed up and down in the chamber, and beheld his sword there as it lay upon his bed. And then by mishap the queen drew out the sword and regarded it a long while. Both thought it a passing fair sword, but within a foot and a half of the point there was a great piece thereof broken out of the edge. When the queen espied that gap in the sword, she remembered her of a piece of a sword that was found in the brain-pan of Sir Marhaus, her brother. "Alas," then said she unto her daughter, the Fair Isoud, "this is the traitor knight that slew thine uncle." When Isoud heard her say so she was sore abashed, for much she loved Sir Tramtrist, and full well she knew the cruelness of her mother. Anon the queen went unto her own chamber and sought her coffer, and there she took out the piece of the sword that was pulled out of Sir Marhaus' head. Then she ran with that piece of iron to the sword that lay upon the bed, and when she put that piece unto the sword, it was as meet as it could be when new broken. The queen now gripped that sword in her hand fiercely, and with all her might ran straight to where she knew Tramtrist was, and there she would have thrust him through, had not a knight pulled the sword from her. Then when she was letted of her evil will, she ran to King Anguish and told him on her knees what traitor he had in his house. The king was right heavy thereof, but charged the queen to leave him to deal with the knight. He went straight into the chamber unto Sir Tramtrist, that he found by now all ready armed to mount upon his horse. King Anguish saw that it was of no avail to fight, and that it was no honour to slay Sir Tramtrist while a guest within his court; so he gave him leave to depart from Ireland in safety, if he would tell who he was, and whether he slew Sir Marhaus. "Sir," said Tristram, "now I shall tell you all the truth: My father's name is Meliodas, king of Lyonesse, and my mother is called Elizabeth, that was sister unto King Mark of Cornwall. I was christened Tristram, but, because I would not be known in this country, I turned my name, and had myself called Tramtrist. For the tribute of Cornwall I fought for mine uncle's sake, and for the right of Cornwall that ye had possessed many years. And wit ye well I did the battle for the love of mine uncle, King Mark, for the love of the country of Cornwall, and to increase mine honour." "Truly," said the king, "I may not say but ye did as a knight should; howbeit I may not maintain you in this country with my honour." "Sir," said Tristram, "I thank you for your good lordship that I have had with you here, and the great goodness my lady your daughter hath shown me. It may so happen that ye shall win more by my life than by my death, for in the parts of England it may be I may do you service at some season so that ye shall be glad that ever ye showed me your good lordship. I beseech your good grace that I may take my leave of your daughter and of all the barons and knights." This request the king granted, and Sir Tristram went unto the Fair Isoud and took leave of her. And he told her all,--what he was, how he had changed his name because he would not be known, and how a lady told him that he should never be whole till he came into this country where the poison was made. She was full woe of his departing, and wept heartily. "Madam," said Tristram, "I promise you faithfully that I shall be all the days of my life your knight." "Grammercy," said the Fair Isoud, "and I promise you against that I shall not be married this seven years but by your assent." Then Sir Tristram gave her a ring, and she gave him another, and therewith he departed from her, leaving her making great dole and lamentation. And he straight went unto the court among all the barons, and there he took his leave of most and least, and so departed and took the sea, and with good wind he arrived up at Tintagil in Cornwall. CHAPTER XX HOW SIR TRISTRAM DEMANDED THE FAIR ISOUD FOR KING MARK, AND HOW SIR TRISTRAM AND ISOUD DRANK THE LOVE POTION When there came tidings that Sir Tristram was arrived and whole of his wounds, King Mark was passing glad, and so were all the barons. And Sir Tristram lived at the court of King Mark in great joy long time, until at the last there befell a jealousy and an unkindness between them. Then King Mark cast always in his heart how he might destroy Sir Tristram. The beauty and goodness of the Fair Isoud were so praised by Sir Tristram that King Mark said he would wed her, and prayed Sir Tristram to take his way into Ireland for him, as his messenger, to bring her to Cornwall. All this was done to the intent to slay Sir Tristram. Notwithstanding, Sir Tristram would not refuse the message for any danger or peril, and made ready to go in the goodliest wise that might be devised. He took with him the goodliest knights that he might find in the court, arrayed them after the guise that was then used, and so departed over sea with all his fellowship. Anon as he was in the broad sea a tempest took them and drove them back into the coast of England. They came to land fast by Camelot, and there Sir Tristram set up his pavilion. Now it fell that King Anguish of Ireland was accused of slaying by treason a cousin of Sir Launcelot of the Lake, and just at this time he was come to the court at the summoning of King Arthur upon pain of forfeiture of his lands; yet ere he arrived at Camelot he wist not wherefore he was sent after. When he heard the accusation he understood full well there was no remedy but to answer it knightly, for the custom was in those days, that if any man were accused of any treason or murder, he should fight body for body or else find another knight to fight for him. Now King Anguish grew passing heavy when he heard his accusing, for the knights of King Ban's blood, as Sir Launcelot was, were as hard men to win in battle as any then living. The meanwhile Sir Tristram was told how King Anguish was come thither in great distress, and he sent Gouvernail to bring him to his pavilion. When Sir Tristram saw the king coming he ran unto him and would have holden his stirrup, but King Anguish leaped lightly from his horse, and either embraced other heartily. Sir Tristram remembered his promise, made when departing from Ireland, to do service to King Anguish if ever it lay in his power, and never had there been so great need of knight's help as now. So when King Anguish told Sir Tristram all, Sir Tristram took the battle for the sake of the good lordship showed him in Ireland, and for the sake of the Fair Isoud, upon the condition that King Anguish grant two things. One was that he should swear that he was in the right and had never consented to the death of the knight. The second request was to be granted after the battle, if God should speed him therein. King Anguish quickly granted Sir Tristram whatsoever he asked, and anon departed unto King Arthur's judges, and told them he had found a champion ready to do the battle for him. So Sir Tristram fought for King Anguish and overcame his adversary, a most noble knight. Then King Anguish and Sir Tristram joyfully took their leave, and sailed into Ireland with great nobleness. When they were in Ireland the king let make it known throughout all the land, how and in what manner Sir Tristram had done for him. Then the queen and all that were there made the most of him that they might. But the joy that the Fair Isoud made of Sir Tristram no tongue might tell, for of men earthly she loved him most. Then upon a day King Anguish would know from Sir Tristram why he asked not his boon, for whatsoever had been promised he should have without fail. "Sir," said Tristram, "now is it time, and this is what I desire: that ye will give me the Fair Isoud, your daughter, not for myself, but for mine uncle, King Mark, that shall have her to wife, for so have I promised him." "Alas," said the king, "I had rather than all the land that I have ye would wed her yourself." "Sir," said Sir Tristram, "if I did, then were I ashamed for ever in this world, and false of my promise. Therefore I pray you hold your promise that ye gave me, for this is my desire, that ye will give me the Fair Isoud to go with me into Cornwall, to be wedded to King Mark, mine uncle." [Illustration: Sir Tristram and the Fair Isoud] "As for that," said King Anguish, "ye shall have her with you, to do with her what it please you; that is to say, if ye list to wed her yourself, that is to me lievest[1]; and if ye will give her unto King Mark, that is in your choice." So, to make a short conclusion, the Fair Isoud was made ready to go with Sir Tristram, and Dame Bragwaine went with her for her chief gentlewoman, with many others. The queen, Isoud's mother, gave to Dame Bragwaine and unto Gouvernail a drink, and charged them that what day King Mark should wed, that same day they should give him that drink, "and then," said the queen, "I undertake either shall love other the days of their life." So this drink was given unto Dame Bragwaine and unto Gouvernail, and then anon Sir Tristram took the sea with the Fair Isoud. When they were in the cabin, it happened that they were thirsty, and they saw a little flask of gold stand by them, that seemed by the colour and the taste to be noble wine. Then Sir Tristram took the flask in his hand, and said: "Madam Isoud, here is the best drink that ever ye drank, that Dame Bragwaine your maid and Gouvernail my servant have kept for themselves." Then they laughed and made good cheer, and either drank to other, thinking never drink was so sweet or so good. But after they had drunk that magic wine, they loved either other so truly that never their love departed either for weal or for woe. So they sailed on till by fortune they came into Cornwall. There all the barons met them, and anon King Mark and the Fair Isoud were richly wedded with great splendour. But ever, as the French book saith, Sir Tristram and the Fair Isoud loved each other truly, and his life long he was her loyal and honourable knight. [1] Lievest: dearest. CHAPTER XXI HOW SIR TRISTRAM DEPARTED FROM TINTAGIL, AND WAS LONG IN THE FOREST There were great jousts and tourneying at that time in Cornwall, and Sir Tristram was most praised of all the knights. But some were jealous because of his prowess, and especially Sir Andred, that was cousin unto Sir Tristram, ever lay in a watch to wait betwixt him and the Fair Isoud, for to take them and slander them. So upon a day Sir Tristram talked with Isoud in a window, and that espied Sir Andred, and told it to the king. Then King Mark took a sword in his hand and came to Sir Tristram, and called him false traitor, and would have stricken him. But Sir Tristram ran under his sword, and took it out of his hand. And then the king cried, "Where are my knights and my men? I charge you slay this traitor." But there was not one would move for his words. When Sir Tristram saw there was not one would be against him, he shook the sword to the king, and made as though he would strike him. And then King Mark fled, for he was a coward, and Sir Tristram followed him, and smote upon him five or six strokes with the flat of his sword on the neck so that he made him fall upon the nose. Sir Tristram then went his way and armed himself, and took his horse and his man, and so he rode into the forest. King Mark called his council unto him and asked advice of his barons what was best to do with Sir Tristram. Their counsel was to send for him, that they might be friends, for in a quarrel, if Sir Tristram were hard bestead, many men would hold with him against the king; and if so peerless a knight should depart from King Mark's court and go to King Arthur's he would get himself such friends there that Cornwall would be in ill repute. So the barons sent for Sir Tristram under a safe conduct, and he was welcomed back by King Mark. But his enemies ever plotted against him, and on a day Sir Andred and some of the barons set upon him secretly, seized him, and took him, bound hand and foot, unto a chapel which stood upon the sea rocks. When Sir Tristram saw that Andred meant to kill him there, he said: "Fair Lords, remember what I have done for the country Cornwall, and in what jeopardy I have been for the weal of you all, and see not me die thus to the shame of all knighthood." But Andred held to his purpose, and when Sir Tristram saw him draw his sword to kill him, he looked upon both his hands that were fast bound unto two knights, and suddenly he pulled them both to him and so freed his hands. Then he leaped unto his cousin Andred and wrested his sword out of his hands. Then he smote Sir Andred to the earth, and fought with the others till he had killed ten knights. So Sir Tristram gat the chapel and kept it by force. Then the uproar became great, and the people gathered unto Sir Andred, more than a hundred, whereupon Sir Tristram shut fast the chapel door, and brake the bars of a window, and so he leaped out and fell upon the crags by the sea. Here Sir Andred and his fellows might not get to him at that time, and so they departed. When Sir Tristram's men heard that he was escaped they were passing glad, and on the rocks they found him, and with towels they pulled him up. Then Sir Tristram dreaded sore lest he were discovered unto the king, wherefore he sent Gouvernail for his horse and his spear, and so he rode his way into the forest. As he rode he was in great sorrow at departing in this wise; and there, as he made great dole, by fortune a damsel met him, and she and her lady brought him meat and drink. Also they brought him a harp, for they knew him, and wist that for goodly harping he bore the prize in the world. So they tried to give him comfort, but he ate little of the food, and at the last, came wholly out his mind for sorrow. He would go about in the wilderness breaking down the trees and boughs; and otherwhile, when he found the harp that the lady sent him, then would he harp and play thereupon and weep together. Sometimes when Sir Tristram was in the wood, then would the lady sit down and play upon the harp; then would he come to that harp and hearken thereto, and sometimes he would harp himself. Thus it went on a quarter of a year, when at the last Sir Tristram ran his way, and the lady wist not what had become of him. He waxed lean and poor of flesh, and fell into the fellowship of herdmen and shepherds, and daily they would give him of their meat and drink. And when he did any evil deed they would beat him with rods, and so they clipped him with shears and made him like a fool. And upon a day Sir Dagonet, King Arthur's fool, came into Cornwall, with two squires with him, and as they rode through the forest they came by a fair well where Sir Tristram was wont to be. The weather was hot, and they alighted to drink of that well, and in the meanwhile their horses brake loose. Just then Sir Tristram came unto them, and first he soused Sir Dagonet in that well, and then his squires, and thereat laughed the shepherds. Forthwithal he ran after their horses, and brought them again one by one, and right so, wet as they were, he made Sir Dagonet and his squires mount and ride their ways. Thus Sir Tristram endured there a half-year, and would never come in town or village. Then Sir Andred, that was cousin unto Sir Tristram, let a tale be brought unto King Mark's court that Sir Tristram was dead, and that ere he died he besought King Mark to make Sir Andred king of the country of Lyonesse, of the which Sir Tristram was lord. When Queen Isoud heard of these tidings she made such sorrow that she was nigh out of her mind, and she lay long sick, at the point of death. Meanwhile a knight came unto King Mark and told him of a mad man in the forest at the fair fountain. So he commanded his knights to take Sir Tristram with fairness, and bring him to his castle, yet he knew not that the mad man was Sir Tristram. They did softly and fair, and cast mantles upon Sir Tristram, and so led him unto Tintagil. There they bathed him, and gave him hot suppings, till they had brought him well to his remembrance. But all this while there was no creature that knew Sir Tristram, nor what man he was. Now it fell upon a day that the queen, the Fair Isoud, heard of this man that ran wild in the forest and how the king had brought him home to the court, and with Dame Bragwaine she went to see him in the garden, where he was reposing in the sun. When she looked upon Sir Tristram she knew not that it was he, yet it seemed to her she had seen him before. But as soon as Sir Tristram saw her he knew her well enough, and he turned away his visage and wept. The queen had always with her a little dog that Sir Tristram gave her the first time that ever she came into Cornwall, and never would that dog depart from her unless Sir Tristram was nigh there with Isoud. Anon as this little dog caught a scent of Sir Tristram, she leaped upon him, licked his cheeks, whined and smelled at his feet and over his whole body. Then the Fair Isoud saw that it was her lord, Sir Tristram, and thereupon she fell down in a swoon, and so lay a great while. When she might speak, she blessed God that Sir Tristram was still alive, yet she knew that her lord King Mark would discover him by the little dog that would never leave him. CHAPTER XXII HOW KING MARK WAS SORRY FOR THE GOOD RENOWN OF SIR TRISTRAM The queen departed from Sir Tristram but the little dog would not from him. Therewithal came King Mark, and the dog set upon him and bayed at all the barons. Thereupon Sir Andred saw by the dog that it was Sir Tristram, and King Mark repented that he had brought the mad man in from the forest. Then he let call his barons to judge Sir Tristram to death. They would not assent thereto, but by the advice of them all he was banished out of the country for ten years. So Sir Tristram was made to depart out of the country of Cornwall, and there were many barons brought him into his ship. When he was ready to set sail he said: "Greet well King Mark and all mine enemies, and say I will come again when I may. And well am I rewarded for the fighting with Sir Marhaus, and delivering all this country from servage, and well am I rewarded for the fetching of the Fair Isoud out of Ireland, and the danger I was in first and last." So Sir Tristram departed over sea, and arrived in Wales. As he rode there through the Forest Perilous, a lady in great distress met him, that said: "O my lord, come with me, and that in all the haste ye may, for ye shall see the most honourable knight of the world hard bestead, and he is none other than the noble King Arthur himself." "God defend," said Sir Tristram, "that ever he should be in such distress. I am ready to help him if I may." So they rode at a great pace, till they saw a knight, that was King Arthur, on foot fighting with two knights, and anon the one knight was smitten down, and they unlaced his helm to slay him. Therewithal came Sir Tristram with all his might, and smote the two traitors so that they fell dead. Then he horsed King Arthur, and as they rode forth together, the King thanked heartily Sir Tristram and desired to wit his name. He would not tell him, but said that he was a poor knight adventurous. So he bare King Arthur fellowship, till he met with some of his knights. Then departed Sir Tristram, and rode straight toward Camelot. Then was he ware of a seemly knight riding against him with a covered shield. They dressed their shields and spears, and came together with all the mights of their horses. They met so fiercely that both horses and knights fell to the earth. As fast as they were able they then gat free from their horses, and put their shields before them; and they strake together with bright swords, like men of might, and either wounded other wonderly sore, so that the blood ran out upon the grass. Thus they two fought the space of four hours. Never one would speak to other one word, and of their harness they hewed off many pieces. Then at the last spake the one with the covered shield; "Knight, thou fightest wonderly well as ever I saw knight; therefore if it please you tell me your name." "Sir," said Sir Tristram, "that is me loath to tell any man my name." "Truly," said the other, "if I was requested, I was never loath to tell my name. I am Sir Launcelot of the Lake." "Alas," said Sir Tristram, "what have I done, for ye are the man in the world that I love best." "Fair knight," said Sir Launcelot, "tell me now your name." "Truly," said he, "my name is Sir Tristram of Lyonesse." "Oh," said Sir Launcelot, "what adventure is befallen me!" Therewith Sir Launcelot kneeled adown, and yielded him up his sword. And therewithal Sir Tristram kneeled adown, and yielded him up his sword. So either gave other the victory. Thereupon they both forthwithal went to a stone, and sat down upon it, and took off their helms to cool themselves. Then after a while they took their helms and rode together to Camelot. There soon they met King Arthur, and when he wist that it was Sir Tristram, he ran unto him and took him by the hand and said, "Sir Tristram, ye be as welcome as any knight that ever came to this court." Then they went to the Table Round, where Queen Guenever came, and many ladies with her, and all the ladies said at one voice, "Welcome, Sir Tristram." "Welcome," said the damsels; "Welcome," said the knights; "Welcome," said Arthur, "for one of the best knights and the gentlest of the world, and the man of most honour. For of all manner of hunting ye bear the prize; and of all the terms of hunting and hawking ye are the beginner; of all instruments of music ye are the best. Therefore, gentle knight, ye are welcome to this court. Now I pray you, grant me a boon." "It shall be at your commandment," said Tristram. "Well," said Arthur, "I will desire of you that ye will abide in my court." "Sir," said Sir Tristram, "thereto is me loath, for I have ado in many countries." "Not so," said Arthur; "ye have promised it me, and ye may not say nay." So Tristram agreed to remain with King Arthur, who then went unto the sieges about the Round Table, and looked in every siege that lacked a knight. Then the King saw in the siege of Marhaus letters that said, "This is the siege of the noble knight Sir Tristram." And then Arthur made Sir Tristram knight of the Table Round with great splendour and great feast, as might be thought. For that Sir Marhaus, a worthy knight, was slain afore by the hands of Sir Tristram was well known at that time in the court of Arthur; and that for evil deeds that he did unto the country of Cornwall Sir Tristram and he fought; and that they fought so long tracing and traversing till they fell bleeding to the earth, for they were so sore wounded that they might not stand; and that Sir Tristram by fortune recovered, and Sir Marhaus died through the stroke on the head. King Mark had had great despite of the renown of Sir Tristram, and therefore had chased him out of Cornwall. When now he heard of the great prowess that Sir Tristram did in England he was sore grieved, and sent men to espy what deeds he did. The Queen Isoud also on her part sent privily spies to know what deeds he had done, for great love was between them twain. When the messengers came home, and told that Sir Tristram passed all other knights at Arthur's court unless it were Sir Launcelot, King Mark was right heavy of the tidings, and as glad was the Fair Isoud. Then in great despite King Mark took with him two good knights and two squires, disguised himself, and took his way into England, to the intent to slay Sir Tristram. So King Mark came into England, where he soon became known as the most horrible coward that ever bestrode horse; and there was much laughing and jesting at the knight of Cornwall, and much he was despised. Sir Dagonet, King Arthur's fool, at one time chased him through thick and thin over the forests; and when on a day Sir Launcelot overtook him and bade him turn and fight, he made no defence, but tumbled down out off the saddle to the earth as a sack, and there he lay still, and cried Sir Launcelot mercy. So King Mark was soon brought as recreant before King Arthur, who already knew wherefore he was come into his country, and that he had not done the service and homage he owed as King Arthur's under-lord. But King Mark promised to make large amends for the wrongs he had done, for he was a fair speaker, and false thereunder. So on a day King Arthur prayed of him one gift, and King Mark promised to give him whatsoever he desired, if it were in his power. Then King Arthur asked him to be good lord unto Sir Tristram, and to take him back into Cornwall, and to cherish him for Arthur's sake. King Mark promised this, and swore upon a book afore Arthur and all his knights. Therewith King Arthur forgave him all the evil will that ever he owed him, and King Mark and Sir Tristram took either other by the hands hard knit together. But for all this King Mark thought falsely, as it proved afterward. Then soon afterward King Mark took his leave to ride into Cornwall, and Sir Tristram rode with him; wherefore the most part of the Round Table were passing heavy, and some were wroth, knowing that King Mark was the most coward and the villainest knight living. After a while letters came out of Cornwall that spake ill of Sir Tristram and showed plainly that King Mark took Sir Tristram for his mortal enemy. Sir Launcelot in especial made great sorrow for anger, wherefore Dinadan, a gentle, wise, and courteous knight, said to him: "King Mark is so villainous that by fair speech shall never man get of him. But ye shall see what I shall do. I will make a lay for him, and when it is made I shall make a harper sing it afore him." So anon Dinadan went and made the lay, hoping thereby to humble the crafty king; and he taught it an harper named Eliot, and when he knew it, he taught it to many harpers. And so, by the will of Sir Launcelot and of Arthur, the harpers went straight into Wales and into Cornwall, to sing the lay that Sir Dinadan made of King Mark, which was the worst lay that ever harper sang with harp or with any other instrument. At a great feast that King Mark made came in Eliot the harper, and because he was a curious harper, men heard him sing the lay that Dinadan had made, the which spake the most villainy of King Mark's treason that ever man heard. When the harper had sung his song to the end, King Mark was wonderly wroth, for he deemed that the lay that was sung afore him was made by Sir Tristram's counsel, wherefore he thought to slay him and all his well willers in that country. So King Mark grew ever more jealous of Sir Tristram because of his prowess as knight and his great love and loyal devotion to the queen, the Fair Isoud; and by treason King Mark let take him and put him in prison, contrary to his promise that he made unto King Arthur. When Queen Isoud understood that Sir Tristram was in prison, she made as great sorrow as ever made lady or gentlewoman. Then Sir Tristram sent a letter unto her, and prayed her to be his good lady; and if it pleased her to make a vessel ready for her and him, he would go with her unto the realm of Logris, that is this land. When the Fair Isoud understood Sir Tristram's letter and his intent, she sent him another, and bade him be of good comfort, for she would make the vessel ready, and all things to purpose. Then she had King Mark taken and put in prison, until the time that she and Sir Tristram were departed unto the realm of Logris. And then Sir Tristram was delivered out of prison, and anon in all haste they took their vessel, and came by water into England. When Sir Launcelot understood that Sir Tristram was there, he was full glad. He espied whither he went, and after him he rode, and then either made of other great joy. And so Sir Launcelot brought Sir Tristram and the Fair Isoud unto Joyous Gard, that was Sir Launcelot's own castle that he had won with his own hands. And he charged all his people to honour them and love them as they would do himself. Near three years Sir Tristram kept the Fair Isoud with him in Joyous Gard, and then by means of treaties he brought her again unto King Fox, which was the name Sir Launcelot gave unto Mark because of his wiles and treason. But ever the malice of King Fox followed his brave nephew, and in the end he slew him as he sat harping afore his lady, the Fair Isoud, with a trenchant glaive, thrust in behind to the heart. For his death was much bewailing of every knight that ever was in Arthur's days, for he was traitorously slain. And the Fair Isoud died, swooning upon the cross of Sir Tristram, whereof was great pity. And all that were with King Mark that were consenting to the death of Sir Tristram were slain, as Sir Andred and many others. CHAPTER XXIII HOW SIR PERCIVALE OF GALIS SOUGHT AND FOUND SIR LAUNCELOT While King Arthur and his knights were still sorrowful over Sir Tristram's return to Cornwall, greatly fearing mischief to the good knight by some manner of falsehood or treason of King Mark, there came to the court a knight bringing a young squire with him. It was Sir Aglovale, King Pellinore's son, and the squire was his brother, Percivale, that he wished King Arthur to make knight. The boy was the youngest of five sons, and for love of the father and the brothers, good knights all, the King made him a knight the next day in Camelot; yet the King and all the knights thought it would be long ere he proved a man of prowess, and Sir Kay and Sir Mordred made sport of his rude manner. At the dinner, when every knight was set after his honour, the King commanded Sir Percivale to be placed among mean knights. But there was a maiden in the Queen's court that was come of high blood, yet she was dumb, and never spake a word. Right so she came straight into the hall, went unto Sir Percivale, took him by the hand, and said aloud, that the King and all the knights might hear it, "Arise, Sir Percivale, the noble knight and God's knight, and go with me." So he did, and she brought him to the right side of the Siege Perilous, and said, "Fair knight, take here thy siege, for that siege appertaineth to thee, and to none other." Right so she departed, and soon afterward she died. Then the King and all the court made great joy of Sir Percivale. Then Sir Percivale rode forth upon adventures, and came unto Cornwall to seek Sir Tristram. And he delivered him from a prison where King Mark had placed him, and then rode straight unto King Mark and told him he had done himself great shame to treat so falsely Sir Tristram, the knight of most renown in all the world. Then Sir Percivale departed, but anon King Mark bethought him of more treason, notwithstanding his promise never by any manner of means to hurt Sir Tristram, and he let take him and put him again in prison. How he then escaped with Isoud into England we have already read in the tale of Sir Tristram. Now it chanced that Sir Launcelot of the Lake had sore offended the Queen Guenever, and she rebuked him harshly, called him false traitor knight, and sent him from her court. Therewith he took such an hearty sorrow at her words that he went clean out of his mind, and leaped out at a bay window into a garden, and there with thorns he was all scratched up in his visage. So he ran forth he wist not whither, and for a long while none of his kin wist what was become of him. Soon Queen Guenever was right sorry that she had been so angry with her faithful knight, and on her knees besought Sir Bors and many others to seek Sir Launcelot throughout all England, Wales, and Scotland. So these noble knights by one assent rode forth by twos and threes; and ever they assigned where they should meet. Sir Aglovale and Sir Percivale rode together unto their mother that was a queen in those days. And when she saw her two sons, for joy she wept tenderly and said, "Ah my dear sons, when your father was slain he left me five sons, of the which now be three slain; my heart shall never be glad more." Then she kneeled down tofore Aglovale and Percivale, and besought them to abide at home with her. "Ah, sweet mother," said Sir Percivale, "we may not, for we be come of king's blood on both sides, and therefore, mother, it is our kind to follow arms and noble deeds." Then there was but weeping and sobbing when they should depart, and after they were gone, she sent a squire after them with spending enough. When the squire had overtaken them, they would not suffer him to ride with them, but sent him home again to comfort their mother, praying her meekly for her blessing. So this squire was benighted as he rode homeward, and by misfortune happened to come into the castle of a baron whose brother (a false knight and betrayer of ladies and of good knights) Sir Aglovale had slain. When this baron knew from the squire that he served a good knight called Sir Aglovale, he commanded his men to have him away without mercy. On the morn came Sir Aglovale and Sir Percivale riding by a churchyard where men and women were busy in burying this same dead squire. When the brothers heard from a good man of the company how the baron had shamefully slain the squire that night, they alighted both, left their horses with their men, and went on foot to the castle. All so soon as they were within the castle gate Sir Aglovale bade the porter "Go thou unto thy lord and tell him that I am Sir Aglovale, for whom the squire was slain this night." Anon the lord of the castle, whose name was Goodewin, came armed into the court, and he and Sir Aglovale lashed together as eagerly as it had been two lions. Sir Percivale fought with all the remnant that would fight, and within a while had slain all that would withstand him, for he dealt so his strokes that there durst no man abide him. Within a while Sir Aglovale had Sir Goodewin also at the earth, and so the two brethren departed and took their horses. Then they let carry the dead squire unto a priory, and there they interred him. When this was done they rode their way into many countries, ever inquiring after Sir Launcelot, but never they could hear of him. At last, at a castle that was called Cardican, Sir Percivale parted from Sir Aglovale, and with his squire rode alone. In the afternoon he came upon a bridge of stone, where he found a knight that was bound with a chain fast about unto a pillar of stone. This was Sir Persides, a knight of the Table Round, who by adventure came this way and lodged in the castle at the bridge foot. There by an evil custom of the castle men set upon him suddenly or ever he might come to his weapon, and bound him, and chained him at the bridge. There he knew he should die unless some man of honour brake his bands. "Be ye of good cheer," said Sir Percivale, "and because ye are a knight of the Round Table as well as I, I trust to God to make you free." Therewith Sir Percivale drew out his sword, and struck at the chain with such a might that he cut a-two the chain, and through Sir Persides' hauberk, and hurt him a little. "Truly," said Sir Persides, "that was a mighty stroke if ever I felt one, for had it not been for the chain, ye had slain me." Therewithal Sir Persides saw a knight coming out of the castle, flying all that ever he might. "Beware, sir," said he; "yonder cometh a man that will have ado with you." "Let him come," said Sir Percivale. So he met with that knight in the midst of the bridge, and gave him such a buffet that he smote him quite from his horse and over a part of the bridge so that, had there not been a little vessel under the bridge, that knight had been drowned. Then Sir Percivale took the knight's horse, and made Sir Persides to mount upon him. So they rode to the castle, and made the lady deliver Sir Persides' servants. Had he not had a great matter in hand, he would have remained to do away with the evil customs there. But Sir Percivale might not long abide, for he rode to seek Sir Launcelot. Sir Persides brought him unto his own castle, and there made him great cheer for that night. Then on the morn, when Sir Percivale had heard mass and broken his fast, he said to Sir Persides: "Ride unto King Arthur, and tell the King how that ye met with me, and tell my brother Sir Aglovale how I rescued you, and bid him seek not after me, for I am in the quest to seek Sir Launcelot of the Lake, and will not see him or the court till Sir Launcelot is found. Also tell Sir Kay and Sir Mordred that I trust to God to be of as good worthiness as either of them, and that I will never see that court till men speak more honour of me than ever men did of any of them both." So Sir Persides departed from Sir Percivale, and rode unto King Arthur, and told there of Sir Percivale. And King Arthur said he must needs prove a good knight, for his father and his brethren were noble knights. Now turn we to Sir Launcelot, and speak we of his care and woe and what pain he endured from cold, hunger, and thirst. As he wandered like a mad man here and there, he by fortune came to the castle of King Pelles. There he was healed of his madness, and when he was recovered he was sore ashamed that he had thus been clean out of his wit. And King Pelles gave him his castle of Bliant, that stood in an island enclosed with a fair water, deep and large. Sir Launcelot called it the Joyous Isle, and here he dwelt a long while. Because he was driven from King Arthur's court he desired not to be known, and he named himself "The knight that hath trespassed." Now it fell at that time that Sir Launcelot heard of a jousting hard by his castle, and he sent word thither that there was one knight in the Joyous Isle, by name "The knight that hath trespassed," that will joust against any knights that will come to him. When this cry was made, unto Joyous Isle drew many knights, and wit you well there was not seen at Arthur's court one knight that did so much deeds of arms as were done in that gay castle. And in the meanwhile came also Sir Percivale nigh to Joyous Isle, and would have gone to that castle, but might not for the broad water. Then he saw on the other side a lady, and he called unto her and asked who was in that castle. "Fair knight," she said, "here within this castle is the fairest knight and the mightiest man that is, I dare say, living, and he calleth himself 'The knight that hath trespassed.' He came into this country like a mad man, with dogs and boys chasing him, and by miracle he was brought into his wit again. If ye list to come into the castle, ye must ride unto the farther side of the isle, and there ye shall find a vessel that will bear you and your horse." Then Sir Percivale came unto the vessel, and passed the water. When he came to the castle gate, he bade the porter, "Go thou to the good knight within the castle, and tell him here is come an errant knight to joust with him." Sir Percivale now rode within the castle, and anon Sir Launcelot had warning, he was soon ready. And there Sir Percivale and Sir Launcelot encountered with such a might that both the horses and the knights fell to the earth. Then they left their horses, swung out noble swords, and hewed away pieces of their shields, and dashed together like two boars, and either wounded other passing sore. At the last Sir Percivale spake, when they had fought there more than two hours: "Fair knight," saith he, "I pray thee tell me thy name, for I met never with such a knight." "Sir," said Sir Launcelot, "my name is 'The knight that hath trespassed.' Now tell me your name, I pray you, gentle knight." "Truly," said Sir Percivale, "my name is Sir Percivale of Galis; King Pellinore was my father and Sir Aglovale is my brother." "Alas," said Sir Launcelot, "what have I done to fight with you that art a knight of the Table Round, that sometime was your fellow." Therewithal Sir Launcelot kneeled down upon his knees, and threw away his shield and his sword from him. When Sir Percivale saw him do so, he marvelled what he meant. Then he begged him upon the high order of knighthood to tell his true name, and Sir Launcelot told him all. "Alas," said Sir Percivale, "what have I done! I was sent by the Queen for to seek you, and so I have sought you nigh these two years. I pray you forgive me mine offence that I have here done." "It is soon forgiven," said Sir Launcelot. Then Sir Percivale told him how King Arthur and all his knights, and in especial Queen Guenever, made great dole and sorrow that ever he departed from them, and that never knight was better welcome back to the court than he would be. So Sir Launcelot agreed to do after Sir Percivale's counsel, and ride with him to the King. So then they took their horses and departed from the Joyous Isle, and within five days' journey they came to Camelot, that is called in English Winchester. And when Sir Launcelot was come among them, the King and all the knights made great joy of him. Then Sir Percivale of Galis began and told the whole adventures, and all the tales of Sir Launcelot. And the Queen made great cheer, and there were great feasts made, and many great lords and ladies, when they heard that Sir Launcelot was come to the court again, made great joy. CHAPTER XXIV OF THE COMING OF SIR GALAHAD At the vigil of Pentecost, when all the fellowship of the Round Table were come unto Camelot, and the tables were set ready to the meat, right so entered into the hall a full fair gentlewoman before the King, and on behalf of King Pelles requested that Sir Launcelot should go with her hereby into a forest. Sir Launcelot bade his squire saddle his horse and bring his arms, and right so he departed with the gentlewoman, and rode until that he came into a great valley, where they saw an abbey of nuns. There was a squire ready, and opened the gates; and so they entered and descended off their horses, and there came a fair fellowship about Sir Launcelot and welcomed him, and were passing glad of his coming. In the meanwhile there came twelve nuns which brought with them Galahad, the which was passing fair and well made, so that in the world men might scarcely find his match. "Sir," said the ladies, "we bring you here this child, the which we have nourished, and we pray you to make him a knight; for of a worthier man's hand may he not receive the order of knighthood." Sir Launcelot beheld that young squire, and saw him seemly and demure as a dove, with all manner of good features, and he thought of his age never to have seen so fair a man of form. Then said Sir Launcelot, "Cometh this desire of himself?" He and all they said, "Yea." "Then shall he," said Sir Launcelot, "receive the high order of knighthood to-morrow." That night Sir Launcelot had passing good cheer, and on the morn at the hour of prime, at Galahad's desire, he made him knight, and said, "God make you a good man, for beauty faileth you not as any that liveth." Then Sir Launcelot departed from them, and came again unto Camelot by the hour of nine on Whitsunday morning. By that time the King and the Queen and all the fellowship were gone to the minster to hear the service. When they were come from service all were passing glad of Sir Launcelot's return. And as they entered the hall each of the barons sought his name, written with gold letters, in the sieges of the Round Table. Thus they went along from seat to seat, until that they came to the Siege Perilous, where they found letters newly written of gold, that said: "Four hundred winters and fifty-four accomplished after the passion of our Lord Jesu Christ ought this siege to be filled." All thought this a marvellous thing, and an adventurous. And then Sir Launcelot accounted the term of the writing from the birth of our Lord unto that day, and said: "It seemeth me this siege ought to be filled this same day, for this is the feast of Pentecost after the four hundred and four and fifty years; and if it would please all parties, I would none of these letters were seen this day, till he be come that ought to achieve this adventure." Then they provided a cloth of silk for to cover these letters in the Siege Perilous, and the King bade haste unto dinner. It was an old custom of Arthur's court that on this day they should not sit at their meat until they had seen some adventure. As they stood waiting therefor, in came a squire bringing the marvellous tidings that beneath at the river there was a great stone, as it were of red marble, floating above the water, wherein a sword stuck. So the King and all the knights went unto the river to see this marvel, and they found it even as the squire had said. There in the stone was the fair rich sword, and in the pommel thereof were precious stones and subtile letters wrought with gold. Then the barons read the letters, which said in this wise: "Never shall man take me hence but only he by whose side I ought to hang, and he shall be the best knight of the world." When the King had seen these letters, he said unto Sir Launcelot, "Fair sir, this sword ought to be yours, for I am sure ye be the best knight of the world." Then Sir Launcelot answered full soberly, conscious of a great sin: "Certes, sir, it is not my sword; also, sir, wit ye well I have no hardiness to set my hand thereto, for it belongs not by my side." "Now, fair nephew," said the King unto Sir Gawaine, "assay ye to take the sword for my love." Therewith Sir Gawaine took the sword by the handles, though unwillingly and only at the King's commandment, but he might not stir it. Then the King said unto Sir Percivale that he should assay. So he set his hand on the sword and drew it strongly, but he might not move it. Then were there more that durst be so hardy as to set their hands thereto, but all failed. "Now may ye go to your dinner," said Sir Kay unto King Arthur, "for a marvellous adventure have ye seen." So the King and all went in, and every knight knew his own place and set himself therein, and all sieges were filled save only the Siege Perilous. Anon there befell a marvellous adventure, for all the doors and the windows of the place shut of themselves, yet then the hall was not greatly darkened, and therewith they were amazed, both one and other. While they sat there in suspense as to what should happen, came in a good old man, and an ancient, clothed all in white, and there was no knight knew from whence he came. With him he brought a young knight in red arms, without sword or shield, save a scabbard hanging by his side. Then the old man said unto Arthur, "Sir, I bring here a young knight the which is of king's lineage and of the kindred of Joseph of Arimathea, whereby the marvels of this court and of strange realms shall be fully accomplished." The King was right glad of the good man's words, and bade him and the young knight welcome. Then the old man made the young man unarm; and he was in a coat of red silk, and bore a mantle upon his shoulder that was furred with ermine. Anon the old knight led him unto the Siege Perilous, where beside sat Sir Percivale and Sir Launcelot. The good man lifted up the cloth, and found there letters that said thus: "This is the siege of Galahad, the high prince." He set him down surely in that siege, saying, "Wit ye well that place is yours," and then, departed and went his way. All the knights of the Table Round marvelled greatly that Sir Galahad durst sit there in that Siege Perilous, and was so tender of age; for never before had anyone sat therein but he was mischieved. And they foresaw that Sir Galahad would come to great honour, and outdo them all in knightly courtesy. Then the King bade him welcome to the court, and taking him by the hand, went down from the palace to show Galahad the adventures of the stone. "Sir" said the King unto him, "here is a great marvel as ever I saw, and right good knights have assayed and failed." "Sir," said Galahad, "that is no marvel, for this adventure is not theirs but mine, and for the surety of this sword I brought none with me; for here by my side hangeth the scabbard." Anon he laid his hand on the sword, and lightly drew it out of the stone and put it in the sheath, saying, "Now it goeth better than it did aforehand." CHAPTER XXV HOW THE QUEST OF THE HOLY GRAIL WAS BEGUN The dish from which our Lord Jesu Christ ate the paschal lamb at His last supper with His disciples men call the Holy Grail. Therein also Joseph of Arimathea caught the last drops of sacred blood, and after the passion of our Lord that gentle knight, the which took down the body off the holy cross, at that time departed from Jerusalem with a great party of his kindred, bearing the Holy Grail with them. It befell that they came first to a city that was called Sarras, and at the last they crossed to Britain, and through them all the heathen people of this land were turned to the Christian faith. Ever as years went by the Holy Grail became more precious, and the possession of it ever more a sacred trust. But after a long while it was lost from the world through men's sinfulness, and only those of pure heart and life might from time to time see it. Merlin, before he was put under the stone, had foreseen that by them which should be fellows of the Round Table the truth of the Holy Grail would be well known, and in the good days of King Arthur the longing grew to be worthy of the vision of this sign of the Lord's presence among men. Moreover a holy hermit had said that, when the Siege Perilous was filled, the achieving of the Holy Grail should be near. After Galahad drew the sword out of the stone the King and all estates went thoughtful home unto Camelot, and so to even-song in the great minster. After that they went to supper, and every knight sat in his own place at the Round Table. Then anon they heard cracking and crying of thunder that should, as it seemed to them, shake the place all to pieces. In the midst of this blast entered a sunbeam more clear by seven times than ever they saw day, and all they were alighted of the grace of the Holy Ghost. Then began every knight to behold other, and either saw other by their seeming fairer than ever they looked afore. There was no knight might speak one word, and so they looked every man on his fellows, as if they were dumb. Then there entered into the hall the Holy Grail, covered with white samite, but there was none might see it, or who bare it. And there was all the hall filled full with good odours, and every knight was nourished in his soul. When the Holy Grail had been borne through the hall, then it departed suddenly, so that they wist not what became of it. Then had they all breath to speak, and the King yielded thankings unto God for His good grace that He had sent them. "Now," said Sir Gawaine, "we have been richly blessed this day, but one thing beguiled us,--we might not see the Holy Grail, it was so preciously covered. Wherefore I will make here avow, that to-morn, without longer abiding, I shall labour in the quest of the Holy Grail a twelvemonth and a day, or more if need be, and shall not return unto the court till I have seen it more openly than it hath been seen here; and if I may not speed, I shall return again at the end of the time as he that may not be against the will of our Lord Jesu Christ." When they of the Table Round heard Sir Gawaine say so, the most part of them arose, and made such avows as Sir Gawaine had made. Anon as King Arthur heard this he was greatly grieved, for he wist well that they might not gainsay their avows, and he should be bereft of the fairest fellowship and the truest knighthood that ever were seen together in any realm of the world. For, when they departed from hence, they should never all meet again in this world, and many of his true fellowship of noble knights should die in the quest. When the Queen also and all the court wist these tidings, they had such sorrow and heaviness that there might no tongue tell it. Many of the ladies would have gone with the knights that they loved, had not an old man in religious clothing said on high that none in this quest should lead wife with him. Moreover he warned the knights plainly that he that was not clean of his sins should not see the mysteries of our Lord Jesu Christ. Then they went to rest themselves, and in honour of the highness of Galahad he was led into King Arthur's chamber, and there rested in his own bed. As soon as it was day the King arose, for he had no rest all that night for sorrow. Then the King and the Queen went unto the minster, and all the knights, armed fully save their shields and their helms, followed them to hear the service. Then after the service was done, the King would wit how many had taken the quest of the Holy Grail, and found by tale there were an hundred and fifty, all knights of the Round Table. Then they put on their helms, and so mounted upon their horses, and rode through the streets of Camelot. And there was weeping of rich and poor, and the King turned away, and might not speak for weeping. Within a while they came to a city and a castle called Vagon. The lord of that castle was a good old man and set open the gates, and made them all the good cheer that he might. On the morrow they were all accorded that they should ride every each from other. Then they departed with weeping and mourning cheer, and every knight took the way that him best liked. CHAPTER XXVI HOW GALAHAD GAT HIM A SHIELD Now Sir Galahad was yet without shield, and so he rode four days without any adventure. After even-song of the fourth day he came to a white abbey, and there he was received with great reverence, and led to a chamber wherein he was ware of two knights of the Round Table, the one King Bagdemagus and the other Sir Uwaine. They went unto him and made of him great solace; and they told him that within this place was a shield that no man might bear about his neck without great harm to himself, unless he were the worthiest knight of the world. [Illustration: Sir Galahad] "Ah, sir," said King Bagdemagus to Galahad, "I shall to-morrow assay this strange adventure, and if I may not achieve it ye shall take it upon you, for I am sure ye shall not fail." "Sir," said Galahad, "I agree right well thereto, for I have no shield." So on the morn they arose and heard mass. Then King Bagdemagus asked where the adventurous shield was. Anon a monk led him behind an altar, where the shield hung as white as any snow, but in the midst was a red cross. The monk counselled him to be well advised before taking it, and King Bagdemagus answered: "Well, I wot well that I am not the best knight of the world, but yet shall I assay to bear it." And so, bidding Sir Galahad to abide there still, till it was known how he sped, King Bagdemagus bore the red cross shield out of the monastery, took with him a squire, the which should bring tidings unto Sir Galahad how he sped, and rode away. Two miles off they came into a fair valley afore a hermitage, and there they saw a goodly knight in white armour, horse and all. He came as fast as his horse might run, with his spear in the rest, and King Bagdemagus dressed his spear against him, and brake it upon the White Knight. The other struck him so hard that he brake the mails, and thrust him through the right shoulder, for the shield covered him not at that time, and so he bare him from his horse. Therewith the White Knight alighted and took the white shield from King Bagdemagus, saying, "Knight, thou hast done thyself great folly, for this shield ought not to be borne but by him that shall have no peer that liveth." Then he came to the squire, and said, "Bear this shield unto the good knight Sir Galahad, that thou left in the abbey, and greet him well from me." The squire first went unto Bagdemagus, and asked him whether he were sore wounded or not. "Yea, forsooth," said he, "I shall escape hard from death." Then the squire fetched his horse, and brought him with great pain unto an abbey. Then was he taken down safely, and unarmed, and laid in a bed. There his wounds were looked to, and, as the book telleth, he lay there long, and escaped hard with life. "Sir," said the squire, when he came to Galahad, "that knight that wounded Bagdemagus sendeth you greeting, and bade that ye should bear this shield, wherethrough great adventures should befall." "Now blessed be God," said Sir Galahad. Then he asked his arms, mounted upon his horse, and, commending himself unto God, hung the white shield about his neck. So he departed, and within a while came by the hermitage, where the White Knight awaited him. Every each saluted other courteously, and the knight told Sir Galahad the marvels of the shield. "Sir," said he, "at that same hour that Joseph of Arimathea came to Sarras, there was a king in that city called Evelake, that had great war against the Saracens, and there Joseph made this shield for him in the name of Him that died upon the cross. Then through his good belief he had the better of his enemies; for when King Evelake was in the battle, there was a cloth set afore the shield, and when he was in the greatest peril he let put away the cloth, and then his enemies saw a figure of a man on the cross, wherethrough they all were discomfited. "Soon afterwards Joseph departed from Sarras, and King Evelake would go with him whether he would or nould, and they came unto this land of Britain. Not long after this, when Joseph lay on his death-bed, King Evelake begged of him some token that would lead him to think on the old knight for love of whom he had left his own country. So Joseph took this shield, and thereupon he made a cross with his own blood; that should be Evelake's token. Then he said that no man should bear this shield until the time that Galahad come, the last of Joseph's lineage, that should do many marvellous deeds while bearing it about his neck. To-day is the time they then set when ye shall have King Evelake's shield." So spake the White Knight, and then vanished away; and Sir Galahad rode with the squire back to the abbey. CHAPTER XXVII SIR GALAHAD AT THE CASTLE OF MAIDENS The men of the abbey made great joy of Sir Galahad, and he rested there that night. Upon the morn he gave the order of knighthood to the squire who had brought him the red-cross shield, and asked him his name, and of what kindred he was come. "Sir," said he, "men call me Melias of Lile, and I am the son of the King of Denmark." "Now, fair sir," said Galahad, "since ye are of noble birth, see that knighthood be well placed in you, for ye ought to be a mirror unto all chivalry." "Sir," said Melias, "ye say truly. But, sir, since ye have made me a knight, ye must of right grant me my first desire that is reasonable." "Ye say truly," said Galahad. Then Melias said, "Suffer me to ride with you in this quest of the Holy Grail till some adventure part us." "I grant you, sir," said Galahad. Then men brought Sir Melias his armour and his spear and his horse; and so Sir Galahad and he rode forth all that week ere they found any adventure. And then upon a Monday, in the morning, as they had departed from an abbey, they came to a fork in the road, where stood written these words: "Now ye knights errant, who go to seek knights adventurous, see here two ways; the right-hand road ye are warned against, for knight shall never ride out of that place again unless he be a good man and a worthy knight; and if ye go to the left hand ye shall not there easily win prowess, for ye shall in this road be soon attacked." "Sir," said Melias to Galahad, "if ye are pleased to suffer me to take the way on the left hand, tell me, for there I shall well prove my strength." "It were better," said Galahad, "ye rode not that way, for I believe I should better escape in that way than ye." "Nay, my lord," said Melias, "I pray you, let me have that adventure." "Take it, in God's name," said Galahad. So Melias rode far through an old forest, and after two days or more came into a fair meadow. Here in a fair lodge of boughs he espied a chair wherein was a subtilely-wrought crown of gold, and near by was a cloth spread upon the ground with many delicious meats upon it. Sir Melias had no desire for the food, but the crown of gold pleased him much, so he stooped down and took it and rode his way with it. And anon he saw a knight come riding after him, who called upon him to set down the crown that was not his, and to defend himself. The new-made knight was glad of this adventure, and the two let their horses run as fast as they might, so that the other knight smote Sir Melias through his hauberk and through the left side, and he fell to the earth nigh dead. Then the knight took the crown and went his way, and Sir Melias lay still, and had no power to stir. In the meanwhile by good fortune there came Sir Galahad and found him there in peril of death. Then he said, "Ah, Melias, who hath wounded you? It would have been better to ride the other way." And when Sir Melias heard him speak, "Sir," he said, "for God's love let me not die in this forest, but bear me unto the abbey near at hand." "It shall be done," said Galahad, "but where is he that hath wounded you?" With that Sir Galahad heard some one cry, "Knight, keep thee from me!" "Ah, sir," said Melias, "beware, for that is he that hath slain me." Sir Galahad answered, "Sir knight, come at your peril." So they came together as fast as their horses might run; and Galahad smote the other so that his spear went through the knight's shoulder and smote him down off his horse, and in the falling Galahad's spear brake. With that came out another knight from the leaves, and brake a spear upon Galahad before he might turn about. Then Galahad drew out his sword and smote this one so that he fled away, and Sir Galahad pursued fast after him. But soon he turned again unto Sir Melias, and there he alighted and placed him softly on his horse before him, and Sir Galahad climbed up behind, and held him in his arms, and so brought him to the abbey and into his chamber. Here he placed the wounded knight in the care of an old monk, that promised to heal him of his wounds. "Now I will depart," said Galahad, "for I have much on hand; many good knights be full busy about it, and this knight and I were in the same quest of the Holy Grail." "Sir," said the good monk, "for his sins he was thus wounded; and I marvel," said he to Melias, "how ye durst take upon you so rich a thing as the high order of knighthood without clean confession, and that was the cause ye were bitterly wounded. For the way on the right hand betokeneth the high way of our Lord Jesu Christ, and the way of a true good liver. And the other way betokeneth the way of sinners and of misbelievers. Your pride and presumption in taking the quest of the blessed Holy Grail made you to be overthrown, for it may not be achieved but by virtuous living. Pride is head of all deadly sins, and that caused you to depart from Sir Galahad. And when ye took the crown of gold your sin was covetousness and theft. But this Galahad, the holy knight, the which fought with the two knights that signify the two deadly sins which were wholly in you, was able to overthrow them, for he is pure in his heart." "My lord Galahad," said Sir Melias, "as soon as I may ride I shall seek you." "God send you health," said Galahad, and so he took his horse and departed, and rode many journeys forward and backward, as adventure would lead him. Then Sir Galahad came unto a mountain. There he found an old chapel, where all was desolate, and he knelt before the altar and besought of God wholesome counsel. As he prayed, he heard a voice that said, "Go thou now, thou adventurous knight, to the Castle of Maidens, and there do thou away the wicked customs." When Sir Galahad heard this, he thanked God and took his horse, and he had ridden but half a mile when he saw in a valley afore him a strong castle with deep ditches, and there ran beside it a fair river, that was called Severn. Then he met with a man of great age. Either saluted other, and Galahad asked him the castle's name. "Fair sir," said he, "it is the Castle of Maidens." "That is a cursed castle," said Galahad, "and all who have intercourse therein are cursed, for all pity is lacking there, and all cruelty and mischief are therein." "Therefore I counsel you, sir knight," said the other, "that ye turn back." "Sir," said Sir Galahad, "ye may be sure I shall not turn back." Then Sir Galahad looked on his armour to see that nothing was lacking, and he put his shield afore him, and anon there met him seven fair maidens, which said unto him, "Sir knight, ye ride here in great folly, for ye have the water to pass over." "Why should I not pass the water?" said Galahad. So he rode away from them, and met with a squire, who said. "Knight, those knights in the castle defy you, and forbid you to go farther till they know what ye would." "Fair sir," said Galahad, "I come to destroy the wicked customs of this castle." "Sir," said the squire, "if ye will abide by that, ye shall have enough to do." The squire entered into the castle, and anon there came out seven knights, all brethren. And when they saw Galahad they cried, "Knight, defend thyself, for we assure thee nothing but death." Then Galahad put forth his spear, and smote the foremost to the earth. And therewith all the others smote him on his shield great strokes so that their spears brake. Then Sir Galahad drew out his sword, and set upon them so hard that it was marvel to see it, and so, through great force, he made them to forsake the field. Galahad chased them till they entered into the castle, and then passed through the castle and out at another gate. Now there met Sir Galahad an old man, who said, "Sir, have here the keys of this castle." Then Sir Galahad opened the gates, and saw so many people in the passages that he might not number them, and all said, "Sir, ye be welcome, for long have we awaited here our deliverance." Then came to him a gentlewoman, and said, "These knights are fled, but they will come again this night, and here begin again their evil practices." "What will ye that I shall do?" said Galahad. "Sir," said the gentlewoman, "that ye send after all the knights hither that hold their lands of this castle, and make them to swear to use the customs that were used heretofore of old time." "I will well," said Galahad. She brought him a horn of ivory, richly bound with gold, and said, "Sir, blow this horn, which will be heard two miles about this castle." When Sir Galahad had blown the horn he set himself down upon a bed. Then a priest came and told him of the evil practices of the castle, and why it was called the Castle of Maidens. "It chanced in this wise," said he: "More than seven years agone the seven brethren came, and lodged with the lord of this castle and of all the country round about. When they espied the duke's daughter, a full fair woman, they plotted falsely betwixt themselves and slew the duke and his eldest son. Then they took the maiden and the treasure of the castle, and by great force they held all the knights of this castle against their will under their power in great slavery, and robbed and pillaged the poor common people of all that they had. Then it happened on a day the duke's daughter said, 'Ye have done unto me great wrong to slay my own father and my brother, and thus to hold our lands. But ye shall not hold this castle many years, for by one knight ye shall be overcome.' Thus she had prophesied seven years agone. "'Well,' said the seven knights, 'if that be so, there shall never lady nor knight pass by this castle but they shall abide here, whether they will or not, or die for it, till that knight be come by whom we shall lose this castle.' Therefore it is called the Maidens' Castle, for many maidens have here been destroyed." By the time the priest had finished, the knights of the country were come at the call from the ivory horn. Then Sir Galahad made them do homage and fealty to the duke's daughter, and set the people in great ease of heart. And the next morning one came to Galahad and told him how Gawaine, Gareth, and Uwaine had slain the seven brethren. "I am glad to hear it," said Sir Galahad, and he took his armour, mounted his horse, and commended the people of the Castle of Maidens unto God, and so rode away. CHAPTER XXVIII SIR LAUNCELOT'S REPENTANCE When Sir Galahad was departed from the Castle of Maidens, he rode till he came to a waste forest, and there he met with Sir Launcelot and Sir Percivale, but they knew him not, for he was new disguised. Right so, Sir Launcelot dressed his spear, and brake it upon Sir Galahad; and Sir Galahad smote him so again, that he smote down horse and man. Then he drew his sword, and dressed him unto Sir Percivale, and smote him so on the helm that, had not the sword swerved, Sir Percivale had been slain, and with the stroke he fell out of his saddle. This joust was done tofore the hermitage where a recluse dwelt, and, when she saw Sir Galahad ride, she said, "God be with thee, best knight of the world. Ah, verily, if yonder two knights had known thee as well as I do, they would not have encountered with thee." When Sir Galahad heard her say so, he was sore adread to be known. Therefore he smote his horse with his spurs, and rode at a great pace away from them. Then perceived they both that he was Galahad, and up they gat on their horses, and rode fast after him, but in a while he was out of their sight. Then they turned again with heavy cheer, and Sir Percivale said, "Let us ask some tidings at yonder recluse." "Do as ye list," said Sir Launcelot. So Sir Percivale turned back, but Sir Launcelot rode on across and endlong in a wild forest, and held no path, but as wild adventure led him. At last he came to a stone cross, which pointed two ways, and by the cross was a stone that was of marble; but it was so dark that he might not wit what it was. Sir Launcelot looked about him, and saw an old chapel. There he expected to find people, so he tied his horse, and took off his shield and hung it upon a tree. Then he went to the chapel door, and found it waste and broken. Within he saw a fair altar full richly arrayed with cloth of clean silk, and there stood a fair clean candlestick of silver which bare six great candles. When Sir Launcelot saw this light, he had great will to enter into the chapel, but he could find no place where he might enter. Then was he passing heavy and dismayed. He returned to his horse, took off his saddle and bridle, and let him pasture. Then he unlaced his helm, and ungirded his sword, and laid himself down to sleep upon his shield tofore the cross. [Illustration: Sir Launcelot at the Cross] So he fell on sleep, and half waking and half sleeping he saw in a vision two fair white palfreys come toward him, bearing in a litter a sick knight. When he was nigh the cross he abode still, and Sir Launcelot heard him say, "Oh, sweet Lord, when shall this sorrow leave me? and when shall the holy vessel come by me, wherethrough I shall be blessed? For I have endured thus long for little trespass." A full great while lamented the knight thus, and always Sir Launcelot heard it. Then he saw the candlestick with the six tapers come before the cross, yet he saw nobody that brought it. Also there came a table of silver, and the sacred vessel of the Holy Grail upon it. Therewith the sick knight sat up, and, holding up both hands, he prayed that he might be whole of his malady. Then on his hands and knees he went so nigh that he touched the holy vessel, and kissed it, and anon he was whole. Then he said, "Lord God, I thank thee, for I am healed of this sickness." When the holy vessel had been there a great while, it went unto the chapel, with the candlestick and the light, so that Launcelot wist not what became of it, for he was overtaken with a feeling of his sin, so that he had no power to arise and follow the holy vessel. Then the sick knight raised himself up, and kissed the cross. Anon his squire brought him his arms, and asked his lord how he did. "Verily," said he, "I thank God, right well; through the holy vessel I am healed. But I have great marvel of this sleeping knight, that had no power to awake when the Holy Grail was brought hither." "I dare right well say," said the squire, "that he dwelleth in some deadly sin, whereof he has never repented." "By my faith," said the knight, "whatsoever he be, he is unhappy, for, as I deem, he is of the fellowship of the Round Table, the which is entered into the quest of the Holy Grail." "Sir," said the squire, "here I have brought you all your arms, save your helm and your sword. By my assent now may ye take this knight's helm and his sword." So he did, and when he was clean armed, he took Sir Launcelot's horse, for he was better than his own, and so they departed from the cross. Anon Sir Launcelot awoke, and bethought him what he had seen there, and whether it were a dream or not. Right so heard he a voice that said: "Sir Launcelot, more hard than is stone, more bitter than is wood, and more naked and barer than is the fig tree, go thou from hence, and withdraw thee from this holy place." When Sir Launcelot heard this he was passing heavy, and wist not what to do. So he arose, sore weeping, and cursed the time when he was born, for he thought never to have honour more. Then he went to the cross, and found his helm, his sword, and his horse taken away. Then he called himself a very wretch, and the most unhappy of all knights. And he said: "My sin and my wickedness have brought me unto great dishonour. When I sought worldly adventures from worldly desires, I ever achieved them, and had the better in every place, and never was I discomfited in any quarrel, were it right or wrong. But now when I take upon me the adventures of holy things, I see and understand that mine old sin hindereth and shameth me, so that I had no power to stir or to speak when the Holy Grail appeared afore me." Thus he sorrowed till it was day, and he heard the birds sing. Then somewhat he was comforted, but, when he missed his horse and his harness, he wist well God was displeased with him. He departed from the cross on foot into a forest, and came to a hermitage, and a hermit therein. There Launcelot kneeled down and cried on the Lord for mercy, and begged the hermit for charity to hear his confession. "With a good will," said the good man; "art thou of King Arthur's court, and of the fellowship of the Round Table?" "Yea, forsooth," was the answer, "and my name is Sir Launcelot of the Lake, that hath been right well said of; but now my good fortune is changed, for I am the worst wretch of the world." The hermit beheld him, and had marvel how he was humbled. "Sir," said he, "thou oughtest to thank God more than any knight living, for He hath caused thee to have more worldly honour than any other knight that now liveth. For thy presumption in taking upon thee, while in deadly sin, to be in His presence through the sacred vessel, that was the cause that thou mightest not see it with worldly eyes, for He will not appear where such sinners be, unless to their great hurt and shame. There is no knight living now that ought to give God so great thanks as thou; for He hath given thee beauty, seemliness, and great strength, above all other knights. Therefore thou art the more beholden unto God than any other man to love Him and fear Him; for thy strength and manhood will little avail thee if God be against thee." Then Sir Launcelot wept with heavy cheer, for he knew the hermit said sooth. "Sir," said the good man, "hide none old sin from me." "Truly," said Sir Launcelot, "that were me full loath to disclose, for one thing that I have done I never disclosed these fourteen years, and for that may I now blame my shamelessness and my misadventure." Then he told there that good man all his life, and how he had loved a queen unmeasurably, and out of measure long. "And," said he, "all my great deeds of arms that I have done, I did the most part for that queen's sake. For her sake would I battle, were it right or wrong; and never did I battle wholly for God's sake, but for to win honour and to make myself better beloved, and little or naught I thanked God for it. I pray you counsel me." "I will counsel thee," said the hermit, "if thou wilt assure me that thou wilt never come into that queen's companionship when thou canst prevent it." This Sir Launcelot solemnly promised, whereupon the good man said, "Look that thy heart and mouth accord, and I assure thee that thou shalt have more honour than ever thou hadst. For it seemeth well God loveth thee, and in all the world men shall not find one knight to whom He hath given so much grace as He hath given thee; He hath given thee beauty with seemliness; He hath given thee wit, discretion to know good from evil; He hath given thee prowess and hardiness; and He hath given thee to work so largely that thou hast had at all times the better wheresoever thou camest. And now our Lord will suffer thee no longer, but that thou shalt know Him, whether thou wilt or nilt. "Why the voice called thee bitterer than wood was because, where overmuch sin dwelleth, there may be but little sweetness; wherefore thou art likened to an old rotten tree. Why thou art harder than stone is because thou wilt not leave thy sin for any goodness that God hath sent thee; therefore thou art more than any stone, and never wouldest thou be made soft, neither by water nor by fire,--that is, the heat of the Holy Ghost may not enter in thee. "Now shall I show thee why thou art more naked and barer than the fig tree. It befell that our Lord on Palm Sunday preached in Jerusalem, and there He found in the people that all hardness was harboured in them, and there He found in all the town not one that would harbour Him. And then He went without the town, and found in the midst of the way a fig tree, the which was right fair and well garnished of leaves, but fruit had it none. Then our Lord cursed the tree that bare no fruit; that likeneth the fig tree unto Jerusalem, that had leaves and no fruit. So thou, Sir Launcelot, when the Holy Grail was brought afore thee, He found in thee no fruit, nor good thought, nor good will, and thou wert befouled with sin." "Verily," said Sir Launcelot, "all that ye have said is true, and from henceforward I undertake by the grace of God never to be so wicked as I have been, but to follow knighthood and to do feats of arms." Then the good man enjoined Sir Launcelot to such penance as he might do, and to sue knighthood, and so blessed him, and prayed him to abide there all that day. "I will well," said Sir Launcelot, "for I have neither helm, nor horse, nor sword." "As for that," said the good man, "I shall help you ere to-morn to a horse and all that belongeth unto you." And so Sir Launcelot repented him greatly. CHAPTER XXIX SIR PERCIVALE'S TEMPTATION When Sir Percivale departed from the recluse to seek Sir Galahad, he rode till the hour of noon, when he met in a valley about twenty men of arms. As they saw him they asked him whence he was, and he answered, "Of the court of King Arthur." Then they cried all at once, "Slay him." Then Sir Percivale smote the first to the earth, and his horse upon him. Thereupon seven of the knights smote upon his shield all at once, and the remnant slew his horse, so that he fell to the earth. So had they slain him or taken him, had not the good knight Sir Galahad, with the red arms, come there by adventure into those parts. And when he saw all those knights upon one knight, he cried, "Save me that knight's life." Then he dressed him towards the twenty men of arms as fast as his horse might drive, with his spear in the rest, and smote the foremost horse and man to the earth. And when his spear was broken he set his hand to his sword, and smote on the right hand and on the left hand, that it was marvel to see. At every stroke he smote one down, or put him to rebuke, so that they would fight no more, but fled to a thick forest, and Sir Galahad followed them. When Sir Percivale saw him chase them so, he made great sorrow that his horse was away, for he wist well it was Sir Galahad. Then he cried aloud, "Ah, fair knight, abide and suffer me to do thankings unto thee, for much have ye done for me!" But ever Sir Galahad rode so fast, that at the last he passed out of his sight, and Sir Percivale went after him on foot as fast as he might. Soon he met a yeoman riding upon a hackney, who led in his hand a great black steed, blacker than any bear. "Ah, fair friend," said Sir Percivale, "as ever I may do for you and be your true knight in the first place ye will require me, I beg ye will lend me that black steed, that I may overtake a knight, the which rideth afore me." "Sir knight," said the yeoman, "I pray you hold me excused of that, for that I may not do; for wit ye well, the horse belongs to a man that, if I lent it you or any other man, would slay me." "Alas," said Sir Percivale, "I had never so great sorrow as I have for losing of yonder knight." "Sir," said the yeoman, "I am right heavy for you, for a good horse would beseem you well, but I dare not deliver you this horse unless ye take it from me." "That will I not do," said Sir Percivale. So they departed, and Sir Percivale sat him down under a tree, and made sorrow out of measure. Anon the yeoman came pricking after as fast as ever he might, and asked Sir Percivale, "Saw ye, sir, any knight riding on my black steed? It hath been taken from me by force, wherefore my lord will slay me in what place he findeth me." "Well," said Sir Percivale, "what wouldest thou that I did? Thou seest well that I am on foot, but had I a good horse I should bring him soon again." "Sir," said the yeoman, "take my hackney and do the best ye can, and I shall follow you on foot, to wit how that ye shall speed." Then Sir Percivale mounted upon that hackney, and rode as fast as he might. At the last he saw the knight on the black steed, and cried out to him to turn again. And he turned, and set his spear against Sir Percivale; and he smote the hackney in the midst of the breast, that he fell down dead to the earth. There Sir Percivale had a great fall, and the other rode his way. Sir Percivale was very wroth, and cried, "Abide, wicked knight, coward and false-hearted knight, turn again and fight with me on foot." He answered not, but passed on his way. When Sir Percivale saw he would not turn, he cast away his helm and sword, and thought himself unhappy above all other knights. In this sorrow he abode all that day till it was night. Then he was faint, and laid him down and slept till it was midnight. Then he awaked, and saw afore him a woman which said unto him right fiercely, "Sir Percivale, abide here, and I shall go fetch you a horse, which shall bear you whither you will." So she came soon again, and brought a horse with her that was inky black. When Sir Percivale beheld that horse, he marvelled that it was so great and so well apparelled. Courageously he leaped upon him, and took no heed of himself. As soon as ever he was mounted he thrust in the spurs, and so rode away by the forest, and the moon shone clear. Within an hour, and less, the black steed bare him four day's journey thence, till he came to a rough water the which roared, and his horse would have borne him into it. And when Sir Percivale came nigh the brim, and saw the water so boisterous, he feared to overpass it. Then he made a sign of the cross in his forehead, whereupon the horse shook off Sir Percivale, and he fell into the water, crying and roaring, making great sorrow; and it seemed unto him that the water burned. Then Sir Percivale perceived the steed was a fiend, the which would have brought him unto his perdition. Then he commended himself unto God, and prayed our Lord to keep him from all such temptations. So he prayed all that night till it was day. Then he saw that he was in a wild mountain the which was closed with the sea nigh all about, so that he might see no land about him which might relieve him. Then was Sir Percivale ware in the sea, and saw a ship come sailing towards him; and he went unto the ship, and found it covered within and without with white samite. At the board stood an old man clothed in a surplice in likeness of a priest. "Sir," said Sir Percivale, "ye be welcome." "God keep you," said the good man, "of whence be ye?" "Sir," said Sir Percivale, "I am of King Arthur's court, and a knight of the Table Round, the which am in the quest of the Holy Grail. Here I am in great duress, and never likely to escape out of this wilderness." "Doubt not," said the good man, "if ye be so true a knight as the order of chivalry requireth, and of heart as ye ought to be, ye need not fear that any enemy shall slay you." "What are ye?" said Sir Percivale. "Sir," said the old man, "I am of a strange country, and hither I come to comfort you, and to warn you of your great battle that shall befall you." "With whom," said Sir Percivale, "shall I fight?" "With the most champion of the world," said the old man, "but, if ye quit you well, ye shall lose no limb, even though vanquished and seemingly shamed to the world's end." Then the good man leaped over the board, and the ship and all went away, Sir Percivale wist not whither. He abode there till midday, when he saw a ship come rowing in the sea as if all the winds of the world had driven it. It drove under the rock on which he sat; and when he hied thither he found the ship covered with silk blacker than any bier, and therein was a gentlewoman of great beauty, and she was clothed richly that none might be better. When she saw Sir Percivale, she said, "Who brought you in this wilderness where ye be never like to pass hence? for ye shall die here for hunger and mischief." "Damsel," said Sir Percivale, "I serve the best man of the world, and in His service He will not suffer me to die, for who that knocketh shall enter, and who that asketh shall have, and from the man that seeketh Him, He hideth Him not." "And I came out of the waste forest where I found the red knight with the white shield," said the damsel. "Ah, damsel," said he, "with that knight would I meet passing fain." "Sir," said she, "if ye will ensure me, by the faith that ye owe unto knighthood, that ye will do my will what time I summon you, I shall bring you unto that knight." "Yea," said he, "I shall promise you to fulfil your desire. But what are ye that proffereth me thus great kindness?" "I am," said she, "a gentlewoman that am disherited, which was sometime the richest woman of the world." "Damsel," said Sir Percivale, "who hath disherited you? for I have great pity of you." "Sir," said she, "I dwell with the greatest man of the world, and he made me so fair and so clear that there was none like me, and of that great beauty I had a little pride, more than I ought to have had. Also I said a word that pleased him not, and then he would not suffer me to be any longer in his company. He drove me from mine heritage, and so disowned me, and he had never pity for me, and would none of my council nor of my court. Since, sir knight, it hath befallen me so, I and mine have taken from him many of his men, and have made them to become my men, for they ask never anything of me, but I give it them, that and much more. Therefore I and my servants war against him night and day. I know now no good knight and no good man but I get on my side, if I may. And since I know that ye are a good knight I beseech you to help me; and since ye are a fellow of the Round Table, ye ought not to fail any gentlewoman which is disherited, if she beseech you of help." Then Sir Percivale promised her all the help that he might. She thanked him, and since the weather was at that time hot, she bade a gentlewoman bring a pavilion. So she did, and pitched it there upon the gravel. He slept a great while there in the heat of the day; and when he awoke, there was set before him upon a table all manner of meats that he could think of. Also he drank there the strongest wine that ever he drank, him thought, and therewith he was a little heated more than he ought to be. With that he beheld the gentlewoman, and him thought that she was the fairest creature that ever he saw. When she saw him well refreshed, then she said, "Sir Percivale, wit ye well, I shall not fulfil your will, but if ye swear from henceforth to be my true servant, and do nothing but that I shall command you. Will ye ensure me this as ye be a true knight?" Sir Percivale was on the point of promising her all, when by adventure and grace he saw his sword lie upon the ground, all naked, in whose pommel was a red cross. Then he bethought him of his knighthood and the warning spoken toforehand by the good man, and he made the sign of the cross in his forehead. Thereupon the pavilion turned up-so-down, and changed unto a smoke and a black cloud. Sir Percivale was adread at this, and cried aloud, "Fair sweet Father, Jesu Christ, let me not be shamed, that was nigh lost, had not Thy good grace been!" Then he looked upon the ship, and saw the damsel enter therein, which said, "Sir Percivale, ye have betrayed me." So she went with the wind roaring and yelling, that it seemed that all the water burned after her. Then Sir Percivale made great sorrow, and drew his sword unto him saying, "Since my flesh will be my master, I shall punish it." Therewith he stabbed himself through the thigh so that the blood started, and he said, "O good Lord, take this in recompensation of that I have done against Thee, my Lord." Then he clothed him and armed him, and called himself a wretch, saying, "How nigh was I lost, and to have lost that I should never have gotten again, my honour as a pure man and worthy knight, for that may never be recovered after it is once lost." As he thus made his moan, he saw the same ship come from the Orient that the good man was in the day before, and the noble knight was ashamed with himself, and therewith he fell in a swoon. When he awoke he went unto this good man weakly, and saluted him. Then he asked Sir Percivale, "How hast thou done since I departed?" "Sir," said he, "here was a gentlewoman that led me into deadly sin," and there he told him all his temptation. "Knew ye not the maid?" said the good man. "Sir," said he, "nay; but well I wot the fiend sent her hither to shame me." "Oh, good knight," said he, "that gentlewoman was the master fiend of hell, the champion that thou foughtest withal, the which would have overcome thee, had it not been for the grace of God. Now, beware, Sir Percivale, and take this for an ensample." Then the good man vanished away, and Sir Percivale took his arms, and entered into the ship and so departed from thence. CHAPTER XXX THE VICTORY OF SIR BORS OVER HIMSELF When Sir Bors was departed from Vagon, he met with a religious man riding on an ass, and Sir Bors saluted him. Anon the good man knew him to be one of the knights errant that was in the quest of the Holy Grail. "What are ye?" said the good man. "Sir," said he, "I am a knight that fain would be counselled in the quest of the Holy Grail, for he shall have much earthly honour that may bring it to an end." "Verily," said the good man, "that is sooth, for he shall be the best knight of the world, and the fairest of all the fellowship. But wit ye well, there shall none attain it but by cleanness of heart and of life." So rode they together till they came to a hermitage, and there he prayed Bors to dwell all that night with him. So he alighted and put away his armour, and prayed him that he might be confessed. So they went into the chapel, and there he was clean confessed; and they ate bread and drank water together. "Now," said the good man, "I pray thee that thou eat none other, till that thou sit at the table where the Holy Grail shall be." "Sir," said he, "I agree thereto; but how wit ye that I shall sit there?" "Yes," said the good man, "that know I, but there shall be few of your fellowship with you." "All is welcome," said Sir Bors, "that God sendeth me." Also the good man in sign of chastisement put on him a scarlet coat, instead of his shirt, and found him in so vigorous a life, and so stable, that he marvelled, and felt that he was never corrupt in fleshly lusts. Then Sir Bors put on his armour, and took his leave, and so departed. After he had ridden a day or two on his road, he met about the hour of noon at the parting of two ways two knights, that led Lionel, his brother, bound upon a strong hackney and his hands bound tofore his breast. Each of the two held in his hands thorns, wherewith they went beating him so sore that the blood trailed down more than in a hundred places of his body. But he said never a word, as he which was great of heart; he suffered all that ever they did to him as though he had felt none anguish. Anon Sir Bors dressed him to rescue him that was his brother. Just then he chanced to look upon his other side, and saw a knight which brought a fair gentlewoman, and would have dragged her into the thickest part of the forest out of the way of them that sought to rescue her. Anon she espied where Sir Bors came riding. She deemed him a knight of the Round Table, wherefore she hoped to have some comfort; and she conjured him by the faith that he owed unto him in whose service he had entered, and the fidelity he owed unto the high order of knighthood, and for the noble King Arthur's sake, to help her in her sore distress. When Sir Bors heard her cry, he had so much sorrow he knew not what to do. "For," said he, "if I let my brother be in adventure he must be slain, and that would I not for all the earth. And if I help not the maid in her peril, I am shamed for ever." Then he lifted up his eyes, and said weeping, "Fair Lord Jesu Christ, whose liege man I am, keep Lionel my brother, that these knights slay him not; and for Mary's sake, I shall succour this maid." Then dressed he him unto the knight the which had the gentlewoman, and cried, "Sir knight, let your hand off that maiden, or ye be but a dead man." The knight set down the maiden, and drew out his sword, but Bors smote him so hard that he beat him down to the earth. Then came twelve knights seeking the gentlewoman, and anon she told them all how Bors had delivered her. They made great joy, and besought him to come to her father, a noble lord; but Bors had a great adventure in hand, and might not delay. So he commended them unto God, and departed. Then Sir Bors rode after Lionel his brother by the trace of their horses. He sought a great while; and at the last he overtook a man clothed in religious clothing, that told him Lionel was dead, and showed him a slain body, lying in a thicket, that well seemed to him the body of Lionel. Then he made such a sorrow that he fell to the earth all in a swoon, and lay a great while there. When he came to himself he said, "Fair brother, since the company of you and me is parted, shall I never have joy in my heart; and now He which I have taken as to my Master, He be my help." When he had said thus, he took the body lightly in his arms and put it upon the bow of his saddle, and so rode to an old feeble chapel fast by, and put him into a tomb of marble. Then went Sir Bors from thence, and rode all that day, and then turned to a hermitage, at the entry of a forest. There he found Lionel his brother, which sat all armed at the chapel door. For he was yet on life, and a fiend had deceived Bors with the body left in the chapel, for to put him in error so that he might not find the blessed adventure of the Holy Grail. When Sir Bors saw his brother alive he had great joy of him, that it was marvel to tell of his joy. And then he alighted off his horse, and said, "Fair sweet brother, when came ye thither?" Anon as Sir Lionel saw him he said, "Ah, Bors, ye may make no boast. For all you I might have been slain. When ye saw two knights leading me away, beating me, ye left me for to succour a gentlewoman, and suffered me to remain in peril of death. Never before did any brother to another so great an untruth. And for that misdeed now I ensure you but death, for well have ye deserved it. Therefore guard yourself from henceforward, and that shall ye find needful as soon as I am armed." When Sir Bors understood his brother's wrath, he kneeled down to the earth and cried him mercy, holding up both his hands, and prayed him to forgive him his evil will; but Lionel would show no pity, and made his avow to God that he should have only death. Right so he went in and put on his harness; then he mounted upon his horse and came tofore him, and said, "Bors, keep thee from me, for I shall do to thee as I would to a felon or a traitor, for ye be the untruest knight that ever came out of so worthy a house as was that of our father, King Bors of Ganis." When Sir Bors saw that he must fight with his brother or else die, he wist not what to do. Then his heart counselled him not to fight, inasmuch as Lionel was born before him, wherefore he ought to bear him reverence. Again kneeled he down afore Lionel's horse's feet, and said, "Fair sweet brother, have mercy upon me and slay me not, and have in remembrance the great love which ought to be between us twain." What Sir Bors said Lionel recked not, for the fiend had brought him in such a will that he was determined to slay him. Then when Lionel saw he would none other, and that he would not rise to give him battle, he rushed over him, so that his horse's feet smote Bors to the earth, and hurt him so sore that he swooned of distress. When Lionel saw this, he alighted from his horse to smite off his head. So he took him by the helm, and would have rent it from his head, had not the hermit come running unto him, which was a good man and of great age. Well had he heard all the words that were between them, and so fell down upon Sir Bors. Then he said to Lionel, "Ah, gentle knight, have mercy upon me and on thy brother, for if thou slay him thou shalt commit a deadly sin, and that were sorrowful; for he is one of the worthiest knights of the world, and of the best conditions." "So God me help," said Lionel, "sir priest, unless ye flee from him I shall slay you, and he shall never the sooner be quit." "Verily," said the good man, "I had rather ye slay me than him, for my death shall not be great harm, not half so much as his." "Well," said Lionel, "I am agreed"; and he set his hand to his sword, and smote the hermit so hard that his head went backward. For all that, he restrained him not of his evil will, but took his brother by the helm, and unlaced it to strike off his head. And he would have slain him without fail, but so it happened that Colgrevance, a fellow of the Round Table, came at that time thither, as our Lord's will was. First he saw the good man slain, then he beheld how Lionel would slay his brother, whom he knew and loved right well. Anon he sprang down and took Lionel by the shoulders, and drew him strongly back from Bors, and said, "Lionel, will ye slay your brother, one of the worthiest knights of the world? That should no good man suffer." "Why," said Sir Lionel, "will ye hinder me? If ye interfere in this, I shall slay you, and him after." Then Lionel ran upon Bors, and would have smitten him through the head, but Sir Colgrevance ran betwixt them, and said, "If ye be so hardy as to do so more, we two shall meddle together." Then Lionel defied him, and gave a great stroke through the helm. Now Colgrevance drew his sword, for he was a passing good knight, and defended himself right manfully. So long endured the battle that Sir Bors awoke from his swoon, and rose up all anguishly, and beheld Sir Colgrevance, the good knight, fight with his brother for his quarrel. Then was he full sorry and heavy, and would have risen to part them. But he had not so much might as to stand on foot, and must abide so long till Colgrevance had the worse, for Sir Lionel was of great chivalry and right hardy. Only death awaited Colgrevance, when he beheld Sir Bors assaying to rise, and he cried, "Ah, Bors, come ye and cast me out of peril of death, wherein I have put me to succour you, which were right now nigh to death." When Bors heard that, he did so much as to rise and put on his helm, making a marvellous sorrow at the sight of the dead hermit hard by. With that Lionel smote Colgrevance so sore that he bare him to the earth. When he had slain Colgrevance, he ran upon his brother as a fiendly man, and gave him such a stroke that he made him stoop; and he, full of humility, prayed him for God's love to leave this battle. But Lionel would not, and then Bors drew his sword, all weeping, and said, "Fair brother, God knoweth mine intent. Ah, brother, ye have done full evil this day to slay such a holy priest, the which never trespassed. Also ye have slain a gentle knight, one of our fellows. And well wot ye that I am not afraid of you greatly, but I dread the wrath of God. This is an unkindly war; therefore may God show miracle upon us both. Now God have mercy upon me, though I defend my life against my brother." With that Bors lifted up his hands, and would have smitten Lionel, but even then he heard a voice that said, "Flee, Bors, and touch him not." Right so came a cloud betwixt them in likeness of a fire, so that both their shields burned. Then were they sore afraid, and fell both to the earth, and lay there a great while in a swoon. When they came to themselves, Bors saw that his brother had no harm, wherefore he gave thanks, for he feared God had taken vengeance upon him. With that he heard a voice say, "Bors, go hence and bear thy brother no longer fellowship, but take thy way anon right to the sea, for Sir Percivale abideth thee there." So Sir Bors departed from Lionel, and rode the next way to the sea. On the strand he found a ship covered all with white samite. He alighted from his horse and entered into the ship, and anon it departed into the sea, and went so fast that him seemed the ship went flying. Then he saw in the midst of the ship a knight lie, all armed save his helm, and he knew that it was Sir Percivale. And either made great joy of other, that it was marvel to hear. Then Sir Bors told Sir Percivale how he came into the ship, and by whose admonishment, and either told other of his temptations, as ye have heard toforehand. So went they downward in the sea, one while backward, another while forward, and each comforted other, and oft were they in their prayers. Then said Sir Percivale, "We lack nothing but Galahad, the good knight." CHAPTER XXXI HOW SIR LAUNCELOT FOUND THE HOLY GRAIL When the hermit had kept Sir Launcelot three days, he gat him a horse, a helm, and a sword. So he departed, and took the adventure that God would send him. On a night, as he slept, there came a vision unto him, and a voice said, "Launcelot, arise up, and take thine armour, and enter into the first ship that thou shalt find." When he heard these words, he started up and saw great clearness about him. Then he lifted up his hand in worship, and so took his arms, and made him ready. By adventure he came by a strand, and found a ship, the which was without sail or oar. And as soon as he was within the ship, he felt the most sweetness that ever he felt, and he was filled with a peace such as he had never known before. In this joy he laid himself down on the ship's board, and slept till day. So Sir Launcelot was a month and more on the ship, and if ye would ask how he lived, as God fed the people of Israel with manna in the desert, so was he fed. On a night he went to play him by the waterside, for he was somewhat weary of the ship. And then he listened, and heard a horse come, and one riding upon him. When he came nigh he seemed a knight, and soon he saw that it was Galahad. And there was great joy between them, for there is no tongue can tell the joy that they made either of other; and there was many a friendly word spoken between them, the which need not here be rehearsed. And there each told other of the adventures and marvels that were befallen to them in many journeys since they were departed from the court. So dwelled Launcelot and Galahad within that ship half a year, and served God daily and nightly with all their power. And often they arrived in isles far from folk, where there repaired none but wild beasts. There they found many strange adventures and perilous, which they brought to an end. But because the adventures were with wild beasts, and not in the quest of the Holy Grail, therefore the tale maketh here no mention thereof, for it would be too long to tell of all those adventures that befell them. Thereafter it befell that they arrived in the edge of a forest tofore a cross, and then saw they a knight, armed all in white and richly horsed, leading in his right hand a white horse. He came to the ship and saluted the two knights on the high Lord's behalf, and said, "Galahad, sir, ye have been long enough with Launcelot. Come out of the ship, and start upon this horse, and go where the adventures shall lead thee in the quest of the Holy Grail." So Galahad took sorrowful leave of Sir Launcelot, for they knew that one should never see the other before the dreadful day of doom. Galahad took his horse and entered into the forest, and the wind arose and drove Launcelot more than a month throughout the sea, where he slept little, but prayed to God that he might see some tidings of the Holy Grail. And it befell on a night, at midnight, he arrived afore a castle, on the back side, which was rich and fair. There was a postern opened towards the sea, and was open without any keeping, save two lions kept the entry; and the moon shone clear. Anon Sir Launcelot heard a voice that said, "Launcelot, go out of this ship, and enter into the castle, where thou shalt see a great part of thy desire." Then he ran for his arms, and so he went to the gate, and saw the lions. He set his hand to his sword, and drew it, whereupon there came a dwarf suddenly, and smote him on the arm so sore that the sword fell out of his hand. Then heard he a voice say, "Oh, man of evil faith and poor belief, wherefore trowest thou more on thy harness than in thy Maker? He in whose service thou art set might more avail thee than thine armour." Then said Launcelot, "Fair Father Jesu Christ, I thank thee of Thy great mercy, that Thou reprovest me of my misdeed. Now see I well that ye hold me for your servant." Then took he again his sword, and put it up in his sheath, and came to the lions, and they made semblant[1] to do him harm. Notwithstanding he passed by them without hurt, and entered into the castle to the chief fortress, and there were all at rest. Launcelot entered in so armed, for he found no gate nor door but it was open. At last he found a chamber whereof the door was shut, and he set his hand thereto to open it, but he might not, though he enforced himself much to undo the door. Then he listened, and heard a voice which sang so sweetly that it seemed none earthly thing. Launcelot kneeled down tofore the chamber, for well wist he that there was the Holy Grail within that chamber. Then said he: "Fair sweet Father Jesu Christ, if ever I did thing that pleased Thee, for Thy pity have me not in despite for my sins done aforetime, and show me something of that I seek!" With that he saw the chamber door open, and there came out a great clearness, so that the house was as bright as if all the torches of the world had been there. So came he to the chamber door, and would have entered, but anon a voice said to him, "Flee, Launcelot, and enter not, for thou oughtest not to do it; and if thou enter thou shalt repent it." He withdrew himself back right heavy, and then looked he up in the midst of the chamber, and saw a table of silver, and the holy vessel covered with red samite, and many angels about it. Right so came he to the door at a great pace, entered into the chamber, and drew towards the table of silver. When he came nigh he felt a breath that seemed intermingled with fire, which smote him so sore in the visage that he thought it burned his visage. Therewith he fell to the earth, and had no power to arise. Then felt he many hands about him, which took him up and bare him out of the chamber door, and left him there seeming dead to all people. Upon the morrow, when it was fair day, they within were arisen, and found Launcelot lying afore the chamber door, and all they marvelled how he came in. They looked upon him, and felt his pulse, to wit whether there were any life in him. And so they found life in him, but he might neither stand nor stir any limb that he had. They took him up, and bare him into a chamber, and laid him in a rich bed, far from all folk, and so he lay still as a dead man four and twenty days, in punishment, he afterwards thought, for the twenty-four years that he had been a sinner. At the twenty-fifth day it befell that he opened his eyes, and the folk asked how it stood with him. He answered that he was whole of body, and then he would know where he was. They told him he was in the castle of Carboneck, and that the quest of the Holy Grail had been achieved by him, and that he should never see the sacred vessel more nearly than he had seen it. Soon Sir Launcelot took his leave of all the fellowship that were there at the castle, and thanked them for the great labour. So he took his armour and departed, and said that he would go back to the realm of Logris. [1] Made semblant: threatened. CHAPTER XXXII THE END OF THE QUEST Now, saith the story, Sir Galahad rode into a vast forest, wherein he rode many journeys, and he found many adventures, the which he brought to an end, whereof the story maketh here no mention. And on a day it befell him that he was benighted in a hermitage. The good man there was glad when he saw a knight-errant, and made him what cheer he might. Then when they were at rest, there came a gentlewoman knocking at the door, and called Galahad. So the hermit came to the door to wit what she would, and she said to him that she would speak with the knight that was lodged there. The good man awoke Galahad, and bade him arise and speak with a gentlewoman that seemed to have great need of him. Then Galahad went to her, and asked her what she would. "Galahad," said she, "I will that ye arm you, and mount upon your horse and follow me, for I shall show you within these three days the highest adventure that ever any knight saw." Anon Galahad armed him, and took his horse, and bade the gentlewoman go, and he would follow as she liked. So she rode as fast as her palfrey might bear her, till they came to the seaside, and there they found the ship wherein were Bors and Percivale, the which cried on the ship's board, "Sir Galahad, ye be welcome; we have awaited you long." So, leaving his horse behind, Galahad entered into the ship, where the two knights received him with great joy. And the wind arose, and drove them through the sea marvellously. Now saith the story that they rode a great while till they came to the castle of Carboneck, where Sir Launcelot had been tofore. They entered within the castle, and then there was great joy, for they wist well that they had fulfilled the quest of the Holy Grail. As they were alone in the hall, it seemed to them that there came a man, in likeness of a bishop, with four angels from heaven, and held mass about a table of silver, whereupon the Holy Grail was. And in a vision they saw in the bread of the sacrament a figure in likeness of a child, and the visage was as bright as any fire. Then said the bishop to them, "Servants of Jesu Christ, ye shall be fed afore this table with sweet food, that never knights tasted." When he had said, he vanished away; and they sat them at the table in great reverence, and made their prayers. Then looked they, and saw a man that had all the signs of the passion of Jesu Christ, and he said: "My knights and my servants and my true children, which be come out of deadly life into spiritual life, I will now no longer hide me from you, but ye shall see now a part of my secrets and of my hid things; now hold and receive the high meat which ye have so much desired." Then took He Himself the holy vessel, and came to Galahad, who knelt down and there he received the sacrament, and after him so received all his fellows; and they thought it so sweet that it was marvellous to tell. Then said He to Galahad, "Son, knowest thou what I hold betwixt my hands?" "Nay," said he, "unless ye will tell me." "This is," said He, "the holy dish wherein I ate the lamb at the Last Supper. And now hast thou seen that thou most desiredst to see, but yet hast thou not seen it so openly as thou shalt see it in the city of Sarras, in the spiritual place. Therefore thou must go hence, and bear with thee this holy vessel, for this night it shall depart from the realm of Logris, that it shall never be seen more here. And knowest thou wherefore? Because they of this land be turned to evil living; therefore I shall disinherit them of the honour which I have done them. Therefore go ye three unto the sea, where ye shall find your ship ready." Right so departed Galahad, Percivale and Bors with him. They rode three days, and then they came to a rivage[1], where they found the ship whereof the tale speaketh tofore. When they came to the board, they found in the midst the table of silver, which they had left in the castle of Carboneck, and the Holy Grail, which was covered with red samite. Then were they glad to have such things in their fellowship. They had remained some time in the ship, when they awoke of a morning to see the city of Sarras afore them. Here they landed, and took out of the ship the table of silver, Percivale and Bors going tofore and Galahad behind. Right so they went to the city, and at the gate of the city they saw an old bent man. Then Galahad called him, and bade him help to bear this heavy thing. "Truly," said the old man, "it is ten years since I might go without crutches." "Care thou not," said Galahad; "arise up and show thy good will." So he assayed, and found himself as whole as ever he was. Then ran he to the table, and took one part opposite Galahad. Anon arose there great noise in the city, that a cripple was made whole by knights marvellous that entered into the city. When the king of the city, which was called Estorause, saw the fellowship, he asked them from whence they were, and what thing it was that they had brought upon the table of silver. And they told him the truth of the Holy Grail, and the power which God had set there. Now King Estorause was a tyrant, and was come of a line of pagans. He took the three knights and put them in a deep hole. But as soon as they were there our Lord sent them the Holy Grail, through whose grace they were always satisfied while that they were in prison. At the year's end it befell that this king lay sick, and felt that he should die. Then he sent for the three knights. They came afore him, and he cried them mercy of that he had done to them, and they forgave it him goodly, and he died anon. When the king was dead, all the city was dismayed, and wist not who might be their king. Right so as they were in counsel, there came a voice among them, and bade them choose the youngest knight of them there to be their king, for he should well maintain them and all theirs. So they made Galahad king by all the assent of the whole city. When he was come to behold the land, he let make about the table of silver a chest of gold and of precious stones that covered the holy vessel; and every day early the three fellows would come afore it and make their prayers. Now at the year's end the three knights arose early and came to the palace, and saw before them the holy vessel, and a man kneeling, in likeness of a bishop, that had about him a great fellowship of angels. And he called Galahad and said to him, "Come forth, thou servant of Jesu Christ, and thou shalt see that thou hast much desired to see." Then Galahad began to tremble right hard, when the deadly flesh began to behold the spiritual things. Then he held up his hands towards heaven, and said, "Lord, I thank Thee, for now I see what hath been my desire many a day. Now, blessed Lord, would I not longer live, if it might please thee, Lord." Therewith the good man took the sacrament and proffered it to Galahad, and he received it right gladly and meekly. "Now, wotest thou what I am?" said the good man; "I am Joseph of Arimathea, which our Lord hath sent here to thee to bear thee fellowship. And wotest thou wherefore He hath sent me more than any other? For thou hast resembled me in two things, in that thou hast seen the marvels of the Holy Grail, and in that thou hast been a clean and virtuous knight, as I have been and am." When these words had been spoken, Galahad went to Percivale and to Bors and kissed them and commended them to God, and said, "Salute me to my lord Sir Launcelot, and bid him remember of this unstable world." Therewith he kneeled down tofore the table and made his prayers, and then suddenly his soul departed to Jesu Christ, and a great multitude of angels bare his soul up to heaven, and the two fellows might well behold it. Also they saw come from heaven a hand, but they saw not the body; and it came right to the vessel, and took it, and bare it up to heaven. Since then was there never man so hard as to say that he had seen the Holy Grail. When Percivale and Bors saw Galahad had died, they made as much sorrow as ever did two men; and if they had not been good men, they might lightly have fallen in despair. And the people of the country and of the city were right heavy. And then he was buried. And as soon as he was buried, Sir Percivale betook himself to a hermitage out of the city, where for a year and two months he lived a full holy life, and then passed out of this world. When Bors saw that he was alone in so far countries, he departed from Sarras and came to the sea. There he entered into a ship, and so it befell that in good adventure he came into the realm of Logris. And he rode to Camelot, where King Arthur was, and then was there great joy made of him in the court, for they believed all that he was dead, forasmuch as he had been so long out of the country. When they had eaten, the King made great clerks to come afore him, that they should chronicle of the high adventures of the good knights. When Bors had told of the adventures of the Holy Grail, such as had befallen him and his two fellows, that was Percivale and Galahad, then Launcelot told the adventures of the Holy Grail that he had seen. All this was made in great books, and put in chests at Salisbury. [1] Rivage: bank; shore. CHAPTER XXXIII SIR LAUNCELOT AND THE FAIR MAID OF ASTOLAT After the quest of the Holy Grail was fulfilled, and all knights that were left alive were come again unto the Table Round, then was there great joy in the court, and in especial King Arthur and Queen Guenever made great joy of the remnant that were come home. Passing glad were the King and the Queen of Sir Launcelot and of Sir Bors, for they had been long away in the quest of the Holy Grail. Then, as the book saith, Sir Launcelot began to resort unto Queen Guenever again, and forgat the promise that he made in the quest. For, had he not been in his privy thoughts and in his mind so set inwardly to the Queen, as he was in seeming outward to God, there had no knight passed him in the quest of the Holy Grail. But ever his thoughts were privily on the Queen, more than toforehand, so that many in the court spake of it, and in especial Sir Agravaine, Sir Gawaine's brother, for he was ever open mouthed. Thus it passed forth till on a day the King let cry great jousts and a tournament that should be at Camelot, that is Winchester, and thither came many knights. So King Arthur made him ready to depart to these jousts, and would have had the Queen with him, but she would not go, pretending to be sick. This grieved the King, for such a fellowship of knights had not been seen together since the Whitsuntide when Galahad departed from the court. And many deemed the Queen would not be there because of Sir Launcelot of the Lake, who would not ride with the King, for he said he was not whole of a wound. So when the King was departed, the Queen called Sir Launcelot unto her, and told him he was greatly to blame, thus to hold himself behind his lord, and counselled him to take his way towards the tournament at Winchester. So upon the morn he took his leave of the Queen, and departed. He rode all that day, and at eventide he came to Astolat, that is Gilford, and was lodged at the place of an old baron, named Sir Bernard of Astolat. The old knight welcomed him in the best manner, but he knew not that he was Sir Launcelot. "Fair sir," said Sir Launcelot to his host, "I would pray you to lend me a shield that is not openly known, for mine be well known, and I would go to the tournament in disguise." "Sir," said his host, "ye shall have your desire, for me seemeth ye be one of the likeliest knights of the world, and I shall show you friendship. Sir, wit ye well I have two sons which were but late made knights. The eldest is called Sir Tirre, and he was hurt that same day that he was made knight, so that he may not ride. His shield ye shall have, for that is not known, I dare say, except in this place. And my youngest son is named Sir Lavaine, and if it please you, he shall ride with you unto the jousts, for he is of his age strong and brave. Much my heart leads me to believe that ye should be a noble knight; therefore I pray you tell me your name." "As for that," said Sir Launcelot, "ye must hold me excused at his time, but if God give me grace to speed well at the jousts, I shall come again and tell you. But I pray you in any wise let me have your son Sir Lavaine with me, and his brother's shield." "This shall be done," said Sir Bernard. This old baron had a daughter, Elaine le Blank, that was called at that time the Fair Maid of Astolat. Ever she beheld Sir Launcelot admiringly, and, as the book saith, she cast such a love unto him that she could never withdraw her love, so she besought him to wear at the jousts a token of hers. "Fair damsel," said Sir Launcelot, "if I grant you that, ye may say I do more for your love than ever I did for lady or damsel." [Illustration: Elaine] Then he remembered that he would go to the jousts disguised; and because he had never afore that time borne any manner of token of any damsel, he bethought him that he would bear one of her, so that none of his blood thereby might know him. And then he said, "Fair maiden, I will grant you to wear a token of yours upon my helmet; therefore, show me what it is." "Sir," she said, "it is a red sleeve of mine, of scarlet, well embroidered with great pearls." So she brought it him, and Sir Launcelot received it, saying that he had never done so much for any damsel. Then he left his shield in the fair maiden's keeping, and prayed her to care for it until that he came again. So that night he had merry rest and great cheer, for ever the damsel Elaine was about Sir Launcelot, all the while she might be suffered. On the morn Sir Launcelot and Sir Lavaine took their leave of Sir Bernard, the old baron, and of his daughter, the Fair Maiden of Astolat, and then they rode so long till they came to Camelot. There was great press of kings, dukes, earls, and barons, and many noble knights; but there Sir Launcelot was lodged privily, by the means of Sir Lavaine, with a rich burgess, so that no man in that town was ware what they were. At the time appointed the jousts began, and Sir Launcelot made him ready in his best manner, and put the red sleeve upon his head, and fastened it fast. Then he with Sir Lavaine came in at the thickest of the press, and did marvellous deeds of arms, so that all wondered what knight he might be. Sir Gawaine said it might be Sir Launcelot by his riding and his buffets, but ever it seemed it should not be he, for he bore the red sleeve upon his head, and he never wist Sir Launcelot bear token of lady or gentleman at any jousts. At the last by misfortune Sir Bors unhorsed Sir Launcelot, and smote him through the shield into the side; and the spear brake, and the head was left still in his side. But Sir Lavaine by great force took the horse from the King of Scots and brought it to his lord, Sir Launcelot, and in spite of them all he made him to mount upon that horse. Then Launcelot gat a spear in his hand, and then he smote Sir Bors horse and man to the earth. In the same wise served he other knights, and, as the book saith, he might have slain them, but his heart might not serve him thereto, and he left them there. Then afterwards he hurled in the thickest press of them all, and did there the marvellousest deeds of arms that ever man saw or heard speak of; and ever Sir Lavaine, the good knight, was with him. And there Sir Launcelot with his sword smote and pulled down, as the French book maketh mention, more than thirty knights, and the most part were of the Table Round. And Sir Lavaine also did full well that day. At the last the King blew unto lodging, and the prize was given by heralds unto the knight with the white shield, that bare the red sleeve. But Sir Launcelot was sore hurt, and cared not for honour; and groaning piteously, he rode at a great gallop away-ward from all the knights, until he came under a wood's side. When he saw that he was from the field nigh a mile, so that he was sure he might not be seen, he besought Sir Lavaine as he loved him to draw the truncheon out of his side. This Sir Lavaine dreaded sore to do, lest Sir Launcelot should be in peril of death from loss of blood, if the truncheon were drawn out. Yet he did as his lord would have him do, and Sir Launcelot gave a great shriek, and so swooned pale and deadly. Thereupon Sir Lavaine took him to a hermitage fast by within two miles, where dwelt a gentle hermit, that sometime was a full noble knight and a great lord of possessions. For great goodness he had taken himself to wilful poverty, and forsaken many lands. He was a full noble surgeon, and anon he stanched Sir Launcelot's blood, and made him to drink good wine, so that he was well refreshed, and came to himself. Meanwhile King Arthur let seek the knight that bare the red sleeve, that he might have his laud and honour, and the prize, as was right. But he could not be found, and the King and all the knights feared he was sore hurt in the battle. Then Sir Gawaine took a squire with him and drove all about Camelot within six or seven miles, but could hear no word of him. Then within two days King Arthur and all the fellowship returned unto London again, and so, as they rode by the way, it happened that Sir Gawaine was lodged at Astolat with Sir Bernard. There by the means of the shield left in Elaine's care he learned that the knight who won such honour at the tournament was none other than Sir Launcelot himself, and the Fair Maid of Astolat learned on how valiant a knight she had fixed her love. When Elaine heard also that Sir Launcelot was grievously wounded and that the knights knew not where he lay, she said to Sir Bernard, her father: "Now I request you give me leave to ride and to seek him, or else I wot well I shall go out of my mind, for I shall never stop till that I find him and my brother, Sir Lavaine." "Do as it liketh you," said her father, "for I am right sore grieved of the hurt of that noble knight." Right so the maid made herself ready, and Sir Gawaine rode on to London, where he openly disclosed to all the court that it was Sir Launcelot that bore the red sleeve, and that jousted best. And when Sir Bors heard that, wit ye well he was a heavy man, and so were all his kinsmen, for it was he who had given Sir Launcelot, that was his own cousin, the grievous wound in the tournament. But when Queen Guenever wist that Sir Launcelot bare the red sleeve of the Fair Maid of Astolat, she was nigh out of her mind for wrath, and called him false traitor, because he had worn the token of any lady but herself. As fair Elaine came to Winchester, she sought there all about, and by fortune Sir Lavaine had ridden out to refresh himself and to exercise his horse. Anon as Elaine saw him she knew him, and then she cried aloud unto him. When he heard her, anon he came hither, and then she asked her brother how Sir Launcelot did. "Who told you, sister," said he, "that my lord's name is Sir Launcelot?" Then she told him how Sir Gawaine knew him by his shield, and so they rode together till they came to the hermitage. Anon she alighted, and Sir Lavaine brought her in to Sir Launcelot. So this maiden, Elaine, never went from Sir Launcelot, but watched him day and night, and did such attendance to him that the French book saith there was never woman did kindlier for man than she. After a long while he was healed of his wounds, and so upon a morn they took their horses, and Elaine le Blank with them, and departed from the hermit. And when they came to Astolat, there they were well lodged, and had great cheer of Sir Bernard the old baron, and of Sir Tirre his son. When Sir Launcelot should depart from Astolat for to return to King Arthur's court, fair Elaine seemed like to die for love of him and for sorrow at his going. But Sir Launcelot loved only Queen Guenever, and thought never to be wedded man, and could only grieve at her great sorrow; and for her good will and great kindness he promised that, whensoever she should set her heart upon some good knight that would wed her, he would give her a thousand pounds yearly, and always while he lived be her own true knight. Then Sir Launcelot took his leave, and with Sir Lavaine he came unto Winchester. And when Arthur wist that Sir Launcelot was come whole and sound, he made great joy of him, and so did all the knights of the Round Table except Sir Agravaine and Sir Mordred. Now speak we of the Fair Maiden of Astolat, that made such sorrow day and night that she never slept, ate, or drank, and ever she made her lament for Sir Launcelot. When she had thus endured a ten days, and weakened so that she must needs pass out of this world, she prepared for death, but ever she mourned for Sir Launcelot. Then her priest bade her leave such thoughts; but she said, "Why should I leave such thoughts? Am I not an earthly woman? And all the while the breath is in my body I may lament, for I do none offence, though I love an earthly man, and I take God to my record I never loved any but Sir Launcelot of the Lake, and as I am a pure maiden I never shall. And since it is the sufferance of God that I shall die for the love of so noble a knight, I beseech the High Father of Heaven to have mercy upon my soul; and sweet Lord Jesu, I take Thee to record, I was never great offender against Thy laws, but that I loved this noble knight Sir Launcelot out of measure, and of myself, good Lord, I might not withstand the fervent love wherefore I have my death." Then she called her father Sir Bernard and her brother Sir Tirre, and heartily she prayed her father that her brother might write a letter like as she did endite it, and so her father granted her. And when the letter was written word by word as she devised, then she prayed her father that after her death she might be put in a barge in all her richest clothes, the letter fast in her right hand, and that the barge, covered over and over with black samite, might be steered by one boatman only down the Thames to Westminster. So she died, and all was done as she desired. Now by fortune King Arthur and Queen Guenever were speaking together at a window of the palace, and as they looked they espied this black barge, and had marvel what it meant. And the King sent three knights thither to bring him ready word what was there. Then these three knights came to the barge, and found therein the fairest corpse lying in a rich bed, and a poor man sitting at the barge's end, and no word would he speak. Then the King took the Queen by the hand and went thither, and there they saw the fair woman in all the rich clothing lying as though she smiled. And the Queen espied the letter in her right hand, and a clerk read it in the presence of many knights. This was the intent of the letter: "Most noble knight Sir Launcelot, now hath death made us two at debate for your love. I was your lover, that men called the Fair Maiden of Astolat; therefore unto all ladies I make my moan; yet pray for my soul, and bury me at the least, and offer my mass-penny. This is my last request. And a clean maiden I died, I take God to witness. Pray for my soul, Sir Launcelot, as thou art peerless." When the letter was read, the King, the Queen, and all the knights wept for pity at the doleful lament. Then was Sir Launcelot sent for, and when he heard the letter word by word, he said: "My lord Arthur, wit ye well I am right heavy of the death of this fair damsel, but God knoweth I was never cause of her death by my willing. I will not say but that she was both fair and good, and much I was beholden unto her, but she loved me out of measure." Then said the King unto Sir Launcelot, "It will be your honour that ye oversee that she be interred honourably." "Sir," said Sir Launcelot, "that shall be done as I can best devise." So upon the morn she was interred richly, and Sir Launcelot offered her mass-penny, and all the knights of the Table Round that were there at that time offered with Sir Launcelot. And the Queen sent for Sir Launcelot, and prayed him of mercy, because she had been wroth with him causeless, and he willingly forgave her. So it passed on all that winter with all manner of hunting and hawking, and jousts and tourneys were many betwixt the great lords; and ever in all places Sir Lavaine gat great honour, so that he was nobly renowned among many knights of the Table Round. CHAPTER XXXIV OF THE GREAT TOURNAMENT ON CANDLEMAS DAY At Christmas time many knights were together at the court, and every day there was a joust made. Sir Lavaine jousted there all that Christmas passing well, and was praised best, for there were but few that did so well. Wherefore all knights thought that Sir Lavaine should be made knight of the Round Table at the next feast of Pentecost. But Sir Launcelot would joust only when a great tournament was held. So after Christmas King Arthur had many knights called unto him, and there they agreed together to make a party and a great tournament near Westminster on Candlemas Day. Of this many knights were glad, and made themselves ready to be at these jousts in the freshest manner. The Queen Guenever sent for Sir Launcelot, and said: "At these jousts that shall be ye shall bear upon your helmet the sleeve of gold that ye shall have of me, and I pray you, for my sake exert yourself there so that men may speak of your honour." "Madam," said Sir Launcelot, "it shall be done." And when Sir Launcelot saw his time, he told Sir Bors that he would depart, and have no others with him than Sir Lavaine, unto the good hermit that dwelt in the forest of Windsor,--his name was Sir Brastias,--and there he intended to take all the repose he might, because he wished to be fresh on the day of the jousts. So Sir Launcelot with Sir Lavaine departed so quietly that no creature except the noble men of his own kin knew what had become of him. And when he had come to the hermitage, you may be sure he had good cheer. Daily he would go to a spring hard by the hermitage, and there he would lie down and watch the spring bubble, and sometimes he slept there. At that time a lady dwelt in the forest, who was a great huntress. Every day she used to hunt, and no men ever went with her, but always women. They were all shooters, and could well kill a deer both under cover and in the open. They always carried bows and arrows, horns and wood-knives, and many good dogs they had. Now it happened that this lady, the huntress, was one day chasing a deer, keeping the direction by the noise of the hounds. The deer, hard pressed, came down to the spring where Sir Launcelot was sleeping, and there sank down exhausted, and lay there a great while. At length the dogs came fast after, and beat about, for they had lost the very perfect track of the deer. Just then there came that lady, the huntress, who knew by the sounds of the dogs that the deer must be at the spring. So she came swiftly and found the deer. She put a broad arrow in her bow, and shot at it, but aimed too high, and so by misfortune the arrow smote Sir Launcelot deep in the thick of the thigh. When Sir Launcelot felt himself so hurt, he jumped up madly, and saw the lady that had smitten him. And when he saw it was a woman, he said thus; "Lady or damsel, whatever thou be, in an evil time ye bare a bow; the devil made you a shooter." "Now mercy, fair sir," said the lady; "I am a gentlewoman that am wont to hunt here in this forest, and truly I saw you not; there was the deer by the spring, and I believed I was doing well to shoot, but my hand swerved." "Alas," said Sir Launcelot, "ye have done mischief to me." And so the lady departed, and Sir Launcelot, as well as he might, pulled out the arrow, but the head remained still in his thigh; and so he went feebly to the hermitage, ever bleeding as he went. And when Sir Lavaine and the hermit spied that Sir Launcelot was hurt, wit ye well they were passing sorry; but neither Sir Lavaine nor the hermit knew how he was hurt, or by whom. Then with great pain the hermit gat the arrow's head out of Sir Launcelot's thigh, but much of his blood was shed, and the wound was passing sore. "Ah, mercy," said Sir Launcelot, "I call myself the most unhappy man that liveth; for ever when I would most gladly have honour there befalleth me some unhappy thing. Now, so heaven help me, I shall be in the field upon Candlemas Day at the jousts, whatsoever come of it." So all that might heal Sir Launcelot was gotten, and, when the day came, he and Sir Lavaine had themselves and their horses arrayed, and so departed and came nigh to the field. Many proved good knights with their retainers were there ready to joust, and King Arthur himself came into the field with two hundred knights, the most part noble knights of the Table Round. And there were old knights set in scaffolds, for to judge with the Queen who did best. Then they blew to the field, and the knights met in the battle, furiously smiting down one and another in the rush of the tournament. King Arthur himself ran into the lists with a hundred followers, smiting to the earth four knights, one after the other, and even when his spear was broken he did passing well. And so knight after knight came in,--Sir Gawaine, and Sir Gaheris, and Sir Agravaine, and Sir Mordred, and many others; all pressed their opponents hard, some being discomfited and others gaining great honour by their mighty prowess. All this doing Sir Launcelot saw, and then he came into the field with Sir Lavaine, as if it had been thunder. He encountered with Sir Gawaine, and by force smote him and his horse to the earth, and then one knight after another all with one spear. And Sir Lavaine encountered with Sir Palamides, and either met other so hard and so fiercely that both their horses fell to the earth. But they were horsed again, and then Sir Launcelot met with Sir Palamides, and there Sir Palamides had a fall. And so Sir Launcelot, as fast as he could get spears, smote down thirty knights, and the most part of them were knights of the Table Round. And then King Arthur was wroth when he saw Sir Launcelot do such deeds, and with nine chosen knights made ready to set upon Sir Launcelot and Sir Lavaine. All this espied Sir Gareth, and he said to Sir Bors, "I will ride unto my lord Sir Launcelot for to help him, fall of it what may, for he is the same man that made me knight." "Ye shall not so," said Sir Bors, "by my counsel, unless ye be disguised." "Ye shall see me disguised," said Sir Gareth. So he rode to a Welsh knight who lay to repose himself, for he was sore hurt afore by Sir Gawaine, and Sir Gareth prayed him of his knighthood to lend him his green shield for his. "I will well," said the Welsh knight. So Sir Gareth came driving to Sir Launcelot with all his might, and bore him fellowship for old love he had shown him. And so the King and his nine knights encountered with Sir Launcelot and Sir Lavaine and Sir Gareth. And Sir Gareth did such deeds of arms that all men wondered what knight he was with the green shield; for he smote down that day and pulled down more than thirty knights. Also Sir Launcelot knew not Sir Gareth, and marvelled, when he beheld him do such deeds, what knight he might be. So this tournament and this joust lasted long, till it was near evening, for the knights of the Round Table ever came to the relief of King Arthur, who was wroth out of measure that he and his knights could not prevail that day over Sir Launcelot and the knights who were with him. So when they had long dealt one another great strokes and neither might prevail, King Arthur said to Sir Gawaine, "Tell me now, nephew, what is your best counsel?" "Sir," said Sir Gawaine, "ye shall have my counsel. Have sounded the call unto lodging, for, trust me, truly it will be of no avail to strive with Sir Launcelot of the Lake and my brother, Sir Gareth,--for he it is with the green shield,--helped as they are by that good young knight, Sir Lavaine, unless we should fall ten or twelve upon one knight, and that would be no honour, but shame." "Ye say truth," said the King, "and it were shame to us, so many as we are, to set upon them any more." So then they blew unto lodging, and King Arthur rode after Sir Launcelot and prayed him and other of the knights to supper. So they went unto Arthur's lodging all together, and there was a great feast and great revel, and the prize was given unto Sir Launcelot. Then Sir Launcelot told the King and the Queen how the lady huntress shot him in the forest of Windsor in the thigh with a broad arrow. Also Arthur blamed Sir Gareth, because he left his fellowship and held with Sir Launcelot. "My lord," said Sir Gareth, "he made me a knight, and when I saw him so hard bestead, me thought it was my honour to help him, for I saw him do so much, and I was ashamed to see so many noble knights against him alone." "Truly," said King Arthur unto Sir Gareth, "ye say well, and honourably have ye done, and all the days of my life be sure I shall love you and trust you the more for the great honour ye have done to yourself. For ever it is an honourable knight's duty to help another honourable knight when he seeth him in a great danger, for ever an honourable man will be loath to see an honourable man put to shame. He that is of no honour, and fareth with cowardice, will never show gentleness nor any manner of goodness where he seeth a man in any danger, for never will a coward show any mercy, and always a good man will do to another man as he would be done to himself." So then there were great feasts unto kings and dukes; and revel, game, and play, and all manner of nobleness was used; and he that was courteous, true, and faithful to his friend was at that time cherished. CHAPTER XXXV QUEEN GUENEVER'S MAY-DAY RIDE AND WHAT CAME OF IT Thus it passed on from Candlemas until after Easter, and soon the month of May was come, when every manly heart begins to blossom and to bring forth fruit. For as herbs and trees flourish in May, likewise every lusty heart springeth and flourisheth in lusty deeds, for more than any other month May giveth unto all men renewed courage, and calleth again to their mind old gentleness and old service, and many kind deeds that were forgotten by negligence. Therefore, as the month of May flowereth and flourisheth in many gardens, so let every man of honour bring forth fruit in his heart, first unto God, and next unto the joy of them to whom he has promised his faith. So it befell in the month of May that Queen Guenever called unto her ten knights of the Table Round, and she bade them ride with her a-Maying on the morrow into the woods and fields near Westminster. And "I bid you," said she, "that ye all be well horsed, and that ye all be clothed in green, either silk or woollen, and I shall bring with me ten ladies, and every knight shall have a lady behind him, and every knight shall have a squire and two yeomen." So they made themselves ready in the freshest manner, and in the morning rode with the Queen a-Maying in woods and meadows as it pleased them in great joy and delight. The Queen purposed to be again with King Arthur at the furthest by ten of the clock. Now there was a knight called Meliagrance, who had at that time a castle, the gift of King Arthur, within seven miles of Westminster. He had long lain in wait to steal away the Queen, but had feared to do the base deed when Sir Launcelot was in her company. It was her custom at that time never to ride without a great fellowship of men of arms about her, for the most part young men eager for honour, and called the Queen's knights. But this knight, Sir Meliagrance, had espied the Queen well and her purpose on this May morning, and had seen how Sir Launcelot was not with her, and how she had for this once no men of arms with her but the ten noble knights all arrayed in green for Maying. Then he provided him twenty men of arms and a hundred archers, to destroy the Queen's knights, for he thought that time was the best season to take the Queen prisoner. So while the Queen and all her knights were gathering herbs and mosses and flowers in the best manner and freshest, just then there came out of a wood Sir Meliagrance with eight-score men, well armed, and bade the Queen and her knights to stand. "Traitor knight," said Queen Guenever, "what intendest thou to do? Wilt thou shame thyself? Bethink thee how thou art a king's son, and knight of the Table Round, and thou art about to dishonour the noble king that made thee knight; thou shamest all knighthood and thyself; but me, I let thee wit, thou shalt never shame, for I had rather cut my throat in twain than that thou shouldst dishonour me." "As for all this language," said Sir Meliagrance, "be it as it may, never before could I get you at such advantage as I do now, and therefore I will take you as I find you." All the ten noble knights sought to dissuade him from dishonouring himself and from forcing them to jeopard their lives, unarmed as they were, in defending the Queen. But Sir Meliagrance would not yield, and the ten knights of the Table Round drew their swords and stood manly against the spears and swords of the others. But Sir Meliagrance had them at great advantage, and anon six of them were smitten to the earth with grimly wounds. The other four fought long, but at last they also were sore wounded. When the Queen saw that her knights needs must be slain at the last, she for pity and sorrow agreed to go with Sir Meliagrance to his castle upon this covenant, that he suffer not her knights to be more hurt, and that they be led wheresoever she was taken. "For," said she, "I will rather slay myself than go with thee, unless these my noble knights may be in my presence." Meliagrance consented, and by the Queen's commandment they left battle. The wounded knights were placed on horseback, some sitting, some across the horses' backs in a pitiful manner, and all rode in haste to the castle. Then Sir Meliagrance charged the Queen and all her knights that no one should depart from her, for full sore he dreaded Sir Launcelot, lest he should have any knowledging. But the Queen privily called unto her a page who could ride swiftly, gave him her ring, and told him to bear it, when he saw a chance to slip away quietly, unto Sir Launcelot of the Lake, and pray him to rescue her. "And spare thou not thy horse," said she, "neither for water nor for land." So the page espied his time, and lightly he touched his horse with the spurs, and departed as fast as he might. Sir Meliagrance saw him so flee, and understood that it was to warn Sir Launcelot. Then they that were best horsed chased him and shot at him, but he escaped them all, and anon found Sir Launcelot. And when he had told his message, and delivered him the Queen's ring, "Alas," said Sir Launcelot, "now am I shamed forever, unless that I may rescue that noble lady from dishonour." Then he eagerly called for his armour, and ever the page told him how the ten knights had fought marvellously, till at last the Queen made appointment to go with Sir Meliagrance for to save their lives. "Alas," said Sir Launcelot, "that most noble lady, that she should be so destroyed! I would give all France to have been there well armed." So when Sir Launcelot was armed and upon his horse, he sent the Queen's page to tell Sir Lavaine how suddenly he had departed, and for what cause, and to pray him to come anon to the castle where Sir Meliagrance abideth. Sir Launcelot, it is said, took to the water at Westminster bridge and made his horse swim over the Thames to Lambeth; and then he rode as fast as he might, until within a while he came to the place where the ten knights had fought with Sir Meliagrance. He then followed the path until he came to a straight way through the wood. Here he was stopped by thirty archers that Sir Meliagrance had sent out to slay Sir Launcelot's horse, but in no wise to have ado with him bodily, "for," he had said, "he is overhard to overcome." These archers bade Sir Launcelot to turn again and follow no longer that track, and when Sir Launcelot gave right naught for them, then they shot his horse, and smote him with many arrows. Sir Launcelot now set out on foot, but there were so many ditches and hedges betwixt the archers and him that he could not meddle with any one of them. He went on a while, but was much cumbered by his armour, his shield, and his spear. Wit ye well he was sore annoyed at his slow progress, but was loath to leave anything that belonged unto him, for he dreaded sore the treason of Sir Meliagrance. Just then by chance there came by a cart, that was sent thither to fetch wood. "Tell me, carter," said Sir Launcelot, "what shall I give thee to take me in thy cart unto a castle within two miles of here?" "Thou shalt not set foot in my cart," said the man, "for I am sent to fetch wood for my lord Sir Meliagrance." Then Sir Launcelot jumped upon him and gave the man such a blow that he fell to the earth stark dead. Then the other carter, his fellow, was afraid of going the same way, and cried out, "Fair lord, save my life and I will bring you where ye will." Sir Launcelot leaped into the cart, and the carter drove at a great gallop, Sir Launcelot's horse following after with more than forty arrows in him. More than an hour and a half later, Queen Guenever was in a bay window of the castle with her ladies, and espied an armed knight approaching, standing in a cart. "See, madam," said a lady to her, "there rideth in a cart a goodly armed knight; I suppose he rideth to hanging." Then the Queen espied by his shield that Sir Launcelot of the Lake himself was there. "Alas," said the Queen; "now I see that well is it with him who hath a trusty friend. Ah, most noble knight, I see well thou are hard bestead, when thou ridest in a cart." By this time Sir Launcelot had come to the gates of that castle, and there he descended from the cart, and cried so that all the castle rang: "Where art thou, false traitor Sir Meliagrance, and knight of the Table Round? Now come forth here, thou traitor knight, thou and thy fellowship with thee, for here I am, Sir Launcelot of the Lake, that shall fight with thee." With these words he burst the gate wide open upon the porter, and smote him under his ear with his gauntlet so that he staggered back like a dead man. When Sir Meliagrance heard that Sir Launcelot was there, he ran unto Queen Guenever and fell upon his knees, putting himself wholly at her mercy, and begging her to control the wrath of Sir Launcelot. "Better is peace than ever war," said the Queen, "and the less noise the more is my honour." So she and her ladies went down to Sir Launcelot, thanked him for all his trouble in her behalf, told him of Meliagrance's repentance, and bade him come in peaceably with her. "Madam," said Sir Launcelot, "if ye are accorded with him, I am not inclined to be against peace, howbeit Sir Meliagrance hath done full shamefully to me, and cowardly. Ah, madam, had I known ye would be so soon accorded with him, I would not have made such haste unto you." "What," said the Queen, "do ye repent of your good deeds? Wit ye well I never made peace with him for labour or love that I had unto him, but to suppress all shameful noise." "Madam," said Sir Launcelot, "ye understand full well I was never glad of shameful slander nor noise; and there is neither king, queen, nor knight alive except my lord King Arthur and you, madam, that should hinder me from making Sir Meliagrance's heart full cold or ever I departed from hence." Then the Queen and Sir Launcelot went in together, and she commanded him to be unarmed. Then he asked where the ten knights were that were wounded sore. So she led Sir Launcelot to them, and they made great joy of his coming, and he made great dole of their hurts, and bewailed them greatly. And then Sir Launcelot told them how he had been obliged to put himself into a cart. Thus they complained each to other, and full gladly would they have been revenged, but they restrained themselves because of the Queen. So Sir Launcelot was called for many a day thereafter the Chevalier of the Cart, and he did many deeds, and great adventures he had. And so we leave this tale of the Knight of the Cart, and turn to others. CHAPTER XXXVI OF THE PLOT AGAINST SIR LAUNCELOT In this same month of May when every lusty heart flourisheth and bourgeoneth, there befell in King Arthur's realm a great anger and ill fortune that stinted not till the flower of chivalry of all the world was destroyed. And all was due to two evil knights, the which were named Sir Agravaine and Sir Mordred, that were nephews unto King Arthur and brethren unto Sir Gawaine. For this Sir Agravaine and Sir Mordred had ever a privy hate unto the Queen, Dame Guenever, and to Sir Launcelot, and daily and nightly they ever watched upon him. So it mishapped that Sir Agravaine on a day said openly, so that many knights might hear, that the friendship between Sir Launcelot and the Queen was a disgrace to knighthood and a shame to so noble a king as Arthur. But Sir Gawaine would not hear any of these tales nor be of Agravaine's counsel; moreover he charged his brother to move no such matters afore him, for he wist well what mischief would come, should war arise betwixt Sir Launcelot and the King, and he remembered how ofttimes Sir Launcelot had proved his goodness and loyalty by knightly deeds. Also Sir Gaheris and Sir Gareth, two other brethren, would know nothing of Agravaine's base accusation. But Sir Mordred, the fifth of the brethren, sons of the Queen of Orkney, the which had mocked the good Percivale when first he came to the court, and who had ever been jealous and ready to think evil of another, joined with Sir Agravaine. Therewithal they three, Sir Gawaine, Sir Gaheris, and Sir Gareth departed, making great dole over the mischief that threatened the destruction of the realm and the dispersion of the noble fellowship of the Round Table. So Sir Agravaine and Sir Mordred came before King Arthur, and told him they might no longer suffer Sir Launcelot's deeds, for he was a traitor to his kingly person. But the King would believe nothing unless he might have proofs of it, for, as the French book saith, he was full loath to hear ill of a knight who had done so much for him and for the Queen so many times that, as was fully known, he loved him passingly well. Then these two brethren made a plot for taking Sir Launcelot when in the Queen's presence, and bringing him dead or quick to King Arthur. So on the morn Sir Agravaine and Sir Mordred gat to them twelve knights and hid themselves in a chamber in the castle of Carlisle, where Queen Guenever was; thus they plotted to take Sir Launcelot by force, if she should have speech with him. Sir Launcelot was no coward, and cared not what liars said about him, since he wist his own good will and loyalty. So when the Queen sent for him to speak with her, he went as true knight to the castle, and fell into the trap that was set for him. In the battle that followed he was hard bestead, but slew Sir Agravaine at the first buffet, and within a little while he laid the twelve chosen knights cold to the earth. Also he wounded Sir Mordred, who, when he escaped from the noble Sir Launcelot, anon gat his horse and rode unto King Arthur, sore wounded and all bleeding. Then he told the King how it was, and how they were all slain save himself only. So the King believed Sir Mordred's evil accusation true, and he said: "Alas, me sore repenteth that ever Sir Launcelot should be against me. Now am I sure the noble fellowship of the Round Table is broken for ever, for with him will many a noble knight hold. And now it is fallen so that I may not keep my honour unless the Queen suffer the death." So then there was made great ordinance that the Queen must be judged to the death, for the law was such in those days that whatsoever they were, of what estate or degree, if they were found guilty of treason, there should be none other remedy but death. Right so it was ordained for Queen Guenever, and she was commanded to the fire, there to be burned. King Arthur prayed Sir Gawaine to make himself ready in his best armour, with his brethren Sir Gaheris and Sir Gareth, to bring the Queen to the fire, there to have her judgment, and receive the death. But Sir Gawaine ever believed Dame Guenever guiltless of the treason charged against her, and he would never have it said that he had any part in her shameful end. Sir Gaheris and Sir Gareth also were loath to be there present, but they were young, and full unable to say him nay. "If we be there by your straight commandment," said they, "ye shall plainly hold us excused though we go in peaceable wise, and bear none harness of war upon us." So the Queen was led forth without Carlisle, and she prepared herself for death. There was weeping and wailing and wringing of hands of many lords and ladies, and few in comparison there present would bear any armour for to keep order. Anon as the fire was to be lighted, there was spurring and plucking up of horses, and right so Sir Launcelot and his followers came hither, and whoever stood against them was slain. And so in this rushing and hurling, as Sir Launcelot pressed here and there, it mishapped him to slay Gaheris and Gareth, the noble knights, for they were unarmed and unaware. In truth Sir Launcelot saw them not, and so were they found dead among the thickest of the press. Then when Sir Launcelot had thus done, and had slain or put to flight all that would withstand him, he rode straight unto Dame Guenever, and made her to be set behind him on his horse, and prayed her to be of good cheer. Wit ye well the Queen was glad that she was escaped from the death, and then she thanked God and Sir Launcelot. And so he rode his way with the Queen, as the French book saith, unto Joyous Gard, his own castle, where Sir Tristram had taken the Fair Isoud after her flight from Cornwall. There Sir Launcelot kept Guenever as a noble knight should do, and many great lords and some kings sent him many good knights, and many noble knights drew unto Sir Launcelot. When it was known openly that King Arthur and Sir Launcelot were at debate, many were full heavy of heart, and the King himself swooned for pure sorrow, as it was told him how and in what wise the Queen was taken away from the fire, and as he heard of the death of his noble knights, in especial that of Sir Gaheris and Sir Gareth. And when he awoke of his swoon, he said: "Alas that ever I bare crown upon my head, for now have I lost the fairest fellowship of noble knights that ever Christian king held together. Alas that ever this war began. The death of these two brethren will cause the greatest mortal war that ever was, for I am sure, wist Sir Gawaine that Sir Gareth were slain, I should never have rest of him till I had destroyed Sir Launcelot's kin and himself, or else he had destroyed me. Ah, Agravaine, Agravaine, Jesu forgive it thy soul, for the evil will thou and thy brother Sir Mordred haddest unto Sir Launcelot hath caused all this sorrow." CHAPTER XXXVII HOW SIR LAUNCELOT DEPARTED FROM THE KING AND FROM JOYOUS GARD There came one unto Sir Gawaine, and told him how the Queen was led away by Sir Launcelot, and nigh a twenty-four knights slain. "Full well wist I," said then Sir Gawaine, "that Sir Launcelot would rescue her, or else he would die in that field. To say the truth, had he not rescued the Queen he would not have been a man of honour, inasmuch as she was to have been burned for his sake. He hath done but knightly, and as I would have done myself, had I stood in like case. But where are my brethren? I marvel I hear not of them." Then the man told him that Sir Gareth and Sir Gaheris were slain, both by the hand of Launcelot. "That may I not believe," said Sir Gawaine, "that he slew my brother Sir Gareth, for I dare say Gareth loved him better than me and all his brethren, and the King also. Sir Launcelot made him knight, and had he desired my brother Sir Gareth with him, he would have been with him against the King and us all. Therefore I may never believe that Sir Launcelot slew my brother." When at the last he knew in truth that Sir Gareth and Sir Gaheris had died by Sir Launcelot's hand, all his joy was gone. He fell down in a swoon, and long he lay there as he had been dead. When he arose of his swoon he ran to the King crying, and weeping, and said: "O King Arthur, my lord and mine uncle, wit ye well, from this day I shall never fail Sir Launcelot, until the one of us have slain the other. Therefore dress you to the war, for wit ye well I will be revenged upon him." Unto King Arthur now drew many knights, dukes, and earls, so that he had a great host. Then they made them ready to lay siege about Sir Launcelot, where he lay within Joyous Gard. Thereof heard Sir Launcelot, and he gathered together his followers, for with him held many good knights, some for his own sake, and some for the Queen's sake. Thus they were on both sides well furnished and provided with all manner of things that belonged to the war. But Sir Launcelot was full loath to do battle against the King, and so he withdrew into his strong castle with all manner of victual and as many noble men as might suffice, and for a long time would in no wise ride out, neither would he allow any of his good knights to issue out, though King Arthur with Sir Gawaine came and laid a siege all about Joyous Gard, both at the town and at the castle. Then it befell upon a day in harvest time, Sir Launcelot looked over the walls, and spake on high unto King Arthur and Sir Gawaine: "My lords both, wit ye well all is in vain that ye make at this siege; here win ye no honour, for if I list to come out with my good knights, I should full soon make an end of this war. But God defend me, that ever I should encounter with the most noble King that made me knight." "Fie upon thy fair language," said the King; "come forth, if thou darest. Wit thou well, I am thy mortal foe, and ever shall be to my death day, for thou hast slain my good knights and full noble men of my blood, and like a traitor hast taken my Queen from me by force." "My most noble lord and king," answered Sir Launcelot, "ye may say what ye will, for ye wot well with yourself I will not strive. I wot well that I have slain your good knights, and that me sore repenteth; but I was forced to do battle with them in saving of my life, or else I must have suffered them to slay me. And as for my lady, Queen Guenever, except your highness and my lord Sir Gawaine, there is no knight under heaven that dare make it good upon me, that ever I was traitor unto your person, and I will prove it upon any knight alive, except you and Sir Gawaine, that my lady Queen Guenever is as true and loyal unto you as any living unto her lord. Howbeit, it hath pleased her good grace to have me in charity, and to cherish me more than any other knight, and unto my power I in return have deserved her love; for ofttimes, my lord, it fortuned me to do battle for her, and ye thanked me when I saved her life. Now me thinketh ye reward me full ill for my good service, and me seemeth I had lost a great part of my honour in my knighthood, had I suffered my lady your queen to be burned, inasmuch as she was to be burned for my sake. For, since I have done battle for your queen in other quarrels than in mine own, me seemeth now I had more right to do battle for her in right quarrel. Therefore, my good and gracious lord, take your queen unto your good grace, for she is both fair, true, and good." "Fie on thy proud words," said Sir Gawaine; "as for my lady the Queen, I will never say of her shame, but thou false and recreant knight, what cause hadst thou to slay my good brother Sir Gareth, that loved thee more than all my kin? Alas, thou madest him knight with thine own hands; why slewest thou him that loved thee so well?" "For to excuse myself," said Sir Launcelot, "it helpeth me not, but by the faith I owe to the high order of knighthood, I should with as good will have slain my nephew Sir Bors of Ganis. Alas, that ever I was so unhappy that I had not seen Sir Gareth and Sir Gaheris." But Sir Gawaine was mischievously set, and it helped not Sir Launcelot to seek accordment. King Arthur must needs unto battle because of his nephew's great anger, and on the morn he was ready in the field with three great hosts. Then Sir Launcelot's fellowship came out at three gates in a full good array, in order and rule as noble knights. And always Sir Launcelot charged all his knights in any wise to save King Arthur and Sir Gawaine. Then began a great battle, and much people was slain. Ever Sir Launcelot did what he might to save the people on King Arthur's side, and ever King Arthur was nigh about Sir Launcelot to slay him. Sir Launcelot suffered him, and would not strike again; but at the last Sir Bors encountered with King Arthur, and with a spear smote him down. He alighted and drew his sword to slay him, and then he said to Sir Launcelot, "Shall I make an end of this war?" "Not so hardy," said Sir Launcelot, "upon pain of thy head, touch him no further, for I will never see that most noble king, that made me knight, either slain or shamed." Therewithal Sir Launcelot alighted oft his horse and took up the King, and horsed him again, and said thus: "My lord Arthur, for God's love stint this strife, for ye get here no honour, if I will to do mine uttermost; always I forbear you, but neither you nor any of yours forbeareth me. My lord, remember what I have done in many places, and now I am evil rewarded." When King Arthur was again on horseback, he looked upon Sir Launcelot, and then the tears burst out of his eyes, thinking on the great courtesy that was in Sir Launcelot, more than in any other man. Therewith the King might no longer behold him, and he rode his way, saying, "Alas that ever this war began." And then both sides withdrew to repose themselves, to bury the dead, and to lay soft salves on the wounded. Thus they passed the night, but on the morn they made ready again to do battle. At the end of this day also Sir Launcelot and his party stood better, but for pity he withheld his knights, and suffered King Arthur's party to withdraw one side, and Sir Launcelot again returned into his castle. So the war went on day after day. It was noised through all Christendom, and at the last it was noised afore the Pope. He, considering the great goodness of King Arthur and of Sir Launcelot, that were called the noblest knights of the world, called unto him a noble clerk, that at that time was there present,--the French book saith it was the Bishop of Rochester,--and gave him bulls unto King Arthur of England, charging him upon pain of interdicting of all England, that he take his queen, Dame Guenever, unto him again, and accord with Sir Launcelot. So when this bishop was come to Carlisle he showed the King the bulls, and by their means peace was made between King Arthur and Sir Launcelot. With great pomp and ceremony Sir Launcelot rode with the Queen from Joyous Gard to Carlisle, and they knelt before King Arthur, that was full gladly accorded with them both. But Sir Gawaine would never be at peace with the knight that had slain his brethren. "The King may take his Queen again, if he will," said Sir Gawaine to Sir Launcelot, "and may be accorded with thee, but thou and I are past pardon. Thou shalt go from Carlisle safe, as thou camest, but in this land thou shalt not abide past fifteen days, such summons I give thee;--so the King and I were consented and accorded ere thou camest hither, and else, wit thou well, thou shouldest not have come here except without thy head. If it were not for the Pope's commandment, I should do battle with mine own body against thy body, and prove it upon thee that thou hast been both false unto mine uncle and to me, and that shall I prove upon thy body when thou art departed from hence, wheresoever I find thee." Then Sir Launcelot sighed, and therewith the tears fell on his cheeks, and he said: "Alas, most noble Christian realm, that I have loved above all others, in thee have I gotten a great part of my honour, and now I shall depart in this wise. Truly me repenteth that ever I came in this realm that I should be thus shamefully banished, undeserved, and causeless. But fortune is so variant, and the wheel so movable, there is no constant abiding. Wit ye well, Sir Gawaine, I may live upon my lands as well as any knight that here is. And if ye, most redoubted King, will come upon my lands with Sir Gawaine, to war upon me, I must endure you as well as I may. But as to you, Sir Gawaine, if that ye come there, I pray you charge me not with treason or felony, for if ye do, I must answer you." Then Sir Launcelot said unto Guenever, in hearing of the King and them all, "Madam, now I must depart from you and this noble fellowship for ever; and since it is so, I beseech you to pray for me, and say me well; and if ye be hard bestead by any false tongues lightly, my lady, let send me word, and if any knight's hands may deliver you by battle, I shall deliver you." Therewithal Sir Launcelot kissed the Queen, and then he said all openly: "Now let see what he be in this place, that dare say the Queen is not true unto my lord Arthur; let see who will speak, if he dare." Then he brought her to the King, and so took his leave and departed. And there was neither king, duke nor earl, baron nor knight, lady nor gentlewoman, but all they wept as people out of their mind, except Sir Gawaine; and when the noble Sir Launcelot took his horse, to ride out of Carlisle, there was sobbing and weeping for pure dole of his departing. So he took his way unto Joyous Gard, that ever after he called Dolorous Gard, and thus left the court for ever. CHAPTER XXXVIII HOW KING ARTHUR AND SIR GAWAINE INVADED SIR LAUNCELOT'S REALM When Sir Launcelot came again to Joyous Gard from Carlisle, he called his fellowship unto him, and asked them what they would do. Then they answered all wholly together with one voice, they would as he would do. "My fair fellows," said he: "I must depart out of this most noble realm. And now I am to depart, it grieveth me sore, for I shall depart with no honour. A banished man departed never out of any realm with honour; and that is my heaviness, for ever I fear that after my days they will chronicle upon me that I was banished out of this land." Then spake many noble knights: "Sir, we will never fail. Since it liked us to take a part with you in your distress and heaviness in this realm, wit ye well it shall like us as well to go in other countries with you, and there to take such part as ye do." "My fair lords," said Sir Launcelot, "I well understand you, and, as I can, thank you. And ye shall understand, such livelihood and lands as I am born unto I shall freely share among you, and I myself will have as little as any of you, for if I have sufficient for my personal needs, I will ask none other rich array; and I trust to God to maintain you on my lands as well as ever were maintained any knights." Then spake all the knights at once: "He have shame that will leave you. We all understand in this realm will be now no quiet, but ever strife and debate, now the fellowship of the Round Table is broken; for by the noble fellowship of the Round Table was King Arthur upborne, and by their nobleness the King and all his realm was in quiet and in rest. And a great part," they said all, "was because of your nobleness." So, to make short tale, they packed up, and paid all that would ask them, and wholly an hundred knights departed with Sir Launcelot at once, and made avows they would never leave him for weal nor for woe. They shipped at Cardiff, and sailed unto Benwick. But to say the sooth, Sir Launcelot and his nephews were lords of all France, and of all the lands that belong unto France through Sir Launcelot's noble prowess. When he had established all these countries, he shortly called a parliament, and appointed officers for his realm. Thus Sir Launcelot rewarded his noble knights and many more, that me seemeth it were too long to rehearse. Now leave we Sir Launcelot in his lands, and his noble knights with him, and return we again unto King Arthur and to Sir Gawaine, that made a great host ready, to the number of three-score thousand. All things were made ready for their shipping to pass over the sea, and so they shipped at Cardiff. And there King Arthur made Sir Mordred chief ruler of all England, and also he put Queen Guenever under his governance. So King Arthur passed over the sea, and landed upon Sir Launcelot's lands, and there burned and wasted, through the vengeance of Sir Gawaine, all that they might overrun. When this word came to Sir Launcelot, that King Arthur and Sir Gawaine were landed upon his lands, and made a full destruction and waste, then said Sir Lionel, that was ware and wise: "My Lord, Sir Launcelot, I will give you this counsel: Let us keep our strong walled towns until they have hunger and cold, and blow upon their nails, and then let us freshly set upon them, and shred them down as sheep in a field, that aliens may take ensample for ever how they set foot upon our lands." Then said Sir Galihud unto Sir Launcelot, "Sir, here be knights come of king's blood that will not long droop; therefore give us leave, like as we be knights, to meet them in the field, and we shall slay them, that they shall curse the time that ever they came into this country." Then spake all at once seven brethren of North Wales,--and they were seven noble knights, a man might seek in seven lands ere he might find such seven knights: "Sir Launcelot, let us ride out with Sir Galihud, for we be never wont to cower in castle, or in noble towns." But then spake Sir Launcelot, that was master and governor of them all: "My fair lords, wit ye well I am full loath to ride out with my knights, for shedding of Christian blood; and yet my lands I understand to be full bare to sustain any host a while, for the mighty wars that whilom made King Claudas upon this country, upon my father King Ban and on mine uncle King Bors. Howbeit we will at this time keep our strong walls, and I shall send a messenger unto my lord Arthur, a treaty for to take, for better is peace than always war." So he sent forth a damsel, and a dwarf with her, requiring King Arthur to leave his warring upon his lands. When she came to the pavilion of King Arthur there met her a gentle knight, Sir Lucan the butler, and when he knew that she was a messenger from Sir Launcelot to the King he said: "I pray God, damsel, ye may speed well. My Lord Arthur would love Launcelot, but Sir Gawaine will not suffer him." So Lucan led the damsel unto the King, and when she had told her tale, all the lords were full glad to advise him to be accorded with Sir Launcelot, save only Sir Gawaine, who would not turn again, now that they were past thus far upon the journey. "Wit ye well, Sir Gawaine," said Arthur, "I will do as ye will advise me; and yet me seemeth his fair proffers were not good to be refused." Then Sir Gawaine sent the damsel away with the answer that it was now too late for peace. And so the war went on. Sir Launcelot was never so loath to do battle, but he must needs defend himself; and when King Arthur's host besieged Benwick round about, and fast began to set up ladders, then Sir Launcelot beat them from the walls mightily. Then upon a day it befell that Sir Gawaine came before the gates fully armed on a noble horse, with a great spear in his hand, and cried with a loud voice: "Where art thou now, thou false traitor, Launcelot? Why hidest thou thyself within holes and walls like a coward? Look out now, thou false traitor knight, and here I shall revenge upon thy body the death of my three brethren." All this language heard Sir Launcelot, and he wist well that he must defend himself, or else be recreant. So he armed himself at all points, and mounted upon his horse, and gat a great spear in his hand, and rode out at the gate. And both the hosts were assembled, of them without and of them within, and stood in array full manly. And both parties were charged to hold them still, to see and behold the battle of these two noble knights. Then they laid their spears in their rests, and came together as thunder. Sir Gawaine brake his spear upon Sir Launcelot in an hundred pieces unto his hand, and Sir Launcelot smote him with a greater might, so that Sir Gawaine's horse's feet raised, and the horse and he fell to the earth. Then they dressed their shields and fought with swords on foot, giving many sad strokes, so that all men on both parties had thereof passing great wonder. But Sir Launcelot withheld his courage and his wind, and kept himself wonderly covert of his might. Under his shield he traced and traversed here and there, to break Sir Gawaine's strokes and his courage, and Sir Gawaine enforced himself with all his might to destroy Sir Launcelot. At the first ever Sir Gawaine's power increased, and right so his wind and his evil will. For a time Sir Launcelot had great pain to defend himself, but when three hours were passed, and Sir Launcelot felt that Sir Gawaine was come to his full strength, then Sir Launcelot said, "I feel that ye have done your mighty deeds; now wit you well I must do my deeds." So he doubled his strokes, and soon smote such a buffet upon Sir Gawaine's helm that he sank down upon his side in a swoon. Anon as he did awake, he waved at Sir Launcelot as he lay, and said, "Traitor knight, wit thou well I am not yet slain; come thou near me, and perform this battle unto the uttermost." "I will no more do than I have done," said Sir Launcelot. "When I see you on foot I will do battle upon you all the while I see you stand on your feet; but to smite a wounded man, that may not stand, God defend me from such a shame." Then he turned and went his way towards the city, and Sir Gawaine, evermore calling him traitor knight, said, "Wit thou well, Sir Launcelot, when I am whole, I shall do battle with thee again; for I shall never leave thee till one of us be slain." Thus this siege endured. Sir Gawaine lay sick near a month, and when he was well recovered, and ready within three days to do battle again with Sir Launcelot, right so came tidings unto Arthur from England, that made him and all his host to remove. CHAPTER XXXIX OF SIR MORDRED'S TREASON As Sir Mordred was ruler of all England he did make letters as though they came from beyond the sea, and the letters specified that King Arthur was slain in battle with Sir Launcelot. Wherefore Sir Mordred made a Parliament, and called the lords together, and there he made them to choose him king. So was he crowned at Canterbury, and held a feast there fifteen days. Afterwards he drew unto Winchester, and there he took the Queen, Guenever, and said plainly that he would wed her which was his uncle's wife. So he made ready for the feast, and a day was prefixed when they should be wedded. Wherefore Queen Guenever was passing heavy, but she durst not discover her heart, and spake fair, and agreed to Sir Mordred's will. Then she desired of him for to go to London, to buy all manner of things that longed unto the wedding, and because of her fair speech Sir Mordred trusted her well enough, and gave her leave to go. When she came to London, she took the Tower of London, and suddenly, in all haste possible, she stuffed it with all manner of victual, and well garnished it with men, and so kept it. Then when Sir Mordred wist and understood how he was beguiled, he was passing wroth out of measure. And, a short tale for to make, he went and laid a mighty siege about the Tower of London, and made many great assaults thereat, and threw many great engines unto them, and shot great guns. But all might not prevail Sir Mordred, because Queen Guenever, for fair speech nor for foul, would never trust to come in his hands again. Then came the Bishop of Canterbury, the which was a noble clerk and an holy man, and thus he said to Sir Mordred: "Sir, what will ye do? Will ye first displease God, and then shame yourself and all knighthood? Leave this matter, or else I shall curse you with book and bell and candle." "Do thou thy worst," said Sir Mordred; "wit thou well I shall defy thee." "Sir," said the Bishop, "and wit ye well I shall not fear me to do that I ought to do. Also, when ye noise that my lord Arthur is slain, that is not so, and therefore ye will make a foul work in this land." "Peace, thou false priest," said Sir Mordred, "for, if thou chafe me any more, I shall make strike off thy head." So the Bishop departed, and did the curse in the haughtiest wise that might be done. Then Sir Mordred sought the Bishop of Canterbury for to slay him, and he fled, and, taking part of his goods with him, went nigh unto Glastonbury, and there lived in poverty and in holy prayers as priest-hermit in a chapel, for well he understood that mischievous war was at hand. Then came word to Sir Mordred that King Arthur had raised the siege from Sir Launcelot, and was coming homeward with a great host, to be avenged upon Sir Mordred. Wherefore Sir Mordred made write writs to all the barony of this land, and much people drew to him, for then was the common voice among them, that with Arthur was none other life but war and strife, and with Sir Mordred was great joy and bliss. Thus was Sir Arthur depraved and evil said of, and many there were that King Arthur had made up of naught, and had given lands to, who might not then say of him a good word. Lo all ye Englishmen, see ye not what a mischief here was, for Arthur was the most king and knight of the world, and most loved the fellowship of noble knights, and by him they were all upholden. Now might not these Englishmen hold us content with him. Lo, thus was the old custom and usage of this land, and men say, that we of this land have not yet lost nor forgotten that custom and usage. Alas, this is a great fault of all Englishmen, for there may no thing please us. And so fared the people at that time; they were better pleased with Sir Mordred than they were with King Arthur, and much people drew unto Sir Mordred, and said they would abide with him for better and for worse. So Sir Mordred drew with a great host to Dover, for there he heard say that Sir Arthur would arrive, and so he thought to beat his own uncle from his lands. And the most part of all England held with Sir Mordred, the people were so new-fangle. As Sir Mordred was at Dover with his host, there came King Arthur with a great navy of ships, galleys, and carracks. And there was Sir Mordred ready awaiting upon his landage, to keep his own uncle from landing in the country that he was king over. Then there was launching of great boats and small, full of noble men of arms, and there was much slaughter of gentle knights, and many a bold baron was laid full low on both sides. But King Arthur was so courageous that there might no manner of knights prevent him from landing, and his knights fiercely followed him. So they landed in spite of Sir Mordred and all his power, and they put him aback, so that he fled and all his people. When this battle was done, King Arthur let bury his dead, and then was the noble knight Sir Gawaine found in a great boat lying more than half dead. When Sir Arthur wist that Sir Gawaine was laid so low, he went unto him and made sorrow out of measure, for this sister's son was the man in the world that he most loved. Sir Gawaine felt that he must die, for he was smitten upon the old wound that Sir Launcelot had given him afore the city of Benwick. He now knew that he was the cause of this unhappy war, for had Sir Launcelot remained with the King, it would never have been, and now King Arthur would sore miss his brave knights of the Round Table. Then he prayed his uncle that he might have paper, pen, and ink, and when they were brought, he with his own hand wrote thus, as the French book maketh mention: "Unto Sir Launcelot, flower of all noble knights that ever I heard of, or saw by my days, I, Sir Gawaine, King Lot's son of Orkney, sister's son unto the noble King Arthur, send thee greeting, and let thee have knowledge, that this tenth day of May, through the same wound that thou gavest me I am come to my death. And I will that all the world wit that I, Sir Gawaine, knight of the Table Round, sought my death; it came not through thy deserving, but it was mine own seeking. Wherefore I beseech thee, Sir Launcelot, to return again unto this realm, and see my tomb, and pray some prayer, more or less, for my soul. For all the love that ever was betwixt us, make no tarrying, but come over the sea in all haste, that thou mayest with thy noble knights rescue that noble king that made thee knight, that is my lord Arthur, for he is full straitly bestead with a false traitor, my half-brother, Sir Mordred. We all landed upon him and his host at Dover, and there put him to flight, and there it misfortuned me to be stricken in the same wound the which I had of thy hand, Sir Launcelot. Of a nobler man might I not be slain. This letter was written but two hours and an half afore my death, with mine own hand, and so subscribed with part of my heart's blood." Then Sir Gawaine wept, and King Arthur wept, and then they swooned both. When they awaked both, the King made Sir Gawaine to receive the sacrament, and then Sir Gawaine prayed the King to send for Sir Launcelot, and to cherish him above all other knights. And so at the hour of noon, Sir Gawaine yielded up the spirit, and the King let inter him in a chapel within Dover Castle. Then was it told King Arthur that Sir Mordred had pitched a new field upon Barham Down. Upon the morn the King rode thither to him, and there was a great battle betwixt them, and much people were slain on both parties. But at the last Sir Arthur's party stood best, and Sir Mordred and his party fled to Canterbury. Upon this much people drew unto King Arthur, and he went with his host down by the seaside, westward towards Salisbury, and there was a day assigned between him and Sir Mordred when they should meet in battle upon a down beside Salisbury, not far from the sea. In the night before the battle King Arthur dreamed a wonderful dream, and it seemed to him verily that there came Sir Gawaine unto him, and said; "God giveth me leave to come hither for to warn you that, if ye fight to-morn with Sir Mordred, as ye both have assigned, doubt ye not ye must be slain, and the most part of your people on both parties. For the great grace and goodness that Almighty Jesu hath unto you, and for pity of you and many other good men that there shall be slain, God hath sent me to you, of His special grace, to give you warning, that in no wise ye do battle to-morn, but that ye take a treaty for a month; and proffer ye largely, so as to-morn to be put in delay, for within a month shall come Sir Launcelot, with all his noble knights, and rescue you honourably, and slay Sir Mordred and all that ever will hold with him." Then Sir Gawaine vanished, and anon the King commanded Sir Lucan and his brother, Sir Bedivere, with two bishops with them, and charged them to take a treaty for a month with Sir Mordred in any wise they might. So then they departed, and came to Sir Mordred, where he had a grim host of an hundred thousand men. There they entreated Sir Mordred long time, and at the last he was agreed to have Cornwall and Kent by King Arthur's days, and after the days of King Arthur all England. CHAPTER XL OF ARTHUR'S LAST GREAT BATTLE IN THE WEST Sir Lucan and Sir Bedivere were agreed with Sir Mordred that King Arthur and he should meet betwixt both their hosts, for to conclude the treaty they had made, and every each of them should bring fourteen persons. And they came with this word unto King Arthur. Then said he, "I am glad that this is done." So Arthur made ready to go into the field, and when he would depart, he warned all his hosts that if they saw any sword drawn, they should come on fiercely, and slay that traitor Sir Mordred, for he in no wise trusted him. In like manner Sir Mordred warned his host: "If ye see any sword drawn, look that ye come on fiercely, and so slay all that ever before you stand, for in no wise will I trust for this treaty. I know well mine uncle will be avenged upon me." So they met as their appointment was, and they were agreed and accorded thoroughly; and wine was fetched, and they drank. Right so came an adder out of a little heath bush, and it stung a knight on the foot. When the knight felt himself stung, he looked down and saw the adder; then he drew his sword to slay the adder, and thought of none other harm. But when the hosts on both parties saw the sword drawn, then they blew trumpets, and horns, and shouted grimly. And so both hosts dressed them together. King Arthur took his horse, and said, "Alas this unhappy day," and so rode to his party; and Sir Mordred did likewise. And never was there seen a dolefuller battle in any Christian land, for there was but rushing and riding, foining, and striking, and many a grim word was there spoken either to other, and there was given many a deadly stroke. Thus they fought all the long day, and never stinted, till the noble knights were laid to the cold ground. And ever they fought still, till it was near night, and by that time were there an hundred thousand laid dead upon the down. Then the King looked about him, and was ware, that of all his host and of all his good knights were left no more alive but two knights, that was Sir Lucan the butler, and his brother Sir Bedivere, and even they were full sore wounded. "Jesu, mercy," said the King, "where are all my noble knights become? Alas that ever I should see this doleful day. Now I am come to mine end. But would to God that I wist where is that traitor Sir Mordred, that hath caused all this mischief." Then was King Arthur ware where Sir Mordred leaned upon his sword among a great heap of dead men. "Now give me my spear," said Arthur unto Sir Lucan, "for yonder I have espied the traitor that all this woe hath wrought." "Sir, let him be," said Sir Lucan. "If ye pass this evil day, ye shall be right well revenged upon him. My lord remember ye of your night's dream, and what the spirit of Sir Gawaine told you last night. God of His great goodness hath preserved you hitherto. Therefore, for God's sake, my lord, leave off with this. For blessed be God, ye have won the field, for here we be three alive, and with Sir Mordred is none. If ye leave off now, this wicked day of destiny is past." "Tide me death, betide me life," saith the King, "now I see him yonder alone, he shall never escape mine hands, for at a better avail shall I never have him." Then he gat his spear in both his hands, and ran towards Sir Mordred, crying, "Traitor, now is thy death day come." When Sir Mordred heard Sir Arthur, he ran unto him with his sword drawn in his hand, and then King Arthur smote him under the shield with a foin of his spear throughout the body. When Sir Mordred felt that he had his death's wound, he thrust himself, with the might that he had, up to the bur of King Arthur's spear. And right so he smote his uncle Arthur with his sword holden in both his hands, on the side of the head so that the sword pierced the helmet and the brain-pan, and therewithal Sir Mordred fell stark dead to the earth. And the noble Arthur fell in a swoon to the earth, and there he swooned ofttimes. And Sir Lucan and Sir Bedivere ofttimes heaved him up, and so weakly they led him betwixt them both to a little chapel not far from the seaside. CHAPTER XLI OF THE PASSING OF KING ARTHUR When the King was laid in the chapel he thought himself well eased. Then heard they people cry in the field, and Sir Lucan went out to wit what the noise betokened. As he went he saw and heard in the moonlight how the plunderers and robbers were come into the battlefield to pillage and rob many a full noble knight of rings and jewels; and who that were not dead all out, there they slew them for their harness and their riches. When Sir Lucan understood this work, he came to the King as soon as he might, and told him all what he had heard and seen. "Therefore by my advice," said Sir Lucan, "it is best that we bring you to some town." "I would it were so," said the King, "but I may not stand, my head works so. Ah, Sir Launcelot, this day have I sore missed thee. Alas, that ever I was against thee, for now have I my death, whereof Sir Gawaine me warned in my dream." Then Sir Lucan and Sir Bedivere took up the King, and in the lifting the King swooned, and Sir Lucan, that was grievously wounded in many places, also fell in a swoon with the lift, and therewith the noble knight died. When King Arthur came to himself again, he beheld Sir Lucan dead and Sir Bedivere weeping for his brother, and he said: "This is unto me a full heavy sight to see this noble duke so die for my sake, for he would have holpen me that had more need of help than I. Yet, Sir Bedivere, weeping and mourning will not avail me; for wit thou well, if I might live myself, the death of Sir Lucan would grieve me evermore. But my time hieth fast. Therefore, Sir Bedivere, take thou Excalibur, my good sword, and go with it to yonder waterside, and when thou comest there, I charge thee throw my sword in that water, and come again, and tell me what thou there seest." "My lord," said Bedivere, "your commandment shall be done, and I will lightly bring you word again." So Sir Bedivere departed, and by the way he beheld that noble sword, whose pommel and haft were all of precious stones, and then he said to himself, "If I throw this rich sword in the water, thereof shall never come good, but harm and loss." Then Sir Bedivere hid Excalibur under a tree, and as soon as he might he came again unto the King, and said he had been at the water, and had thrown the sword into the water. "What sawest thou there?" said the King. "Sir," he said, "I saw nothing but waves and winds." "That is untruly said of thee," said the King; "therefore go thou lightly again, and do my command as thou art to me lief and dear; spare not, but throw it." Then Sir Bedivere returned again, and took the sword in his hand; and then him thought it sin and shame to throw away that noble sword. And so again he hid the sword, and returned, and told the King that he had been at the water, and done his commandment. "What sawest thou there?" said the King. "Sir," he said, "I saw nothing but the waters lap and the waves toss." "Ah, traitor, untrue," said King Arthur, "now hast thou betrayed me twice. Who would have thought that thou that hast been to me so lief and dear, and that art named a noble knight, wouldest betray me for the riches of the sword. But now go again lightly, for thy long tarrying putteth me in great jeopardy of my life, for I have taken cold. And unless thou do now as I bid thee, if ever I may see thee, I shall slay thee with mine own hands, for thou wouldest for my rich sword see me dead." Then Sir Bedivere departed, and went to the sword, and lightly took it up, and went to the waterside. There he bound the girdle about the hilts, and then he threw the sword as far into the water as he might. And there came an arm and an hand above the water, and met it, and caught it, and so shook it thrice and brandished, and then vanished away the hand with the sword in the water. So Sir Bedivere came again to the King, and told him what he saw. "Alas," said the King, "help me thence, for I fear me I have tarried over long." Then Sir Bedivere took the King upon his back, and so went with him to that waterside. And when they were at the waterside, even fast by the bank hove a little barge, with many fair ladies in it, and among them all was a queen, and all they had black hoods, and all they wept and shrieked when they saw King Arthur. [Illustration: The Passing of Arthur] "Now put me into the barge," said the King; and so he did softly. And there received him three queens with great mourning, and so they set him down, and in one of their laps King Arthur laid his head, and then that queen said, "Ah, dear brother, why have ye tarried so long from me? Alas, this wound on your head hath caught over much cold." And so then they rowed from the land, and Sir Bedivere beheld all these ladies go from him. Then he cried, "Ah, my lord Arthur, what shall become of me now ye go from me, and leave me here alone among mine enemies!" "Comfort thyself," said the King, "and do as well as thou mayest, for in me is no trust for to trust in. For I will into the vale of Avilion, to heal me of my grievous wound. And if thou hear never more of me, pray for my soul." Ever the queens and the ladies wept and shrieked, that it was pity to hear. And as soon as Sir Bedivere had lost the sight of the barge he wept and wailed, and so took the forest, and he went all that night; and in the morning he was ware betwixt two ancient cliffs of a chapel and an hermitage, and he was glad. When he came into the chapel he saw a hermit praying by a tomb new graven. The hermit was the Bishop of Canterbury that Sir Mordred had banished, and Sir Bedivere asked him what man was there interred. "Fair son," said the hermit, "I wot not verily, but this night, at midnight, here came a number of ladies, and brought hither a dead corpse, and prayed me to bury him; and here they offered an hundred tapers, and gave me an hundred besants." Then Sir Bedivere knew that King Arthur lay buried in that chapel, and he prayed the hermit that he might abide with him still there. So there abode Sir Bedivere with the hermit, that was tofore Bishop of Canterbury, and there Sir Bedivere put on poor clothes, and served the hermit full lowly in fasting and in prayers. Thus of Arthur I find never more written in books that be authorised, nor more of the certainty of his death heard I tell, but that he was thus led away in a ship wherein were three queens. The hermit that some time was Bishop of Canterbury bare witness that ladies brought a knight to his burial in the chapel, but the hermit knew not in certain that it was verily the body of King Arthur;--for this tale Sir Bedivere, knight of the Round Table, made to be written. Some men still say in many parts of England that King Arthur is not dead, but tarried by the will of our Lord Jesu in another place. And men say that he shall come again, and shall win the holy cross. I will not say it shall be so, but rather I will say, here in this world he changed his life. But many men say that there is written upon his tomb these words: "_Hic jacet Arthurus Rex quondam Rex que futurus_": "_Here lies Arthur, King that was and King that shall be._" CHAPTER XLII OF THE END OF THIS BOOK When Queen Guenever understood that King Arthur was slain, and all the noble knights, Sir Mordred and all the remnant, then she stole away, and five ladies with her, and so she went to Almesbury, and there she let make herself a nun, and lived in fasting, prayers, and alms-deeds, that all manner of people marvelled how virtuously she was changed. And there she was abbess and ruler, as reason would. When Sir Launcelot of the Lake heard in his country that Sir Mordred was crowned king, and made war against his uncle, then he made all haste with ships and galleys to go unto England. So he passed over the sea till he came to Dover. There the people told him how that King Arthur was slain, and Sir Mordred, and an hundred thousand died on a day, and how Sir Mordred gave King Arthur there the first battle at his landing, and how there was good Sir Gawaine slain. And then certain people of the town brought him unto the castle of Dover, and showed him the tomb. And he made a dole for Sir Gawaine, and all the priests and clerks that might be gotten in the country were there and sang mass of requiem. Two nights Sir Launcelot lay on Sir Gawaine's tomb in prayers and in weeping, and then on the third day he called his kings, dukes, earls, barons, and knights, and said thus: "My fair lords, I thank you all of your coming into this country with me; but we come too late, and that shall repent me while I live, but against death may no man rebel. Since it is so, I will myself ride and seek my lady Queen Guenever, for, as I hear say, she hath great pain and much disease. Therefore ye all abide me here fifteen days, and then, if I come not again, take your ships and your fellowship, and depart into your country." So Sir Launcelot rode forth alone on his journey into the west country. There he sought seven or eight days, and at the last came to the nunnery where was Queen Guenever. Once only he had speech with her, and then took his horse and rode away to forsake the world, as she had done. He rode all that day and all that night in a forest, and at the last he was ware of an hermitage and a chapel betwixt two cliffs. Thither he rode, and there found Sir Bedivere with the Bishop of Canterbury, for he was come to their hermitage. And then he besought the Bishop that he might remain there as a brother. The Bishop would gladly have it so, and there he put hermit's clothes upon Sir Launcelot, and there Sir Launcelot served God day and night with prayers and fasting. The great host abode in Dover fifteen days, as Sir Launcelot had bidden them. Then, since Sir Launcelot did not return, Sir Bors of Ganis made them take ship and return home again to Benwick. But Sir Bors himself and others of Sir Launcelot's kin took on them to ride all England across and endlong, to seek Sir Launcelot. So Sir Bors by fortune rode so long till he came to the same chapel where Sir Launcelot and Sir Bedivere were, and he prayed the Bishop that he also might remain and be of their fellowship. So there was an habit put upon him, and there he lived in prayers and fasting. And within half a year there were come seven other knights, and when they saw Sir Launcelot, they had no list to depart, but took such an habit as he had. Thus they remained in true devotion six years, and Sir Launcelot took the habit of priesthood. And there were none of those other knights but read in books, and holp in the worship and did bodily all manner of service. And so their horses went where they would, for they took no regard of worldly riches. Thus upon a night there came a vision to Sir Launcelot, and charged him to haste unto Almesbury, for Queen Guenever was dead, and he should fetch the corpse and bury her by her husband, the noble King Arthur. Then Sir Launcelot rose up ere day, took seven fellows with him, and on foot they went from Glastonbury to Almesbury, the which is little more than thirty miles. They came thither within two days, for they were weak and feeble to go, and found that Queen Guenever had died but half an hour before. The ladies said she had told them all, ere she passed, that Sir Launcelot had been a priest near a twelvemonth, and that he came thither as fast as he might, to take her corpse to Glastonbury for burial. So Sir Launcelot and his seven fellows went back on foot beside the corpse of Queen Guenever from Almesbury unto Glastonbury, and they buried her with solemn devotion in the chapel at the hermitage. When she was put in the earth Sir Launcelot swooned, for he remembered the noblesse and kindness that was both with the King and with herself, and how by his fault and his pride they were both laid full low. Then Sir Launcelot sickened more and more, and within six weeks afterwards Sir Bors and his fellows found him dead in his bed. The Bishop did his mass of requiem, and he and all the nine knights went with the corpse till they came to Joyous Gard, his own castle, and there they buried him in the choir of the chapel, as he had wished, with great devotion. Thereafter the knights went all with the Bishop of Canterbury back to his hermitage. Then Sir Constantine of Cornwall was chosen King of England, a full noble knight that honourably ruled this realm. And this King Constantine sent for the Bishop of Canterbury, for he heard say where he was, and so was he restored unto his bishopric, and left that hermitage. Sir Bedivere was there ever still hermit to his life's end, but the French book maketh mention that Sir Bors and three of the knights that were with him at the hermitage went into the Holy Land, and there did many battles upon the miscreant Turks, and there they died upon a Good Friday, for God's sake. Here is the end of the book of King Arthur and his noble knights of the Round Table, that when they were whole together were ever an hundred and forty. And here is the end of the Death of Arthur. I pray you all gentlemen and gentlewomen that read this book of Arthur and his knights from the beginning to the ending, pray for me while I am alive that God send me good deliverance, and when I am dead, I pray you all pray for my soul; for this book was ended the ninth year of the reign of King Edward the Fourth by Sir Thomas Maleore, knight, as Jesu help him for his great might, as he is the servant of Jesu both day and night. _Thus endeth thys noble and joyous book entytled Le Morte Darthur. Notwithstanding, it treateth of the byrth, lyf and actes of the sayd Kynge Arthur, of his noble knyghtes of the Round Table, theyr mervayllous enquestes and adventures, the achyevying of the Holy Grail, and in the end the dolourous deth and departyng out of thys world of them al. Whiche book was reduced in to englysshe by Syr Thomas Malory knyght as afore is sayd, and by me enprynted and fynyshed in the abbey Westminster the last day of July, the yere of our Lord MCCCCLXXXV._ _Caxton me fieri fecit._ 
33702	----	[Illustration: The Lady Elaine the Fair.] [Illustration] The Story of Sir LAUNCELOT and his Companions _by_ HOWARD PYLE. NEW YORK: Dover Publications, Inc. Published in Canada by General Publishing Company, Ltd., 30 Lesmill Road, Don Mills, Toronto, Ontario. Published in the United Kingdom by Constable and Company, Ltd., 3 The Lanchesters, 162-164 Fulham Palace Road, London W6 9ER. This Dover edition, first published in 1991, is an unabridged republication of the work originally published by Charles Scribner's Sons, New York, in 1907. Manufactured in the United States of America. Dover Publications, Inc., 31 East 2nd Street, Mineola, N. Y. 11501 _Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data_ Pyle, Howard, 1853-1911. The story of Sir Launcelot and his companions / by Howard Pyle. p. cm. Reprint. Originally published: New York: Scribner, 1907. Summary: Follows Sir Launcelot of the Round Table as he rescues Queen Guinevere, fights in the tournament at Astolat, and pursues other adventures. ISBN 0-486-26701-6 1. Lancelot (Legendary character)--Romances. 2. Arthurian romances. [1. Lancelot (Legendary character) 2. Knights and knighthood--Folklore. 3. Arthur, King. 4. Folklore--England.] 1. Title. PZ8.1.P994Sr 1991 843'.1--dc20 [398.2] 90-22326 CIP AC [Illustration] =Foreword.= _With this begins the third of those books which I have set myself to write concerning the history of King Arthur of Britain and of those puissant knights who were of his Court and of his Round Table. In the Book which was written before this book you may there read the Story of that very noble and worthy knight, Sir Launcelot of the Lake; of how he dwelt within a magic lake which was the enchanted habitation of the Lady Nymue of the Lake; of how he was there trained in all the most excellent arts of chivalry by Sir Pellias, the Gentle Knight--whilom a companion of the Round Table, but afterward the Lord of the Lake; of how he came forth out of the Lake and became after that the chiefest knight of the Round Table of King Arthur. All of this was told in that book and many other things concerning Sir Launcelot and several other worthies who were Companions of the Round Table and who were very noble and excellent knights both in battle and in court. So here followeth a further history of Sir Launcelot of the Lake and the narrative of several of the notable adventures that he performed at this time of his life. Wherefore if it will please you to read that which is hereinafter set forth, you will be told of how Sir Launcelot slew the great Worm of Corbin; of the madness that afterward fell upon him, and of how a most noble, gentle, and beautiful lady, hight the Lady Elaine the Fair, lent him aid and succor at a time of utmost affliction to him, and so brought him back to health again. And you may herein further find it told how Sir Launcelot was afterward wedded to that fair and gentle dame, and of how was born of that couple a child of whom it was prophesied by Merlin (in a certain miraculous manner fully set forth in this book) that he should become the most perfect knight that ever lived and he who should bring back the Holy Grail to the Earth. For that child was Galahad whom the world knoweth to be the flower of all chivalry; a knight altogether without fear or reproach of any kind, yet, withal, the most glorious and puissant knight-champion who ever lived. So if the perusal of these things may give you pleasure, I pray you to read that which followeth, for in this book all these and several other histories are set forth in full._ [Illustration] [Illustration] =Contents= PART I THE CHEVALIER OF THE CART Chapter First _How Denneys Found Sir Launcelot, and How Sir Launcelot Rode Forth for to Rescue Queen Guinevere From the Castle of Sir Mellegrans, and of What Befell Him Upon the Assaying of that Adventure_ 11 Chapter Second _How Sir Launcelot Rode in a Cart to Rescue Queen Guinevere and How He Came in that Way to the Castle of Sir Mellegrans_ 19 Chapter Third _How Sir Launcelot was Rescued From the Pit and How He Overcame Sir Mellegrans and Set Free the Queen and Her Court From the Duress They Were in_ 29 PART II THE STORY OF SIR GARETH OF ORKNEY Chapter First _How Gareth of Orkney Came to the Castle of Kynkennedon Where King Arthur was Holding Court, and How it Fared With Him at that Place_ 39 Chapter Second _How Gareth set Forth Upon an Adventure with a Young Damsel Hight Lynette; how he Fought with Sir Kay, and How Sir Launcelot Made him a Knight. Also in this it is Told of Several Other Happenings that Befell Gareth, Called Beaumains, at this Time_ 49 Chapter Third _How Sir Gareth and Lynette Travelled Farther Upon Their way; how Sir Gareth Won the Pass of the River against Two Strong Knights, and How he Overcame the Black Knight of the Black Lands. Also How He Saved a Good Worthy Knight From Six Thieves who Held Him in Duress_ 63 Chapter Fourth _How Sir Gareth Met Sir Percevant of Hind, and How He Came to Castle Dangerous and Had Speech with the Lady Layonnesse. Also How the Lady Layonnesse Accepted Him for Her Champion_ 77 Chapter Fifth _How Sir Gareth Fought with the Red Knight of the Red Lands and How it Fared with Him in that Battle. Also How His Dwarf was Stolen, and How His Name and Estate Became Known and Were Made Manifest_ 91 PART III THE STORY OF SIR LAUNCELOT AND ELAINE THE FAIR Chapter First _How Sir Launcelot Rode Errant and How He Assumed to Undertake the Adventure of the Worm of Corbin_ 107 Chapter Second _How Sir Launcelot Slew the Worm of Corbin, and How He was Carried Thereafter to the Castle of Corbin and to King Pelles and to the Lady Elaine the Fair_ 117 Chapter Third _How King Arthur Proclaimed a Tournament at Astolat, and How King Pelles of Corbin Went With His Court Thither to that Place. Also How Sir Launcelot and Sir Lavaine had Encounter with two Knights in the Highway Thitherward_ 125 Chapter Fourth _How Sir Launcelot and Sir Lavaine Fought in the Tournament at Astolat. How Sir Launcelot was Wounded in that Affair, and How Sir Lavaine Brought Him Unto a Place of Safety_ 137 Chapter Fifth _How Sir Launcelot Escaped Wounded into the Forest, and How Sir Gawaine Discovered to the Court of King Pelles who was le Chevalier Malfait_ 147 Chapter Sixth _How the Lady Elaine Went to Seek Sir Launcelot and How Sir Launcelot Afterwards Returned to the Court of King Arthur_ 159 PART IV THE MADNESS OF SIR LAUNCELOT Chapter First _How Sir Launcelot Became a Madman of the Forest and How He Was Brought to the Castle of Sir Blyant_ 171 Chapter Second _How Sir Launcelot Saved the Life of Sir Blyant. How He Escaped From the Castle of Sir Blyant, and How He Slew the Great Wild Boar of Lystenesse and Saved the Life of King Arthur, His Liege Lord_ 181 Chapter Third _How Sir Launcelot Returned to Corbin Again and How the Lady Elaine the Fair Cherished Him and Brought Him Back to Health. Also How Sir Launcelot with the Lady Elaine Withdrew to Joyous Isle_ 191 PART V THE STORY OF SIR EWAINE AND THE LADY OF THE FOUNTAIN Chapter First _How Sir Ewaine and Sir Percival Departed Together in Quest of Sir Launcelot, and How They Met Sir Sagramore, Who Had Failed in a Certain Adventure. Also How Sir Sagramore Told His Story Concerning That Adventure_ 201 Chapter Second _How Sir Ewaine Undertook That Adventure in Which Sir Sagramore Had Failed, and How it Sped with Him Thereafter_ 213 Chapter Third _How a Damsel, Hight Elose, Who Was in Service With the Lady Lesolie of the Fountain, Brought Succor to Sir Ewaine in His Captivity_ 223 Chapter Fourth _How Sir Ewaine Returned to the Court of King Arthur, and How he Forgot the Lady Lesolie and His Duty to the Fountain_ 237 Chapter Fifth _How Sir Ewaine was Succored and Brought Back to Life by a Certain Noble Lady, How He Brought Aid to that Lady in a Time of Great Trouble, and How He Returned Once Again to the Lady Lesolie of the Fountain_ 249 PART VI THE RETURN OF SIR LAUNCELOT Chapter First _How Sir Percival Met His Brother, and How They Two Journeyed to the Priory where their Mother Dwelt and What Befell Them Thereafter_ 263 Chapter Second _How Sir Percival and Sir Ector de Maris Came to a Very Wonderful Place Where was a Castle in the Midst of a Lake_ 279 Chapter Third _How Sir Launcelot and Sir Percival and Sir Ector and the Lady Elaine Progressed to the Court of King Arthur, and How a Very Good Adventure Befell Them Upon Their Way_ 293 PART VII THE NATIVITY OF GALAHAD Chapter First _How Sir Bors de Ganis and Sir Gawaine Went Forth in Search of Sir Launcelot. How They Parted Company, and What Befell Sir Gawaine Thereafter_ 311 Chapter Second _How Sir Bors and Sir Gawaine Came to a Priory in the Forest, and How Galahad Was Born at That Place_ 325 [Illustration] [Illustration] LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS _The Lady Elaine the Fair_ _Frontispiece_ _PAGE_ _Head Piece--Table of Contents_ v _Tail Piece--Table of Contents_ x _Head Piece--List of Illustrations_ xi _Tail Piece--List of Illustrations_ xii _Sir Mellegrans interrupts the sport of the Queen_ 2 _Head Piece--Prologue_ 3 _Tail Piece--Prologue_ 8 _Denneys and the Hermit help Sir Launcelot to his Armor_ 10 _Head Piece_ 11 _How Sir Launcelot rode errant in a cart_ 18 _The Damsel Elouise the Fair rescues Sir Launcelot_ 28 _Sir Gareth of Orkney_ 38 _Head Piece_ 39 _The Damsel Lynette_ 48 _Sir Gareth doeth Battle with the Knight of the River Ford_ 62 _The Lady Layonnesse_ 76 _The Lady Layonnesse cometh to the Pavilion of Sir Gareth_ 90 _Tail Piece_ 104 _How Sir Launcelot held discourse with ye Merry Minstrels_ 106 _Head Piece_ 107 _Sir Launcelot slayeth the Worm of Corbin_ 116 _Sir Launcelot confideth his Shield to Elaine the Fair_ 124 _Sir Launcelot and Sir Lavaine overlook the Field of Astolat_ 136 _Sir Gawaine knoweth the shield of Sir Launcelot_ 146 _Sir Launcelot leapeth from the window_ 158 _Tail Piece_ 168 _The Madman of the Forest who was Sir Launcelot_ 170 _Head Piece_ 171 _The Forest Madman saveth ye Life of King Arthur_ 180 _Tail Piece_ 188 _The Lady Elaine the Fair knoweth Sir Launcelot_ 190 _Sir Gawaine, Knight of the Fountain_ 200 _Head Piece_ 201 _Sir Ewaine poureth water on the slab_ 212 _The Damsel Elose giveth a ring to Sir Ewaine_ 222 _The Lady of the Fountain_ 236 _A Damsel bringeth aid unto Sir Ewaine_ 248 _Sir Lamorack and Sir Percival receive their Mother's Blessing_262 _Head Piece_ 263 _Sir Percival and Sir Ector look upon the Isle of Joy_ 278 _Sir Lavaine the Son of Pelles_ 292 _Merlin Prophesieth from a Cloud of Mist_ 310 _Head Piece_ 311 _Tail Piece_ 322 _Sir Bors de Ganis, the good_ 324 _The Barge of the Dead_ 334 [Illustration] _The Story of_ Sir LAUNCELOT and his _Companions_ [Illustration: Sir Mellegrans interrupts the sport of the Queen.] [Illustration] Prologue. It befel upon a very joyous season in the month of May that Queen Guinevere was of a mind to take gentle sport as folk do at that time of the year; wherefore on a day she ordained it in a court of pleasure that on the next morning certain knights and ladies of the court at Camelot should ride with her a-maying into the woods and fields, there to disport themselves amid the flowers and blossoms that grew in great multitudes beside the river. [Sidenote: _How the Lady Guinevere rode a-maying._] Of this May-party it stands recorded several times in the various histories of chivalry that the knights she chose were ten in all and that they were all Knights of the Round Table, to wit, as followeth: there was Sir Kay the Seneschal, and Sir Agravaine, and Sir Brandiles, and Sir Sagramour the Desirous, and Sir Dodinas, and Sir Osanna, and Sir Ladynas of the Forest Sauvage, and Sir Persavant of India, and Sir Ironside and Sir Percydes, who was cousin to Sir Percival of Gales. These were the ten (so sayeth those histories aforesaid) whom the Lady Guinevere called upon for to ride a-maying with her all bright and early upon the morning of the day as aforesaid. And the Queen further ordained that each of these knights should choose him a lady for the day. And she ordained that each lady should ride behind the knight upon the horse which he rode. And she ordained that all those knights and ladies and all such attendants as might be of that party should be clad entirely in green, as was fitting for that pleasant festival. Such were the commands that the Queen ordained, and when those who were chosen were acquainted with their good fortune they took great joy therein; for all they wist there would be great sport at that maying-party. So when the next morning was come they all rode forth in the freshness of dewy springtide; what time the birds were singing so joyously, so joyously, from every hedge and coppice; what time the soft wind was blowing great white clouds, slow sailing across the canopy of heaven, each cloud casting a soft and darkling shadow that moved across the hills and uplands as it swam the light blue heaven above; what time all the trees and hedgerows were abloom with fragrant and dewy blossoms, and fields and meadow-lands, all shining bright with dew, were spread over with a wonderful carpet of pretty flowers, gladdening the eye with their charm and making fragrant the breeze that blew across the smooth and grassy plain. For in those days the world was young and gay (as it is nowadays with little children who are abroad when the sun shines bright and things are a-growing) and the people who dwelt therein had not yet grown aweary of its freshness of delight. Wherefore that fair Queen and her court took great pleasure in all the merry world that lay spread about them, as they rode two by two, each knight with his lady, gathering the blossoms of the May, chattering the while like merry birds and now and then bursting into song because of the pure pleasure of living. [Sidenote: _They feast very joyously._] So they disported themselves among the blossoms for all that morning, and when noontide had come they took their rest at a fair spot in a flowery meadow that lay spread out beside the smooth-flowing river about three miles from the town. For from where they sat they might look down across the glassy stream and behold the distant roofs and spires of Camelot, trembling in the thin warm air, very bright and clear, against the blue and radiant sky beyond. And after they were all thus seated in the grass, sundry attendants came and spread out a fair white table-cloth and laid upon the cloth a goodly feast for their refreshment--cold pasties of venison, roasted fowls, manchets of white bread, and flagons of golden wine and ruby wine. And all they took great pleasure when they gazed upon that feast, for they were anhungered with their sporting. So they ate and drank and made them merry; and whilst they ate certain minstrels sang songs, and certain others recited goodly contes and tales for their entertainment. And meanwhile each fair lady wove wreaths of herbs and flowers and therewith bedecked her knight, until all those noble gentlemen were entirely bedight with blossoms--whereat was much merriment and pleasant jesting. Thus it was that Queen Guinevere went a-maying, and so have I told you all about it so that you might know how it was. [Sidenote: _A knight cometh forth from the forest._] Now whilst the Queen and her party were thus sporting together like to children in the grass, there suddenly came the sound of a bugle-horn winded in the woodlands that there were not a very great distance away from where they sat, and whilst they looked with some surprise to see who blew that horn in the forest, there suddenly appeared at the edge of the woodland an armed knight clad cap-a-pie. And the bright sunlight smote down upon that armed knight so that he shone with wonderful brightness at the edge of the shadows of the trees. And after that knight there presently followed an array of men-at-arms--fourscore and more in all--and these also were clad at all points in armor as though prepared for battle. This knight and those who were with him stopped for a little while at the edge of the wood and stood regarding that May-party from a distance; then after a little they rode forward across the meadow to where the Queen and her court sat looking at them. Now at first Queen Guinevere and those that were with her wist not who that knight could be, but when he and his armed men had come nigh enough, they were aware that he was a knight hight Sir Mellegrans, who was the son of King Bagdemagus, and they wist that his visit was not likely to bode any very great good to them. For Sir Mellegrans was not like his father, who (as hath been already told of both in the Book of King Arthur and in The Story of the Champions of the Round Table) was a good and worthy king, and a friend of King Arthur's. For, contrariwise, Sir Mellegrans was malcontented and held bitter enmity toward King Arthur, and that for this reason: A part of the estate of Sir Mellegrans marched upon the borders of Wales, and there had at one time arisen great contention between Sir Mellegrans and the King of North Wales concerning a certain strip of forest land, as to the ownership thereof. This contention had been submitted to King Arthur and he had decided against Sir Mellegrans and in favor of the King of North Wales; wherefore from that time Sir Mellegrans had great hatred toward King Arthur and sware that some time he would be revenged upon him if the opportunity should offer. Wherefore it was that when the Lady Guinevere beheld that it was Sir Mellegrans who appeared before her thus armed in full, she was ill at ease, and wist that that visit maybe boded no good to herself and to her gentle May-court. [Sidenote: _Sir Mellegrans affronts the May-party._] So Sir Mellegrans and his armed party rode up pretty close to where the Queen and her party sat in the grass. And when he had come very near he drew rein to his horse and sat regarding that gay company both bitterly and scornfully (albeit at the moment he knew not the Queen who she was). Then after a little he said: "What party of jesters are ye, and what is this foolish sport ye are at?" Then Sir Kay the Seneschal spake up very sternly and said: "Sir Knight, it behooves you to be more civil in your address. Do you not perceive that this is the Queen and her court before whom you stand and unto whom you are speaking?" Then Sir Mellegrans knew the Queen and was filled with great triumph to find her thus, surrounded only with a court of knights altogether unarmed. Wherefore he cried out in a great voice: "Hah! lady, now I do know thee! Is it thus that I find thee and thy court? Now it appears to me that Heaven hath surely delivered you into my hands!" To this Sir Percydes replied, speaking very fiercely: "What mean you, Sir Knight, by those words? Do you dare to make threats to your Queen?" Quoth Sir Mellegrans: "I make no threats, but I tell you this, I do not mean to throw aside the good fortune that hath thus been placed in my hands. For here I find you all undefended and in my power, wherefore I forthwith seize upon you for to take you to my castle and hold you there as hostages until such time as King Arthur shall make right the great wrong which he hath done me aforetime and shall return to me those forest lands which he hath taken from me to give unto another. So if you go with me in peace, it shall be well for you, but if you go not in peace it shall be ill for you." Then all the ladies that were of the Queen's court were seized with great terror, for Sir Mellegrans's tones and the aspect of his face were very fierce and baleful; but Queen Guinevere, albeit her face was like to wax for whiteness, spake with a great deal of courage and much anger, saying: "Wilt thou be a traitor to thy King, Sir Knight? Wilt thou dare to do violence to me and my court within the very sight of the roofs of King Arthur's town?" "Lady," said Sir Mellegrans, "thou hast said what I will to do." At this Sir Percydes drew his sword and said: "Sir Knight, this shall not be! Thou shalt not have thy will in this while I have any life in my body!" Then all those other gentlemen drew their swords also, and one and all spake to the same purpose, saying: "Sir Percydes hath spoken; sooner would we die than suffer that affront to the Queen." "Well," said Sir Mellegrans, speaking very bitterly, "if ye will it that ye who are naked shall do battle with us who are armed, then let it be even as ye elect. So keep this lady from me if ye are able, for I will herewith seize upon you all, maugre anything that you may do to stay me." Then those ten unarmed knights of the Queen and their attendants made them ready for battle. And when Sir Mellegrans beheld what was their will, he gave command that his men should make them ready for battle upon their part, and they did so. Then in a moment all that pleasant May-party was changed to dreadful and bloody uproar; for men lashed fiercely at men with sword and glaive, and the Queen and her ladies shrieked and clung in terror together in the midst of that party of knights who were fighting for them. [Sidenote: _Of the battle with the party of Sir Mellegrans._] And for a long time those ten unarmed worthies fought against the armed men as one to ten, and for a long time no one could tell how that battle would end. For the ten men smote the others down from their horses upon all sides, wherefore, for a while, it looked as though the victory should be with them. But they could not shield themselves from the blows of their enemies, being unarmed, wherefore they were soon wounded in many places, and what with loss of blood and what with stress of fighting a few against many without any rest, they presently began to wax weak and faint. Then at last Sir Kay fell down to the earth and then Sir Sagramour and then Sir Agravaine and Sir Dodinas and then Sir Ladynas and Sir Osanna and Sir Persavant, so that all who were left standing upon their feet were Sir Brandiles and Sir Ironside and Sir Percydes. But still these three set themselves back to back and thus fought on in that woful battle. And still they lashed about them so fiercely with their swords that the terror of this battle filled their enemies with fear, insomuch that those who were near them fell back after a while to escape the dreadful strokes they gave. So came a pause in the battle and all stood at rest. Meantime all around on the ground were men groaning dolorously, for in that battle those ten unarmed knights of the Round Table had smitten down thirty of their enemies. So for a while those three stood back to back resting from their battle and panting for breath. As for their gay attire of green, lo! it was all ensanguined with the red that streamed from many sore and grimly wounds. And as for those gay blossoms that had bedecked them, lo! they were all gone, and instead there hung about them the dread and terror of a deadly battle. Then when Queen Guinevere beheld her knights how they stood bleeding from many wounds and panting for breath, her heart was filled with pity, and she cried out in a great shrill voice: "Sir Mellegrans, have pity! Slay not my noble knights! but spare them and I will go with thee as thou wouldst have me do. Only this covenant I make with thee: suffer these lords and ladies of my court and all of those attendant upon us, to go with me into captivity." Then Sir Mellegrans said: "Well, lady, it shall be as you wish, for these men of yours fight not like men but like devils, wherefore I am glad to end this battle for the sake of all. So bid your knights put away their swords, and I will do likewise with my men, and so there shall be peace between us." [Sidenote: _The Queen putteth an end to the battle._] Then, in obedience to the request of Sir Mellegrans, the Lady Guinevere gave command that those three knights should put away their swords, and though they all three besought her that she should suffer them to fight still a little longer for her, she would not; so they were obliged to sheath their swords as she ordered. After that these three knights went to their fallen companions, and found that they were all alive, though sorely hurt. And they searched their wounds as they lay upon the ground, and they dressed them in such ways as might be. After that they helped lift the wounded knights up to their horses, supporting them there in such wise that they should not fall because of faintness from their wounds. So they all departed, a doleful company, from that place, which was now no longer a meadow of pleasure, but a field of bloody battle and of death. * * * * * Thus beginneth this history. And now you shall hear that part of this story which is called in many books of chivalry, "The Story of the Knight of the Cart." For the further history hath now to do with Sir Launcelot of the Lake, and of how he came to achieve the rescue of Queen Guinevere, brought thither in a cart. [Illustration] PART I The Chevalier of the Cart _Here followeth the story of Sir Launcelot of the Lake, how he went forth to rescue Queen Guinevere from that peril in which she lay at the castle of Sir Mellegrans. Likewise it is told how he met with a very untoward adventure, so that he was obliged to ride to his undertaking in a cart as aforesaid._ [Illustration: Denneys and the Hermit help Sir Launcelot to his armor.] [Illustration] Chapter First _How Denneys Found Sir Launcelot, and How Sir Launcelot Rode Forth for to Rescue Queen Guinevere from the Castle of Sir Mellegrans, and of What Befell him upon the Assaying of that Adventure._ Now after that sad and sorrowful company of the Queen had thus been led away captive by Sir Mellegrans as aforetold of, they rode forward upon their way for all that day. And they continued to ride after the night had fallen, and at that time they were passing through a deep dark forest. From this forest, about midnight, they came out into an open stony place whence before them they beheld where was built high up upon a steep hill a grim and forbidding castle, standing very dark against the star-lit sky. And behind the castle there was a town with a number of lights and a bell was tolling for midnight in the town. And this town and castle were the town and the castle of Sir Mellegrans. [Sidenote: _How Denneys escaped._] Now the Queen had riding near to her throughout that doleful journey a young page named Denneys, and as they had ridden upon their way, she had taken occasion at one place to whisper to him: "Denneys, if thou canst find a chance of escape, do so, and take news of our plight to some one who may rescue us." So it befel that just as they came out thus into that stony place, and in the confusion that arose when they reached the steep road that led up to the castle, Denneys drew rein a little to one side. Then, seeing that he was unobserved, he suddenly set spurs to his horse and rode away with might and main down the stony path and into the forest whence they had all come, and so was gone before anybody had gathered thought to stay him. Then Sir Mellegrans was very angry, and he rode up to the Queen and he said: "Lady, thou hast sought to betray me! But it matters not, for thy page shall not escape from these parts with his life, for I shall send a party after him with command to slay him with arrows." So Sir Mellegrans did as he said; he sent several parties of armed men to hunt the forest for the page Denneys; but Denneys escaped them all and got safe away into the cover of the night. And after that he wandered through the dark and gloomy woodland, not knowing whither he went, for there was no ray of light. Moreover, the gloom was full of strange terrors, for on every side of him he heard the movement of night creatures stirring in the darkness, and he wist not whether they were great or little or whether they were of a sort to harm him or not to harm him. [Sidenote: _How Denneys rideth through the forest._] Yet ever he went onward until, at last, the dawn of the day came shining very faint and dim through the tops of the trees. And then, by and by, and after a little, he began to see the things about him, very faint, as though they were ghosts growing out of the darkness. Then the small fowl awoke, and first one began to chirp and then another, until a multitude of the little feathered creatures fell to singing upon all sides so that the silence of the forest was filled full of their multitudinous chanting. And all the while the light grew stronger and stronger and more clear and sharp until, by and by, the great and splendid sun leaped up into the sky and shot his shafts of gold aslant through the trembling leaves of the trees; and so all the joyous world was awake once more to the fresh and dewy miracle of a new-born day. So cometh the breaking of the day in the woodlands as I have told you, and all this Denneys saw, albeit he thought but little of what he beheld. For all he cared for at that time was to escape out of the thick mazes of the forest in which he knew himself to be entangled. Moreover, he was faint with weariness and hunger, and wist not where he might break his fast or where he could find a place to tarry and to repose himself for a little. But God had care of little Denneys and found him food, for by and by he came to an open space in the forest, where there was a neatherd's hut, and that was a very pleasant place. For here a brook as clear as crystal came brawling out of the forest and ran smoothly across an open lawn of bright green grass; and there was a hedgerow and several apple-trees, and both the hedge and the apple-trees were abloom with fragrant blossoms. And the thatched hut of the neatherd stood back under two great oak-trees at the edge of the forest, where the sunlight played in spots of gold all over the face of the dwelling. [Sidenote: _How Denneys findeth food._] So the Queen's page beheld the hut and he rode forward with intent to beg for bread, and at his coming there appeared a comely woman of the forest at the door and asked him what he would have. To her Denneys told how he was lost in the forest and how he was anhungered. And whilst he talked there came a slim brown girl, also of the woodland, and very wild, and she stood behind the woman and listened to what he said. This woman and this girl pitied Denneys, and the woman gave command that the girl should give him a draught of fresh milk, and the maiden did so, bringing it to him in a great wooden bowl. Meanwhile, the woman herself fetched sweet brown bread spread with butter as yellow as gold, and Denneys took it and gave them both thanks beyond measure. So he ate and drank with great appetite, the whiles those two outland folk stood gazing at him, wondering at his fair young face and his yellow hair. After that, Denneys journeyed on for the entire day, until the light began to wane once more. The sun set; the day faded into the silence of the gloaming and then the gloaming darkened, deeper and more deep, until Denneys was engulfed once more in the blackness of the night-time. Then lo! God succored him again, for as the darkness fell, he heard the sound of a little bell ringing through the gathering night. Thitherward he turned his horse whence he heard the sound to come, and so in a little he perceived a light shining from afar, and when he had come nigh enough to that light he was aware that he had come to the chapel of a hermit of the forest and that the light that he beheld came from within the hermit's dwelling-place. As Denneys drew nigh to the chapel and the hut a great horse neighed from a cabin close by, and therewith he was aware that some other wayfarer was there, and that he should have comradeship--and at that his heart was elated with gladness. [Sidenote: _Denneys cometh to the chapel of the hermit._] So he rode up to the door of the hut and knocked, and in answer to his knocking there came one and opened to him, and that one was a most reverend hermit with a long beard as white as snow and a face very calm and gentle and covered all over with a great multitude of wrinkles. (And this was the hermit of the forest several times spoken of aforetime in these histories.) When the hermit beheld before him that young lad, all haggard and worn and faint and sick with weariness and travel and hunger, he took great pity and ran to him and catched him in his arms and lifted him down from his horse and bare him into the hermitage, and sat him down upon a bench that was there. Denneys said: "Give me to eat and to drink, for I am faint to death." And the hermit said, "You shall have food upon the moment," and he went to fetch it. Then Denneys gazed about him with heavy eyes, and was aware that there was another in the hut besides himself. And then he heard a voice speak his name with great wonderment, saying: "Denneys, is it then thou who hast come here at this time? What ails thee? Lo! I knew thee not when I first beheld thee enter." Then Denneys lifted up his eyes, and he beheld that it was Sir Launcelot of the Lake who spoke to him thus in the hut of the hermit. [Sidenote: _Denneys findeth Sir Launcelot._] At that, and seeing who it was who spake to him, Denneys leaped up and ran to Sir Launcelot and fell down upon his knees before him. And he embraced Sir Launcelot about the knees, weeping beyond measure because of the many troubles through which he had passed. Sir Launcelot said: "Denneys, what is it ails thee? Where is the Queen, and how came you here at this place and at this hour? Why look you so distraught, and why are you so stained with blood?" Then Denneys, still weeping, told Sir Launcelot all that had befallen, and how that the Lady Guinevere was prisoner in the castle of Sir Mellegrans somewhere in the midst of that forest. [Sidenote: _Sir Launcelot rides forth to save the Queen._] But when Sir Launcelot heard what Denneys said, he arose very hastily and he cried out, "How is this! How is this!" and he cried out again very vehemently: "Help me to mine armor and let me go hence!" (for Sir Launcelot had laid aside his armor whilst he rested in the hut of the hermit). At that moment the hermit came in, bringing food for Denneys to eat, and hearing what Sir Launcelot said, he would have persuaded him to abide there until the morrow and until he could see his way. But Sir Launcelot would listen to nothing that might stay him. So Denneys and the hermit helped him don his armor, and after that Sir Launcelot mounted his war-horse and rode away into the blackness of the night. * * * * * So Sir Launcelot rode as best he might through the darkness of the forest, and he rode all night, and shortly after the dawning of the day he heard the sound of rushing water. So he followed a path that led to this water and by and by he came to an open space very stony and rough. And he saw that here was a great torrent of water that came roaring down from the hills very violent and turbid and covered all over with foam like to cream. And he beheld that there was a bridge of stone that spanned the torrent and that upon the farther side of the bridge was a considerable body of men-at-arms all in full armor. And he beheld that there were at least five-and-twenty of these men, and that chief among them was a man clad in green armor. Then Sir Launcelot rode out upon the bridge and he called to those armed men: "Can you tell me whether this way leads to the castle of Sir Mellegrans?" They say to him: "Who are you, Sir Knight?" "I am one," quoth Sir Launcelot, "who seeks the castle of Sir Mellegrans. For that knight hath violently seized upon the person of the Lady Guinevere and of certain of her court, and he now holds her and them captive and in duress. I am one who hath come to rescue that lady and her court from their distress and anxiety." Upon this the Green Knight, who was the chief of that party, came a little nearer to Sir Launcelot, and said: "Messire, are you Sir Launcelot of the Lake?" Sir Launcelot said: "Yea, I am he." "Then," said the Green Knight, "you can go no farther upon this pass, for you are to know that we are the people of Sir Mellegrans, and that we are here to stay you or any of your fellows from going forward upon this way." Then Sir Launcelot laughed, and he said: "Messire, how will you stay me against my will?" The Green Knight said: "We will stay you by force of our numbers." "Well," quoth Sir Launcelot, "for the matter of that, I have made my way against greater odds than those I now see before me. So your peril will be of your own devising, if you seek to stay me." [Sidenote: _How Sir Launcelot assailed his enemies._ ] Therewith he cast aside his spear and drew his sword, and set spurs to his horse and rode forward against them. And he rode straight in amongst them with great violence, lashing right and left with his sword, so that at every stroke a man fell down from out of his saddle. So fierce and direful were the blows that Sir Launcelot delivered that the terror of his rage fell upon them, wherefore, after a while, they fell away from before him, and left him standing alone in the centre of the way. [Sidenote: _Sir Launcelot, his horse is slain._] Now there were a number of the archers of Sir Mellegrans lying hidden in the rocks at the sides of that pass. These, seeing how that battle was going and that Sir Launcelot had driven back their companions, straightway fitted arrows to their bows and began shooting at the horse of Sir Launcelot. Against these archers Sir Launcelot could in no wise defend his horse, wherefore the steed was presently sorely wounded and began plunging and snorting in pain so that Sir Launcelot could hardly hold him in check. And still the archers shot arrow after arrow until by and by the life began to go out of the horse. Then after a while the good steed fell down upon his knees and rolled over into the dust; for he was so sorely wounded that he could no longer stand. But Sir Launcelot did not fall, but voided his saddle with great skill and address, so that he kept his feet, wherefore his enemies were not able to take him at such disadvantage as they would have over a fallen knight who lay upon the ground. So Sir Launcelot stood there in the midst of the way at the end of the bridge, and he waved his sword this way and that way before him so that not one of those, his enemies, dared to come nigh to him. For the terror of him still lay upon them all and they dreaded those buffets he had given them in the battle they had just fought with him. Wherefore they stood at a considerable distance regarding Sir Launcelot and not daring to come nigh to him; and they stood so for a long time. And although the Green Knight commanded them to fight, they would not fight any more against Sir Launcelot, so the Green Knight had to give orders for them to cease that battle and to depart from that place. This they did, leaving Sir Launcelot standing where he was. Thus Sir Launcelot with his single arm won a battle against all that multitude of enemies as I have told. But though Sir Launcelot had thus won that pass with great credit and honor to himself, fighting as a single man against so many, yet he was still in a very sorry plight. For there he stood, a full-armed man with such a great weight of armor upon him that he could hardly hope to walk a league, far less to reach the castle of Sir Mellegrans afoot. Nor knew he what to do in this extremity, for where could he hope to find a horse in that thick forest, where was hardly a man or a beast of any sort? Wherefore, although he had won his battle, he was yet in no ease or satisfaction of spirit. * * * * * Thus it was that Sir Launcelot went upon that adventure; and now you shall hear how it sped with him further, if so be you are pleased to read that which followeth. [Illustration] [Illustration: How Sir Launcelot rode errant in a cart.] [Illustration] Chapter Second _How Sir Launcelot rode in a cart to rescue Queen Guinevere and how he came in that way to the castle of Sir Mellegrans._ Now after Sir Launcelot was thus left by his enemies standing alone in the road as aforetold of, he knew not for a while what to do, nor how he should be able to get him away from that place. As he stood there adoubt as to what to do in this sorry case, he by and by heard upon one side from out of the forest the sound of an axe at a distance away, and thereat he was very glad, for he wist that help was nigh. So he took up his shield on his shoulder and his spear in his hand and thereupon directed his steps toward where he heard that sound of the axe, in hopes that there he might find some one who could aid in his extremity. So after a while, he came forth into a little open glade of the forest where he beheld a fagotmaker chopping fagots. And he beheld the fagotmaker had there a cart and a horse for to fetch his fagots from the forest. But when the fagotmaker saw an armed knight come thus like a shining vision out of the forest, walking afoot, bearing his shield upon his shoulder, and his spear in his hand, he knew not what to think of such a sight, but stood staring with his mouth agape for wonders. Sir Launcelot said to him, "Good fellow, is that thy cart?" The fagotmaker said, "Yea, Messire." "I would," quoth Sir Launcelot, "have thee do me a service with that cart," and the fagotmaker asked, "What is the service that thou wouldst have of me, Messire?" Sir Launcelot said: "This is the service I would have: it is that you take me into yonder cart and hale me to somewhere I may get a horse for to ride; for mine own horse hath just now been slain in battle, and I know not how I may go forward upon the adventure I have undertaken unless I get me another horse." Now you must know that in those days it was not thought worthy of any one of degree to ride in a cart in that wise as Sir Launcelot said, for they would take law-breakers to the gallows in just such carts as that one in which Sir Launcelot made demand to ride. Wherefore it was that that poor fagotmaker knew not what to think when he heard Sir Launcelot give command that he should be taken to ride in that cart. "Messire," quoth he, "this cart is no fit thing for one of your quality to ride in. Now I beseech you let me serve you in some other way than that." But Sir Launcelot made reply as follows: "Sirrah, I would have thee know that there is no shame in riding in a cart for a worthy purpose, but there is great shame if one rides therein unworthily. And contrariwise, a man doth not gain credit merely for riding on horseback, for his credit appertains to his conduct, and not to what manner he rideth. So as my purpose is worthy, I shall, certes, be unworthy if I go not to fulfil that purpose, even if in so going I travel in thy poor cart. So do as I bid thee and make thy cart ready, and if thou wilt bring me in it to where I may get a fresh horse, I will give thee five pieces of gold money for thy service." Now when the fagotmaker heard what Sir Launcelot said about the five pieces of gold money, he was very joyful, wherefore he ran to make ready his cart with all speed. And when the cart was made ready, Sir Launcelot entered into it with his shield and his spear. [Sidenote: _Sir Launcelot rideth in a cart._] So it was that Sir Launcelot of the Lake came to ride errant in a cart, wherefore, for a long time after, he was called the Chevalier of the Cart. And many ballads and songs were made concerning that matter, which same were sung in several courts of chivalry by minstrels and jongleurs, and these same stories and ballads have come down from afar to us of this very day. Meantime Sir Launcelot rode forward at a slow pass and in that way for a great distance. So, at last, still riding in the cart, they came of a sudden out of the forest and into a little fertile valley in the midst of which lay a small town and a fair castle with seven towers that overlooked the town. And this was a very fair pretty valley, for on all sides of the town and of the castle were fields of growing corn, all green and lush, and there were many hedgerows and orchards of fruit-trees all abloom with fragrant blossoms. And the sound of cocks crowing came to Sir Launcelot upon a soft breeze that blew up the valley, and on the same breeze came the fragrance of apple blossoms, wherefore it seemed to Sir Launcelot that this valley was like a fair jewel of heaven set in the rough perlieus of the forest that lay round about. So the fagotmaker drove Sir Launcelot in the cart down into that valley toward the castle, and as they drew near thereunto Sir Launcelot was aware of a party of lords and ladies who were disporting themselves in a smooth meadow of green grass that lay spread out beneath the castle walls. And some of these lords and ladies tossed a ball from one to another, and others lay in the grass in the shade of a lime-tree and watched those that played at ball. Then Sir Launcelot was glad to see those gentle folk, for he thought that here he might get him a fresh horse to take him upon his way. So he gave command to the fagotmaker to drive to where those people were. But as Sir Launcelot, riding in the fagotmaker's cart, drew near to those castle-folk, they ceased their play and stood and looked at him with great astonishment, for they had never beheld an armed knight riding in a cart in that wise. Then, in a little, they all fell to laughing beyond measure, and at that Sir Launcelot was greatly abashed with shame. Then the lord of that castle came forward to meet Sir Launcelot. He was a man of great dignity of demeanor--gray-haired, and clad in velvet trimmed with fur. When he came nigh to where Sir Launcelot was, he said, speaking as with great indignation: "Sir knight, why do you ride in this wise in a cart, like to a law-breaker going to the gallows?" "Sir," quoth Sir Launcelot, "I ride thus because my horse was slain by treachery. For I have an adventure which I have undertaken to perform, and I have no other way to go forward upon that quest than this." [Sidenote: _The lord of a castle chideth Sir Launcelot._] Then all those who heard what Sir Launcelot said laughed again with great mirth. Only the old lord of the castle did not laugh, but said, still speaking as with indignation: "Sir Knight, it is altogether unworthy of one of your degree to ride thus in a cart to be made a mock of. Wherefore come down, and if you prove yourself worthy I myself will purvey you a horse." But by this time Sir Launcelot had become greatly affronted at the laughter of those who jeered at him, and he was furthermore affronted that the lord of the castle should deem him to be unworthy because he came thither in a cart; wherefore he said: "Sir, without boasting, methinks I may say that I am altogether as worthy as any one hereabouts. Nor do I think that any one of you all has done more worthily in his degree than I have done in my degree. As for any lack of worship that may befall me for riding thus, I may say that the adventure which I have undertaken just now to perform is in itself so worthy that it will make worthy any man who may undertake it, no matter how he may ride to that adventure. Now I had thought to ask of you a fresh horse, but since your people mock at me and since you rebuke me so discourteously, I will ask you for nothing. Wherefore, to show you that knightly worthiness does not depend upon the way a knight may ride, I herewith make my vow that I will not mount upon horseback until my quest is achieved; nor will I ride to that adventure in any other way than in this poor cart wherein I now stand." So Sir Launcelot rode away in his cart from those castle-folk. And he rode thus down into the valley and through the town that was in the valley in the fagotmaker's cart, and all who beheld him laughed at him and mocked him. For, as he passed along the way, many came and looked down upon him from out of the windows of the houses; and others ran along beside the cart and all laughed and jeered at him to see him thus riding in a cart as though to a hanging. But all this Sir Launcelot bore with great calmness of demeanor, both because of his pride and because of the vow that he had made. Wherefore he continued to ride in that cart although he might easily have got him a fresh horse from the lord of the castle. * * * * * Now turn we to the castle of Sir Mellegrans, where Queen Guinevere and her court were held prisoners. First of all you are to know that that part of the castle wherein she and her court were held overlooked the road which led up to the gate of the castle. Wherefore it came about that one of the damsels of the Queen, looking out of the window of the chamber wherein the Queen was held prisoner, beheld a knight armed at all points, coming riding thitherward in a cart. Beholding this sight, she fell to laughing, whereat the Queen said, "What is it you laugh at?" That damsel cried out: "Lady, Lady, look, see! What a strange sight! Yonder is a knight riding in a cart as though he were upon his way to a hanging!" [Sidenote: _The Queen beholds Sir Launcelot riding in a cart._] Then Queen Guinevere came to the window and looked out, and several came and looked out also. At first none of them wist who it was that rode in that cart. But when the cart had come a little nearer to where they were, the Queen knew who he was, for she beheld the device upon the shield, even from afar, and she knew that the knight was Sir Launcelot. Then the Queen turned to the damsel and said to her: "You laugh without knowing what it is you laugh at. Yonder gentleman is no subject for a jest, for he is without any doubt the worthiest knight of any who ever wore golden spurs." [Sidenote: _Sir Percydes is offended with Sir Launcelot._] Now amongst those who stood there looking out of the window were Sir Percydes and Sir Brandiles and Sir Ironside, and in a little Sir Percydes also saw the device of Sir Launcelot and therewith knew who it was who rode in the cart. But when Sir Percydes knew that that knight was Sir Launcelot, he was greatly offended that he, who was the chiefest knight of the Round Table, should ride in a cart in that wise. So Sir Percydes said to the Queen: "Lady, I believe yonder knight is none other than Sir Launcelot of the Lake." And Queen Guinevere said, "It is assuredly he." Sir Percydes said: "Then I take it to be a great shame that the chiefest knight of the Round Table should ride so in a cart as though he were a felon law-breaker. For the world will assuredly hear of this and it will be made a jest in every court of chivalry. And all we who are his companions in arms and who are his brethren of the Round Table will be made a jest and a laughing-stock along with him." Thus spake Sir Percydes, and the other knights who were there and all the ladies who were there agreed with him that it was great shame for Sir Launcelot to come thus to save the Queen, riding in a cart. But the Queen said: "Messires and ladies, I take no care for the manner in which Sir Launcelot cometh, for I believe he cometh for to rescue us from this captivity, and if so be he is successful in that undertaking, then it will not matter how he cometh to perform so worthy a deed of knighthood as that." Thus all they were put to silence by the Queen's words; but nevertheless and afterward those knights who were there still held amongst themselves that it was great shame for Sir Launcelot to come thus in a cart to rescue the Queen, instead of first getting for himself a horse whereon to ride as became a knight-errant of worthiness and respect. * * * * * Now you are to know that the Green Knight, who was the head of that party that tried to stand against Sir Launcelot at the bridge as aforesaid, when he beheld that the horse of Sir Launcelot was shot, rode away from the place of battle with his men, and that he never stopped nor stayed until he had reached the castle of Sir Mellegrans. There coming, he went straightway to where Sir Mellegrans was and told Sir Mellegrans all that had befallen, and how that Sir Launcelot had overcome them all with his single hand at the bridge of the torrent. And he told Sir Mellegrans that haply Sir Launcelot would be coming to that place before a very great while had passed, although he had been delayed because his horse had been slain. [Sidenote: _Sir Mellegrans feareth Sir Launcelot._] At that Sir Mellegrans was put to great anxiety, for he also knew that Sir Launcelot would be likely to be at that place before a very great while, and he wist that there would be great trouble for him when that should come to pass. So he began to cast about very busily in his mind for some scheme whereby he might destroy Sir Launcelot. And at last he hit upon a scheme; and that scheme was unworthy of him both as a knight and as a gentleman. So when news was brought to Sir Mellegrans that Sir Launcelot was there in front of the castle in a cart, Sir Mellegrans went down to the barbican of the castle and looked out of a window of the barbican and beheld Sir Launcelot where he stood in the cart before the gate of the castle. And Sir Mellegrans said, "Sir Launcelot, is it thou who art there in the cart?" Sir Launcelot replied: "Yea, thou traitor knight, it is I, and I come to tell thee thou shalt not escape my vengeance either now or at some other time unless thou set free the Queen and all her court and make due reparation to her and to them and to me for all the harm you have wrought upon us." [Sidenote: _Sir Mellegrans speaketh to Sir Launcelot._] To this Sir Mellegrans spake in a very soft and humble tone of voice, saying: "Messire, I have taken much thought, and I now much repent me of all that I have done. For though my provocation hath been great, yet I have done extremely ill in all this that hath happened, so I am of a mind to make reparation for what I have done. Yet I know not how to make such reparation without bringing ruin upon myself. If thou wilt intercede with me before the Queen in this matter, I will let thee into this castle and I myself will take thee to her where she is. And after I have been forgiven what I have done, then ye shall all go free, and I will undertake to deliver myself unto the mercy of King Arthur and will render all duty unto him." At this repentance of Sir Mellegrans Sir Launcelot was very greatly astonished. But yet he was much adoubt as to the true faith of that knight; wherefore he said: "Sir Knight, how may I know that that which thou art telling me is the truth?" "Well," said Sir Mellegrans, "it is small wonder, I dare say, that thou hast doubt of my word. But I will prove my faith to thee in this: I will come to thee unarmed as I am at this present, and I will admit thee into my castle, and I will lead thee to the Queen. And as thou art armed and I am unarmed, thou mayest easily slay me if so be thou seest that I make any sign of betraying thee." But still Sir Launcelot was greatly adoubt, and wist not what to think of that which Sir Mellegrans said. But after a while, and after he had considered the matter for a space, he said: "If all this that thou tellest me is true, Sir Knight, then come down and let me into this castle as thou hast promised to do, for I will venture that much upon thy faith. But if I see that thou hast a mind to deal falsely by me, then I will indeed slay thee as thou hast given me leave to do." And Sir Mellegrans said, "I am content." [Sidenote: _Sir Mellegrans kneels to Sir Launcelot._] So Sir Mellegrans went down from where he was and he gave command that the gates of the castle should be opened. And when the gates were opened he went forth to where Sir Launcelot was. And Sir Launcelot descended from the fagotmaker's cart, and Sir Mellegrans kneeled down before him, and he set his palms together and he said, "Sir Launcelot, I crave thy pardon for what I have done." Sir Launcelot said: "Sir Knight, if indeed thou meanest no further treachery, thou hast my pardon and I will also intercede with the Queen to pardon thee as well. So take me straightway to her, for until I behold her with mine own eyes I cannot believe altogether in thy repentance." Then Sir Mellegrans arose and said, "Come, and I will take thee to her." So Sir Mellegrans led the way into the castle and Sir Launcelot followed after him with his naked sword in his hand. And Sir Mellegrans led the way deep into the castle and along several passageways and still Sir Launcelot followed after him with his drawn sword, ready for to slay him if he should show sign of treason. [Sidenote: _Sir Launcelot falleth into the pit._] Now there was in a certain part of that castle and in the midst of a long passageway a trap-door that opened through the floor of the passageway and so into a deep and gloomy pit beneath. And this trap-door was controlled by a cunning latch of which Sir Mellegrans alone knew the secret; for when Sir Mellegrans would touch the latch with his finger, the trap-door would immediately fall open into the pit beneath. So thitherward to that place Sir Mellegrans led the way and Sir Launcelot followed. And Sir Mellegrans passed over that trap-door in safety, but when Sir Launcelot had stepped upon the trap-door, Sir Mellegrans touched the spring that controlled the latch with his finger, and the trap-door immediately opened beneath Sir Launcelot and Sir Launcelot fell down into the pit beneath. And the pit was very deep indeed and the floor thereof was of stone, so that when Sir Launcelot fell he smote the stone floor so violently that he was altogether bereft of his senses and lay there in the pit like to one who was dead. Then Sir Mellegrans came back to the open space of the trap-door and he looked down into the pit beneath and beheld Sir Launcelot where he lay. Thereupon Sir Mellegrans laughed and he cried out, "Sir Launcelot, what cheer have you now?" But Sir Launcelot answered not. Then Sir Mellegrans laughed again, and he closed the trap-door and went away, and he said to himself: "Now indeed have I such hostages in my keeping that King Arthur must needs set right this wrong he hath aforetime done me. For I now have in my keeping not only his Queen, but also the foremost knight of his Round Table; wherefore King Arthur must needs come to me to make such terms with me as I shall determine." * * * * * As for Queen Guinevere, she waited with her court for a long time for news of Sir Launcelot, for she wist that now Sir Launcelot was there at that place she must needs have news of him sooner or later. But no news came to her; wherefore, as time passed by, she took great trouble because she had no news, and she said: "Alas, if ill should have befallen that good worthy knight at the hands of the treacherous lord of this castle!" But she knew not how great at that very time was the ill into which Sir Launcelot had fallen, nor of how he was even then lying like as one dead in the pit beneath the floor of the passageway. [Illustration] [Illustration: The Damsel Elouise the Fair rescues Sir Launcelot] [Illustration] Chapter Third _How Sir Launcelot was rescued from the pit and how he overcame Sir Mellegrans and set free the Queen and her court from the duress they were in._ Now when Sir Launcelot awoke from that swoon into which he was cast by falling so violently into the pit, he found himself to be in a very sad, miserable case. For he lay there upon the hard stones of the floor and all about him there was a darkness so great that there was not a single ray of light that penetrated into it. [Sidenote: _Sir Launcelot lyeth in the pit._] So for a while Sir Launcelot knew not where he was; but by and by he remembered that he was in the castle of Sir Mellegrans, and he remembered all that had befallen him, and therewith, when he knew himself to be a prisoner in so miserable a condition, he groaned with dolor and distress, for he was at that time in great pain both of mind and body. Then he cried out in a very mournful voice: "Woe is me that I should have placed any faith in a traitor such as this knight hath from the very beginning shown himself to be! For here am I now cast into this dismal prison, and know not how I shall escape from it to bring succor to those who so greatly need my aid at this moment." So Sir Launcelot bemoaned and lamented himself, but no one heard him, for he was there all alone in that miserable dungeon and in a darkness into which no ray of light could penetrate. Then Sir Launcelot bent his mind to think of how he might escape from that place, but though he thought much, yet he could not devise any way in which he might mend the evil case in which he found himself; wherefore he was altogether overwhelmed with despair. And by that time it had grown to be about the dead of the night. Now as Sir Launcelot lay there in such despair of spirit as aforetold of, he was suddenly aware that there came a gleam of light shining in a certain place, and he was aware the light grew ever brighter and brighter and he beheld that it came through the cracks of a door. And by and by he heard the sound of keys from without and immediately afterward the door opened and there entered into that place a damsel bearing a lighted lamp in her hand. [Sidenote: _The Lady Elouise findeth Sir Launcelot._] At first Sir Launcelot knew not who she was, and then he knew her and lo! that damsel was the Lady Elouise the Fair, the daughter of King Bagdemagus and sister unto Sir Mellegrans; and she was the same who had aforetime rescued him when he had been prisoner to Queen Morgana le Fay, as hath been told you in a former book of this history. So Elouise the Fair came into that dismal place, bringing with her the lighted lamp, and Sir Launcelot beheld that her eyes were red with weeping. Then Sir Launcelot, beholding that she had been thus weeping, said: "Lady, what is it that ails you? Is there aught that I can do for to comfort you?" To this she said naught, but came to where Sir Launcelot was and looked at him for a long while. By and by she said: "Woe is me to find thee thus, Sir Launcelot! And woe is me that it should have been mine own brother that should have brought thee to this pass!" Sir Launcelot was much moved to see her so mournful and he said: "Lady, take comfort to thyself, for whatever evil thing Sir Mellegrans may have done to me, naught of reproach or blame can fall thereby upon thee, for I shall never cease to remember how thou didst one time save me from a very grievous captivity." The Lady Elouise said: "Launcelot, I cannot bear to see so noble a knight as thou art lying thus in duress. So it is that I come hither to aid thee. Now if I set thee free wilt thou upon thy part show mercy unto my brother for my sake?" "Lady," said Sir Launcelot, "this is a hard case thou puttest to me, for I would do much for thy sake. But I would have thee wist that it is my endeavor to help in my small way to punish evil-doers so that the world may be made better by that punishment. Wherefore because this knight hath dealt so treacherously with my lady the Queen, so it must needs be that I must seek to punish him if ever I can escape from this place. But if it so befalls that I do escape, this much mercy will I show to Sir Mellegrans for thy sake: I will meet him in fair field, as one knight may meet another knight in that wise. And I will show him such courtesy as one knight may show another in time of battle. Such mercy will I show thy brother and meseems that is all that may rightly be asked of me." Then Elouise the Fair began weeping afresh, and she said: "Alas, Launcelot! I fear me that my brother will perish at thy hands if so be that it cometh to a battle betwixt you twain. And how could I bear it to have my brother perish in that way and at thy hands?" "Lady," said Sir Launcelot, "the fate of battle lyeth ever in God His hands and not in the hands of men. It may befall any man to die who doeth battle, and such a fate may be mine as well as thy brother's. So do thou take courage, for whilst I may not pledge myself to avoid an ordeal of battle with Sir Mellegrans, yet it may be his good hap that he may live and that I may die." "Alas, Launcelot," quoth the Fair Elouise, "and dost thou think that it would be any comfort to me to have thee die at the hands of mine own brother? That is but poor comfort to me who am the sister of this miserable man. Yet let it be as it may hap, I cannot find it in my heart to let thee lie here in this place, for thou wilt assuredly die in this dark and miserable dungeon if I do not aid thee. So once more will I set thee free as I did aforetime when thou wast captive to Queen Morgana le Fay, and I will do my duty by thee as the daughter of a king and the daughter of a true knight may do. As to that which shall afterward befall, that will I trust to the mercy of God to see that it shall all happen as He shall deem best." [Sidenote: _The Lady Elouise bringeth Sir Launcelot out of a pit._] So saying, the damsel Elouise the Fair bade Sir Launcelot to arise and to follow her, and he did so. And she led him out from that place and up a long flight of steps and so to a fair large chamber that was high up in a tower of the castle and under the eaves of the roof. And Sir Launcelot beheld that everything was here prepared for his coming; for there was a table at that place set with bread and meat and with several flagons of wine for his refreshment. And there was in that place a silver ewer full of cold, clear water, and that there was a basin of silver, and that there were several napkins of fine linen such as are prepared for knights to dry their hands upon. All these had been prepared for him against his coming, and at that sight he was greatly uplifted with satisfaction. So Sir Launcelot bathed his face and his hands in the water and he dried them upon the napkins. And he sat him down at the table and he ate and drank with great appetite and the Lady Elouise the Fair served him. And so Sir Launcelot was greatly comforted in body and in spirit by that refreshment which she had prepared for him. Then after Sir Launcelot had thus satisfied the needs of his hunger, the Lady Elouise led him to another room and there showed him where was a soft couch spread with flame-colored linen and she said, "Here shalt thou rest at ease to-night, and in the morning I shall bring thy sword and thy shield to thee." Therewith she left Sir Launcelot to his repose and he laid him down upon the couch and slept with great content. So he slept very soundly all that night and until the next morning, what time, the Lady Elouise came to him as she promised and fetched unto him his sword and his shield. These she gave unto him, saying: "Sir Knight, I know not whether I be doing evil or good in the sight of Heaven in thus purveying thee with thy weapons; ne'theless, I cannot find it in my heart to leave thee unprotected in this place without the wherewithal for to defend thyself against thine enemies; for that would be indeed to compass thy death for certain." [Sidenote: _Sir Launcelot hath his weapons again._] Then Sir Launcelot was altogether filled with joy to have his weapons again, and he gave thanks to the Lady Elouise without measure. And after that he hung his sword at his side and set his shield upon his shoulder and thereupon felt fear of no man in all of that world, whomsoever that one might be. After that, and after he had broken his fast, Sir Launcelot went forth from out of the chamber where he had abided that night, and he went down into the castle and into the courtyard of the castle, and every one was greatly astonished at his coming, for they deemed him to be still a prisoner in that dungeon into which he had fallen. [Sidenote: _Sir Launcelot challenges the castle._] So all these, when they beheld him coming, full armed and with his sword in his hand, fled away from before the face of Sir Launcelot, and no one undertook to stay him in his going. So Sir Launcelot reached the courtyard of the castle, and when he was come there he set his horn to his lips, and blew a blast that sounded terribly loud and shrill throughout the entire place. Meantime, there was great hurrying hither and thither in the castle and a loud outcry of many voices, and many came to the windows and looked down into the courtyard and there beheld Sir Launcelot standing clad in full armor, glistening very bright in the morning light of the sun. Meantime several messengers had run to where Sir Mellegrans was and told him that Sir Launcelot had escaped out of that pit wherein he had fallen and that he was there in the courtyard of the castle in full armor. At that Sir Mellegrans was overwhelmed with amazement, and a great fear seized upon him and gripped at his vitals. And after a while he too went by, to a certain place whence he could look down into the courtyard, and there he also beheld Sir Launcelot where he stood shining in the sunlight. Now at that moment Sir Launcelot lifted up his eyes and espied Sir Mellegrans where he was at the window of that place, and immediately he knew Sir Mellegrans. Thereupon he cried out in a loud voice: "Sir Mellegrans, thou traitor knight! Come down and do battle, for here I await thee to come and meet me." But when Sir Mellegrans heard those words he withdrew very hastily from the window where he was, and he went away in great terror to a certain room where he might be alone. For beholding Sir Launcelot thus free of that dungeon from which he had escaped he knew not what to do to flee from his wrath. Wherefore he said to himself: "Fool that I was, to bring this knight into my castle, when I might have kept him outside as long as I chose to do so! What now shall I do to escape from his vengeance?" [Sidenote: _Sir Mellegrans taketh counsel._] So after a while Sir Mellegrans sent for several of his knights and he took counsel of them as to what he should do in this pass. These say to him: "Messire, you yourself to fulfil your schemes have brought yonder knight into this place, when God knows he could not have come in of his own free will. So now that he is here, it behooves you to go and arm yourself at all points and to go down to the courtyard, there to meet him and to do battle with him. For only by overcoming him can you hope to escape his vengeance." But Sir Mellegrans feared Sir Launcelot with all his heart, wherefore he said: "Nay, I will not go down to yonder knight. For wit ye he is the greatest knight alive, and if I go to do battle with him, it will be of a surety that I go to my death. Wherefore, I will not go." Then Sir Mellegrans called a messenger to him and he said: "Go down to yonder knight in the courtyard and tell him that I will not do battle with him." So the messenger went to Sir Launcelot and delivered that message to him. But when Sir Launcelot heard what it was that the messenger said to him from Sir Mellegrans, he laughed with great scorn. Then he said to the messenger, "Doth the knight of this castle fear to meet me?" The messenger said, "Yea, Messire." Sir Launcelot said: "Then take thou this message to him: that I will lay aside my shield and my helm and that I will unarm all the left side of my body, and thus, half naked, will I fight him if only he will come down and do battle with me." So saying, the messenger departed as Sir Launcelot bade, and came to Sir Mellegrans and delivered that message to him as Sir Launcelot had said. [Sidenote: _Sir Launcelot offers to fight Sir Mellegrans in half-armor._] Then Sir Mellegrans said to those who were with him: "Now I will go down and do battle with this knight, for never will I have a better chance of overcoming him than this." Therewith he turned to that messenger, and he said: "Go! Hasten back to yonder knight, and tell him that I will do battle with him upon those conditions he offers, to wit: that he shall unarm his left side, and that he shall lay aside his shield and his helm. And tell him that by the time he hath made him ready in that wise, I will be down to give him what satisfaction I am able." So the messenger departed upon that command, and Sir Mellegrans departed to arm himself for battle. Then, after the messenger had delivered the message that Sir Mellegrans had given him, Sir Launcelot laid aside his shield and his helm as he had agreed to do, and he removed his armor from his left side so that he was altogether unarmed upon that side. After a while Sir Mellegrans appeared, clad all in armor from top to toe, and baring himself with great confidence, for he felt well assured of victory in that encounter. Thus he came very proudly nigh to where Sir Launcelot was, and he said: "Here am I, Sir Knight, come to do you service since you will have it so." Sir Launcelot said: "I am ready to meet thee thus or in any other way, so that I may come at thee at all." After that each knight dressed himself for combat, and all those who were in the castle gathered at the windows and the galleries above, and looked down upon the two knights. Then they two came slowly together, and when they were pretty nigh to one another Sir Launcelot offered his left side so as to allow Sir Mellegrans to strike at him. And when Sir Mellegrans perceived this chance, he straightway lashed a great blow at Sir Launcelot's unarmed side with all his might and main, and with full intent to put an end to the battle with that one blow. But Sir Launcelot was well prepared for that stroke, wherefore he very dexterously and quickly turned himself to one side so that he received the blow upon the side which was armed, and at the same time he put aside a part of the blow with his sword. So that blow came to naught. [Sidenote: _Sir Launcelot slayeth Sir Mellegrans._] But so violent was the stroke that Sir Mellegrans had lashed that he overreached himself, and ere he could recover himself, Sir Launcelot lashed at him a great buffet that struck him fairly upon the helm. And then again he lashed at him ere he fell and both this stroke of the sword and the other cut deep through the helm and into the brain pan of Sir Mellegrans, so that he fell down upon the ground and lay there without motion of any sort. Then Sir Launcelot stood over him, and called to those who were near to come and look to their lord, and thereat there came several running. These lifted Sir Mellegrans up and removed his helmet so as to give him air to breathe. And they looked upon his face, and lo! even then the spirit was passing from him, for he never opened his eyes to look upon the splendor of the sun again. Then when those of the castle saw how it was with Sir Mellegrans and that even then he was dead, they lifted up their voices with great lamentation so that the entire castle rang presently with their outcries and wailings. But Sir Launcelot cried out: "This knight hath brought this upon himself because of the treason he hath done; wherefore the blame is his own." And then he said: "Where is the porter of this castle? Go, fetch him hither!" So in a little while the porter came, and Sir Launcelot made demand of him: "Where is it that the Queen and her court are held prisoners? Bring me to them, Sirrah?" Then the porter of the castle bowed down before Sir Launcelot and he said, "Messire, I will do whatever you command me to do," for he was overwhelmed with the terror of Sir Launcelot's wrath as he had displayed it that day. And the porter said, "Messire, have mercy on us all and I will take you to the Queen." [Sidenote: _Sir Launcelot rescueth the Queen._] So the porter brought Sir Launcelot to where the Queen was, and where were those others with her. Then all these gave great joy and loud acclaim that Sir Launcelot had rescued them out of their captivity. And Queen Guinevere said: "What said I to you awhile since? Did I not say that it mattered not how Sir Launcelot came hither even if it were in a cart? For lo! though he came thus humbly and in lowly wise, yet he hath done marvellous deeds of knightly prowess, and hath liberated us all from our captivity." After that Sir Launcelot commanded them that they should make ready such horses as might be needed. And he commanded that they should fetch litters for those knights of the Queen's court who had been wounded, and all that was done as he commanded. After that they all departed from that place and turned their way toward Camelot and the court of the King. But Sir Launcelot did not again see that damsel Elouise the Fair, for she kept herself close shut in her own bower and would see naught of any one because of the grief and the shame of all that had passed. At that Sir Launcelot took much sorrow, for he was greatly grieved that he should have brought any trouble upon one who had been so friendly with him as she had been. Yet he wist not how he could otherwise have done than as he did do, and he could think of naught to comfort her. * * * * * So ends this adventure of the Knight of the Cart with only this to say: that after that time there was much offence taken that Sir Launcelot had gone upon that adventure riding in a cart. For many jests were made of it as I have said, and many of the King's court were greatly grieved that so unworthy a thing should have happened. [Sidenote: _His kinsmen chide Sir Launcelot._] More especially were the kinsmen of Sir Launcelot offended at what he had done. Wherefore Sir Lionel and Sir Ector came to Sir Launcelot and Sir Ector said to him: "That was a very ill thing you did to ride to that adventure in a cart. Now prythee tell us why you did such a thing as that when you might easily have got a fresh horse for to ride upon if you had chosen to do so." To this Sir Launcelot made reply with much heat: "I know not why you should take it upon you to meddle in this affair. For that which I did, I did of mine own free will, and it matters not to any other man. Moreover, I deem that it matters not how I went upon that quest so that I achieved my purpose in a knightly fashion. For I have yet to hear any one say that I behaved in any way such as a true knight should not behave." "For the matter of that," said Sir Ector, "thy knighthood is sufficiently attested, not only in this, but in many other affairs. But that which shames us who are of thy blood, and they who are thy companions at arms, is that thou shouldst have achieved thy quest in so unknightly a fashion instead of with that dignity befitting a very worthy undertaking. For dost thou not know that thou art now called everywhere 'The Chevalier of the Cart' and that songs are made of this adventure and that jests are made concerning it?" [Sidenote: _Sir Launcelot covereth his shield._] Then Sir Launcelot was filled with great anger, and he went to his inn and took his shield and laced a sheet of leather over the face thereof. Thereafter he painted the leather covering of the shield a pure white so that it might not be known what was the device thereon, nor who was the knight who bare that shield. Then after he had done this he armed himself and took horse and rode forth errant and alone, betaking his way he knew not whither but suffering his horse to wander upon whatsoever path it choose. Thus Sir Launcelot departed in anger from the court of King Arthur, and after that, excepting one time, he was not seen in the court of the King again for the space of two years, during which time there was much sorrow at the court, because he was no longer there. PART II The Story of Sir Gareth of Orkney _And now followeth the history of Sir Gareth of Orkney, who came unknown to the court of his uncle, King Arthur; who was there treated with great indignity by Sir Kay the Seneschal; who was befriended by his brother, Sir Gawaine, and who afterward went errant with a damsel hight Lynette, meeting whilst with her several bel-adventures which shall hereinafter be duly told of. So if you would know how it fared with that young knight, you must cease to consider the further adventures of Sir Launcelot at this place, and must now read of those other adventures of this youth, who was the youngest son of King Lot and Queen Margaise of Orkney. But after they are ended, then shall the further history of the adventures of Sir Launcelot be considered once more._ [Illustration: Sir Gareth of Orkney] [Illustration] Chapter First _How Sir Gareth of Orkney came to the Castle of Kynkennedon where King Arthur was holding court, and how it fared with him at that place._ [Sidenote: _Of Gareth of Orkney._] The youngest son of King Lot of Orkney and of his Queen, who was the Lady Margaise, sister of King Arthur, was a youth hight Gareth of Orkney. This young, noble, high-born prince was the most beautiful of all his royal race, for not only was he exceedingly tall and stalwart of frame--standing a full head bigger than the biggest of any at his father's court--and not only was he the strongest and the most agile and the most skilful at all knightly sports, and not only was he gentle in speech and exceedingly courteous in demeanor to all with whom he held discourse, but he was so beautiful of countenance that I do not believe that an angel of Paradise could be more fair to look upon than he. For his hair was bright and ruddy, shining like to pure gold, his cheeks were red and they and his chin were covered over with a soft and budding bloom of beard like to a dust of gold upon his face; his eyes were blue and shining and his neck and throat were round and white like to a pillar of alabaster. [Sidenote: _How they of the court praise Gareth._] Now King Lot and Queen Margaise loved Gareth above any of their other children, and so it befell that all those who dwelt at the King's court took every occasion to praise young Gareth, both to his face and before the faces of the King and Queen, his father and mother. For these would sometimes say: "Lo! this youth sendeth forth such a glory of royal beauty and grace and dignity from him that even were he clad in fustian instead of cloth of gold yet would all the world know him to be of royal strain as plainly as though he were clothed in royal attire fitting for such a princely youth to wear. For, behold! the splendor of his royalty lieth in his spirit and not in his raiment, and so it is that it shineth forth from his countenance." [Sidenote: _Queen Margaise bespeaketh Gareth._] Now it came to pass that when Gareth was twenty years of age, his mother, Queen Margaise, called him to her in her bower where she was with her maidens, and she bade him to sit down beside her and he did as she commanded, taking his place upon a couch spread with purple cloth embroidered with silver lions whereon the Queen was sitting at that time. Then Queen Margaise gazed long upon her beautiful son, and her heart yearned over him with pride and glory because of his strength and grace. And by and by she said: "My son, now that thou hast reached to the fulness of thy stature and girth and art come to the threshold of thy manhood, it is time for thee to win for thyself the glory of knighthood such as shall become thee, earning it by such deeds as shall be worthy of the royal race from which thou hast sprung. Accordingly, I would now have it that thou shouldst go to the court of my brother, King Arthur, and that thou shouldst there take thy stand with that noble and worthy companionship of the Champions of the Round Table, of whom thy brothers shine forth like bright planets in the midst of a galaxy of stars. So I would have it that thou shouldst go to the court of the great King, my brother, a week from to-day, and to that end I would have it that thou shouldst go in charge of three of the noblest lords of this court and in such a state of pomp and circumstance as may befit one who is, as thou art, the son of a royal father and mother and the nephew of that great King who is the overlord of this entire realm." [Sidenote: _Gareth departeth for the court of King Arthur._] Thus spake Queen Margaise, and in accordance with that saying Gareth set forth a sennight from that time for the court of King Arthur. With him there rode three very noble haughty lords of the court as the Queen had ordained, and with these went esquires and attendants to the number of threescore ten and four. In the midst of that company young Gareth rode upon a cream white horse, and all the harness and furnishings of the horse upon which he rode were of gold, and the saddle upon which he sat was stamped with gold and riveted with rivets of gold, and Gareth himself was clad all in cloth of gold, so, what with all of these and his fair beautiful face in the bright sunlight (the day being wonderfully clear and fair) the royal youth appeared to shine with such a glistering splendor that it was as though a star of remarkable glory had fallen from the heavens and had found lodgment in his person upon the earth. So it was that the young Gareth rode forth upon his way to the court of his uncle, the King. That evening, he and his company rested for the night in a glade of the forest and there the attendants set up a pavilion of purple silk for him. Around about this pavilion were other pavilions for those three lords who accompanied him as his companions in the journey and for their esquires and attendants. Now that night Gareth lodged alone in his pavilion saving only that his dwarf, Axatalese, lay within the tent nigh to the door thereof. And it came to pass that Gareth could not sleep that night but lay awake, looking into the darkness and thinking of many things. And he said to himself: "Why is it that I should go thus in state to the court of the King and in that wise to win his especial favor? Lo! It were better that I should go as any other youth of birth and breeding rather than in this royal estate. For, if I am worthy, as men say of me, then my worth shall be made manifest by my deeds and not because of the state in which I travel." Thus Gareth communed within himself and he said: "I will go to the court of mine uncle the King as a simple traveller and not as a prince travelling in state." So somewhat before the dawning of the day, he arose very softly and went to where the dwarf lay, and he touched Axatalese upon the shoulder, and he said, "Axatalese, awake." Thereupon the dwarf awoke and sat up and looked about him in the darkness of the dawning, bewildered by the sleep that still beclouded his brain. Then Gareth said, still speaking in a whisper: "Listen to what I say, but make no noise lest you arouse those who lay around about us." And Axatalese said, "Lord, I listen, and I will be silent." Then Gareth said: "Axatalese, arise and fetch me hither some garments of plain green cloth, and aid me to clothe myself in those garments. Then thou and I will go forward alone and without attendants to King Arthur's court. For so I would come before the King in that guise and not travelling in the estate of a prince who may claim his favor because of the chance of birth. For I would have it that whatsoever good fortune I win, that fortune should come to me by mine own endeavor, and not because of the accident of birth." Then Axatalese was greatly troubled, and he said: "Lord, think well of what you do, for, lo! your mother, the Queen, hath provided this escort for you; wherefore, haply, she will be very angry if you should do as you say, and should depart from those whom she appointed to accompany you." "No matter," quoth Gareth; "let that be as it may, but do you as I tell you and go you straightway, very quietly, and carry out my commands. And see to it that no one shall be disturbed in your going or coming, for it is my purpose that we two shall go privily away from this place and that no one shall be aware of our going." [Sidenote: _Gareth escapeth from his companions._] So spake Gareth, and Axatalese was aware that his command must be obeyed. So the dwarf went very quietly to do Gareth's bidding, and anon he returned with the clothes of a certain one of the attendants, and the clothes were of plain green cloth, and Gareth clad himself in that simple raiment. Then he and the dwarf went forth from the pavilion and they went to where the horses were, and they chose two of the horses and saddled them and bridled them with saddles and harness and trappings of plain leather, such as the least of the attendants might use--and in all of that time no one of those in attendance upon Gareth was aware of what he had done. Then Gareth and the dwarf rode away from that place and still all the others slept, and they slept for a long while after. And be it here said that when those three lords who were in charge of Gareth awoke and found that he and Axatalese were gone, they were filled with terror and dismay, for they wist not why he was gone nor whither, and they dreaded the anger of the Queen, Gareth's mother. Then the chief of those lords said: "Lo! here are we betrayed by this young prince and his dwarf. For he hath left us and taken himself away, we know not whither, and so we dare not return to the court of Orkney again. For should we return without him they will assuredly punish us for suffering him to depart, and that punishment may come even to the taking of our lives." Then another of those lords said: "Messire, those words are very true, so let us not return unto the court of Orkney, but let us escape unto some other part of the realm where the wrath of the King and Queen may not reach us." So it was as that lord said, for straightway they departed from that place and went to a part of the realm where neither the King and Queen of Orkney nor King Arthur might hear of them, and there they abode for that time and for some time afterward. [Sidenote: _How King Arthur sat at feast._] Now at this time King Arthur was celebrating the Feast of Pentecost at the Castle of Kynkennedon. With him sat all the great lords of his court and all the Knights-companion of the Round Table who were not upon adventure in some other part of the realm. As they so sat at high feast, filling the hall with a great sound of merriment and good cheer, commingled with the chanting of minstrels and the music of harps and viols, there came one to where the King sat, and he said to him: "Lord, there is a fellow without who demandeth to have speech with you, face to face. Nor know we what to do in this case, for he will not be gainsaid, but ever maketh that demand aforesaid." Then King Arthur said: "Hah! say you so? Now what manner of man is he? Is he a king or a duke or a high prince that he maketh such a demand as that?" "Lord," said the messenger, "he is none of these, but only a youth of twenty years, tall and very large of frame and beautiful of face, and very proud and haughty in bearing. And he is clad like to a yeoman in cloth of plain green, wherefore we know not what to think of that demand he maketh to have speech with you." King Arthur said, "What attendants hath he with him?" And the messenger said, "He hath no attendants of any kind, saving only a dwarf who followeth after him." Quoth the King: "Well, at this Feast of Pentecost far be it from me to deny any man speech with me. So fetch this one hither that we may see what manner of man he is." [Sidenote: _Gareth cometh before the King._] Therewith in obedience to the King's command, that attendant went forth and anon he returned, bringing Gareth and the dwarf Axatalese with him. And Gareth walked very proudly and haughtily up the hall and all who looked upon him marvelled at his height and his girth and at the beauty of his countenance. And many said: "Certes, that is a very noble-appearing man to be clad in such plain raiment of green, for, from his manner and his bearing, he would otherwise appear to be some nobleman's son, or some one of other high degree." So Gareth walked up the length of the hall with all gazing upon him, and so he came and stood before the King and looked the King in the face, regarding him very steadfastly and without any fear or awe--and few there were who could so regard King Arthur. Now Sir Kay the Seneschal stood behind the King's seat and when he beheld how young Gareth fronted the King, look for look, he was very wroth at the demeanor of that youth who stood thus before that royal majesty. So he spoke aloud before all those who sat there in hall, saying, to Gareth: "Sirrah, who are you who darest thus to stand with such assurance in the presence of the Great King? Wit you it is not for such as you to stand before such majesty, and have speech with it. Rather you should veil your face and hang your head in that awful presence." Then Gareth looked at Sir Kay very calmly and he said, "Who are you who speak such words to me?" and all were amazed at the haughtiness of his tones and voice. And King Arthur was also much astonished that a youth, clad thus like a yeoman, should thus speak to a great lord of the court such as Sir Kay. Wherefore the King wist not what to think of such a bearing. Then anon he said: "Fair youth, whence come you and who are you who speaketh thus so boldly to a great lord of our court and before our very face?" And Gareth said: "Lord, I am one who hath come hither from a great distance to crave two boons of you." Quoth the King: "At this time, and at this Feast of Pentecost I may not refuse any one a boon who asketh it of me. So, if these two boons are fit for one of your condition to have, they shall be granted unto you." [Sidenote: _Gareth asketh his boon._] Then Gareth said: "Lord, this is the first boon that I would ask of thee. I ask not for knighthood nor for courtly favor. All that I ask is that thou wilt permit me to dwell here at court for a year and that thou wilt provide me with lodging and with clothing and with meat and with drink for that time. Then at the end of a year, if I have proved myself patient to wait, I shall crave a second boon of thee." Now many who were there heard what it was that strange youth asked as a boon, and that he besought not knighthood or honor at the King's hands, but bread and meat and drink and lodging, wherefore several of them laughed a great deal at the nature of that boon. As for the King, he smiled not, but he inclined his head very calmly and said: "Fair youth if that is all the boon thou hast to ask of us at this time, then thou shalt have thy will with all welcome." And he said: "Kay, see to it that this youth hath his desires in these things, and that he hath lodging and clothing and food and drink for an entire year from this time." Then Sir Kay looked very scornfully upon Gareth and said: "It shall be as you will. As for thee, fellow, I will see to it that thou art fed until thou art as fat as any porker." So spake Sir Kay, and when young Gareth heard the words his face flamed red with wrath and the veins stood out upon his forehead like cords. But he controlled his anger to calmness and anon he said: "Messire, you do but hear my words, knowing nothing of the purpose that lyeth within my mind. Wherefore then do you scorn me since you know naught of my purpose?" Then Sir Kay looked upon the youth with anger and he said: "Sirrah, thou speaketh very saucily to those who are thy betters. Learn to bridle thy tongue or otherwise it may be very ill with thee." So spake Sir Kay, but Gareth answered him not. Otherwise he turned to the King and bowed low, as though he had not heard the speech that Sir Kay had uttered. Then he turned and went away from the King's presence with the dwarf Axatalese following close after him. [Sidenote: _Sir Gawaine loveth Gareth._] Now Sir Gawaine sat not far distant from the King and so he had heard all that had passed. And he beheld the indignation of Gareth against Sir Kay, and the heart of Sir Gawaine went out very strongly toward this haughty and beautiful youth--albeit he wist not why it was that he felt love for him, nor that Gareth was his own brother. So it befell that after Gareth had departed from the King's presence in that wise, Sir Gawaine arose and followed after him; and when he had come up with Gareth he touched him upon the arm and said, "Come with me, fair youth." And Gareth did so. So after that Sir Gawaine led Gareth to another place, and when they were come thither he said to him: "Fair youth, I prythee tell me who you are and whence you come, and why it is that you asked such a boon as that from the King's Majesty." Then Gareth looked upon Sir Gawaine and knowing that it was his brother whom he gazed upon he loved him a very great deal. Ne'theless he contained his love and said: "Messire, why ask you me that? See you not from the raiment I wear who I am and what is my degree? As for the boon which I asked, wit you that I asked it because I needed a roof to shelter me and meat and drink to sustain my life." Then Sir Gawaine was astonished at the pride and haughtiness of the youth's reply, wherefore he said: "Fair youth, I know not what to think; yet I well believe it was not for the sake of the food and drink and lodging that thou didst so beseech that boon of the King, for methinks that thou art very different from what thou appearest to be. Now I find that my heart goeth out to thee with a very singular degree of love, wherefore I am of a mind to take thee into my favor and to have thee dwell near me at mine inn." And Gareth said to his brother, "Sir, thou art very good to me." [Sidenote: _Sir Gawaine traineth Gareth in knightly skill._] So it was that after that time Sir Gawaine took Gareth into his favor and did many acts of kindness unto the youth. And so Gareth dwelt nigh to Sir Gawaine, and Sir Gawaine instructed him in the use of arms. And ever Sir Gawaine was astonished that the youth should learn so quickly and so well the arts of chivalry and of knighthood. For Sir Gawaine wist not that Gareth had been taught many of these things, and that others came easily to him by nature, because of the royal and knightly blood from which he had sprung. [Sidenote: _Sir Kay scorneth Gareth._] And ever in the same measure that Sir Gawaine bestowed his favor upon Gareth, in that degree Sir Kay scorned him. So it came to pass that when Sir Kay would meet Gareth he would say to whomsoever was present at that time, some such words as these: "Lo! you! this is our kitchen knave who had no spirit to ask of the King's Majesty any higher boon than this, that he be allowed to sup fat broth in the kitchen." So Sir Kay ever called Gareth a kitchen knave, and so calling him he would maybe say, "Sirrah, get thee upon the other side of me, for the wind bloweth toward me and thou smellest vilely of the kitchen." And because Sir Kay perceived that the hands of Gareth were soft and very white he named the youth "Beaumains," saying, "Look you at this kitchen knave, how fat and white are his hands from dwelling in lazy idleness." So Gareth was known as "Beaumains" by all those who were of the King's court. But when Sir Gawaine heard this talk of Sir Kay he remembered him of how Sir Percival had been one time scorned by Sir Kay in such a manner as this. And Sir Gawaine said: "Messire, let be, and torment not this youth, lest evil befall thee. Remember how thou didst hold Sir Percival in scorn when he was a youth, and how he struck thee such a buffet that he nigh broke thy neck." Then Sir Kay looked very sourly upon Sir Gawaine, and said, "This Beaumains is not such as Sir Percival was when he was young." And Sir Gawaine laughed and said, "Nevertheless, be thou warned in season." * * * * * So it was that Gareth dwelt for a year at the King's court, eating the meat of idleness. And many laughed at him and made sport of him who would have paid him court and honor had they known who he was and what was his estate. Yet ever Gareth contained himself in patience, biding his time until it should have come, and making no complaint of the manner in which he was treated. And now if you would hear how young Gareth won him honor and knighthood, I pray you read that which followeth, for therein are those things told of at some length. [Illustration: The Damsel Lynette] [Illustration] Chapter Second _How Gareth set forth upon an adventure with a young damsel hight Lynette; how he fought with Sir Kay, and how Sir Launcelot made him a knight. Also in this it is told of several other happenings that befell Gareth, called Beaumains, at this time._ So passed a year as aforetold, and Gareth lodged with the household of King Arthur and had food and drink as much as he desired. And in all that time Gareth ate his food and drank his drink at a side table, for Sir Kay would not permit him to sit at the same table with the lords and knights and ladies of the King's court. For Sir Kay would say, "This kitchen knave shall not eat at table with gentle folk but at a side table by himself," and so Gareth fed at a table by himself. And ever Sir Kay called Gareth "Beaumains" in scornful jest and all the court called him "Beaumains" because Sir Kay did so. [Sidenote: _King Arthur sitteth again at feast._] Now at the end of that year when the Feast of Pentecost had come again, King Arthur was holding his court at Caerleon-upon-Usk, and at the high Feast of Pentecost there sat, as usual at the King's table, the lords and the ladies of the court and all the Knights of the Round Table who were not upon adventure that took them elsewhither. [Sidenote: _A damsel appeareth before the King._] As they so sat eating and drinking there came into the hall a slender maiden of not more than sixteen years old. And the maiden was exceedingly beautiful, for her hair was as black as ebony and was like to threads of fine black silk for softness and brightness. And her eyes were as black as jet and very bright and shining, and her face was like ivory for clearness and whiteness and her lips were red like to coral for redness. She was clad all in flame-colored satin, embroidered with threads of gold and she wore a bright shining chaplet of gold about her brows so that what with her raiment of flame-color and with her embroidery and ornaments of shining gold, the maiden came up the hall like to a fiery vision of beauty, insomuch that all turned to behold her in passing, and many stood in their places that they might see her the better. [Sidenote: _The damsel asketh for a champion._] Thus the damsel came up the hall until she had reached to that place where King Arthur sat at the head of the feast, and when she had come there she kneeled down and set her hands together as in prayer, palm to palm. And King Arthur looked upon her and was pleased with her beauty, and he said, "Damsel, what is it thou wouldst have of us?" The damsel said: "Lord, I would have the aid of some good worthy knight of thy court who should act as champion in behalf of my sister." And the King said, "What ails thy sister?" Quoth the damsel: "Lord, my sister is tormented by a very evil disposed knight who maketh demand of her for wife. But my sister hateth this knight and will have naught to do with him, wherefore he sitteth ever before her castle and challengeth whomsoever cometh thitherward, and will not suffer any one to go in to the castle or come out thence without his permission. Now I come hither upon my sister's behalf to seek a champion who shall liberate her from this duress." Then said the King, "Who is thy sister and who is this knight who tormenteth her?" To the which the damsel made reply: "I may not tell you my sister's name, for she is very proud and haughty, and is very much ashamed that she should be held in duress by that knight against her will. But as for the knight who tormenteth her, I may tell you that he is hight the Red Knight of the Red Lands." Then King Arthur said: "I know not any such knight as that. Is there any one of you hereabouts who knoweth him?" And Sir Gawaine said: "Lord, I know him very well, for I met him one time in battle and it was such hard ado for me to hold mine own against him that even to this day I know not rightly whether he was better than I or whether I was better than he." Then King Arthur said: "Fair damsel, that must be a very strong and powerful knight, since Sir Gawaine speaketh of him in this wise. But touching this affair of thy sister, know you not that it is not likely that any knight of renown will be found to champion a lady of whose name or degree he knoweth naught? If thou wilt tell the name of thy sister and wilt declare her degree I doubt not there are many good worthy knights of this court any one of whom would gladly champion her cause." So spake the King, but the damsel only shook her head and said, "Lord, I may not tell my sister's name, for I am forbidden to do so." Then the King said: "That is a pity for I fear me thou wilt not easily find thee a champion in that case." And he said, "Damsel, what is thy name?" And she said, "Sir, it is Lynette." The King said, "That is a fair name and thou art very fair of face." Then the King looked about him and he said: "Is there any knight in this court who will undertake this adventure in behalf of that fair lady, even though she will not declare her name and degree? If such there be, he hath my free will and consent for to do so." So spake the King, but no one immediately answered, for no one cared to take up such a quarrel against so strong a knight, not knowing for whom it was that that quarrel was to be taken up. Now he whom all called Beaumains was at that time sitting at his side table a little distance away, and he heard all that passed. Likewise he observed how that no one arose to assume that adventure and at that he was very indignant. For he said to himself: "This damsel is very fair, and the case of her sister is a very hard case, and I wonder that no good and well-approved knight will take that adventure upon him." But still no one appeared to assume that quarrel of the unknown lady and so, at last, Beaumains himself arose from where he sat, and came forward before them all to where the King was and at that time the damsel was still kneeling before the King. [Sidenote: _Gareth asketh his second boon._] Then the King beholding Beaumains standing there said, "Beaumains, what is it thou wouldst have?" and Beaumains said: "Lord, I have now dwelt in this court for a year from the time that I first came hither. That time when I first stood before thee I besought two boons of thee and one of them thou didst grant me and the other thou didst promise to grant me. According to that first boon, I had since that time had lodging beneath thy roof and food and drink from thy table, as much as ever I desired. But now hath come the time when I would fain ask that other boon of thee." Then King Arthur wondered a very great deal, and he said, "Speak, Beaumains, and ask what thou wilt and the boon is thine." "Lord," said Beaumains, "this is the boon I would ask. I beseech thee that thou wilt suffer me to assume this adventure upon behalf of that lady who will not tell her name." Now when they of the court who sat near to the King heard what boon it was that the kitchen knave, Beaumains, besought of the King, a great deal of laughter arose upon all sides, for it seemed to all to be a very good jest that Beaumains should assume such an undertaking as that, which no knight of the court chose to undertake. Only King Arthur did not laugh. Otherwise he spake with great dignity saying: "Beaumains, methinks thou knowest not what boon it is thou hast asked. Ne'theless, be the peril thine. For since thou hast asked that boon, and since I have passed my promise, I cannot refrain from granting that which thou hast besought of me." Then Sir Kay came forward and he spake to the damsel, saying, "Fair damsel, know you who this fellow is who asketh to be appointed champion for to defend your lady sister?" and Lynette said, "Nay, I know not; but I pray you tell me who he is." "I will do so," quoth Sir Kay. "Wit you that this fellow is a kitchen knave who came hither a year ago and besought as a royal boon from the King that he should have meat and drink and lodging. Since then he hath been well fed every day at a table I have set aside for him. So he hath grown fat and proud and high of spirit and thinketh himself haply to be a champion worthy to undertake such an adventure as that which he hath besought leave to assume." [Sidenote: _The damsel Lynette is angry._] So said Sir Kay, and when the damsel Lynette heard his words her face flamed all as red as fire and she turned to King Arthur and said: "My Lord King, what shame and indignity is this that you would put upon me and my sister? I came hither beseeching you for a champion to defend my sister against her oppressor and instead of a champion you give me a kitchen knave for that service." "Lady," quoth King Arthur very calmly, "this Beaumains hath besought a boon of me and I have promised him that favor. Accordingly, I must needs fulfil my promise to him. But this I tell thee, that I believe him to be very different from what he appeareth to be; and I tell thee that if he faileth in this adventure which he hath assumed, then will I give thee another champion that shall haply be more to thy liking than he." But Lynette was very exceedingly wroth and she would not be appeased by the King's words; yet she dared say no word of her indignation to the King's Majesty. Accordingly she turned and went away from that place very haughtily, looking neither to the one side nor to the other, but gazing straight before her as she went out from that hall. Then after she was gone Sir Gawaine came and stood before the King and said: "Messire and Lord, I have faith that greater things shall come of this adventure than any one hereabouts supposeth it possible to happen. For Beaumains is no such kitchen knave as Sir Kay proclaimeth him to be, but something very different from that, as Sir Kay himself shall mayhap discover some day. For a year this Beaumains hath dwelt nigh me and I have seen him do much that ye know not of. Now I pray you, Lord, to suffer me to purvey him with armor fit for this undertaking and I believe he will some time bring honor both to you and to me--to you because you granted him this boon, to me because I provided him with armor." Then King Arthur said to Sir Gawaine, "Messire, let it be as you say." [Sidenote: _Sir Gawaine armeth Beaumains._] So Sir Gawaine took Beaumains away with him to his own lodging-place and here he provided the youth with armor. And he provided him with a shield and a sword and a good stout spear. And he provided him with a fine horse, such as a knight who was to go errant might well care to ride upon. Then when Beaumains was provided in all this way, Sir Gawaine wished him God-speed and Beaumains took horse and departed after the maiden Lynette. And Axatalese the dwarf rode with Beaumains upon a gray mule, as his esquire. Now by the time all this had been accomplished--to wit, the arming and horsing of Beaumains--Lynette had gone so far upon her way that Beaumains and Axatalese were compelled to ride for two leagues and more at a very fast pace ere they could overtake her. [Sidenote: _Lynette scorneth Beaumains._] And when they did overtake her she was more angry than ever to behold that misshapen dwarf accompanying the kitchen knave who was her appointed champion. Wherefore when Beaumains had come nigh to her, she cried out, "Sirrah, art thou Beaumains, the kitchen knave?" And Gareth said, "Aye, I am he whom they call Beaumains." Then she cried out upon him, "Return thee whence thou hast come for I will have none of thee!" To this angry address Beaumains replied, speaking very mildly and with great dignity: "Lady, the King hath appointed me to ride with you upon this adventure, wherefore, with you, I must now do as I have been commanded. For having embarked in this affair, I must needs give my service to you, even if you should order me to do otherwise." "Well," quoth she, "if you will not do as I bid you, then I tell you this; that I will straightway take a path that will lead you into such dangers as you have no thought of, and from which you will be not at all likely to escape with your life." To this Beaumains replied, speaking still very calmly and with great courtesy: "Lady, that shall be altogether as you ordain. And I venture to say to you that no matter into what dangers you may bring me, still I have great hope that I shall bring you out thence with safety and so be of service to you and your lady sister. Wherefore, whithersoever you lead, thither will I follow you." Then Lynette was still more angry that Beaumains should be so calm and courteous to her who was so angry and uncourteous to him, wherefore she hardened her heart toward him and said: "Sirrah, since I cannot rid me of you, I bid you ride upon the other side of the way, for methinks you smell very strongly of the kitchen in which you have dwelt." To these words Beaumains bowed his head with great dignity and said, "Lady, it shall be as you command." And therewith he drew rein to the other side of the highway to that upon which she rode. Then Lynette laughed, and she said: "Ride a little farther behind me, for still methinks I smell the savor of the kitchen." And Beaumains did as she commanded and withdrew him still farther away from her. * * * * * [Sidenote: _Sir Kay followeth Beaumains._] Now some while after Beaumains had ridden after Lynette as aforetold, Sir Kay said to certain of those who were nigh him: "I am of a mind to ride after our kitchen knave and to have a fall of him, for it would be a very good thing to teach him such a lesson as he needs." So according to that saying, Sir Kay went to his inn and donned his armor. And he chose him a good stout spear and he took horse and rode away after Beaumains with intent to do as he had said. So he rode at a good pace and for a long time and by and by he beheld Lynette and Beaumains and the dwarf where they rode along the highway at some distance before him. Then Sir Kay called out in a great voice, saying: "Stay, Beaumains, turn thou thitherward. For I am come to overthrow thee and to take that damsel away from thee." Then Lynette turned her head and beheld Sir Kay where he came, and with that she pointed and said: "Look, thou kitchen knave, yonder cometh a right knight in pursuit of thee. Now haply thou hadst best flee away ere harm befall thee." But to this address Beaumains paid no heed, otherwise he turned about his horse and straightway put himself into array for defence. And as Sir Kay drew nigh, Beaumains beheld the device upon his shield and knew who was the knight who came thitherward and that it was Sir Kay who followed after him and called upon him to stay. Then Beaumains remembered him of all the many affronts that Sir Kay had put upon him for all that year past and with that his anger grew very hot within him. And he said to himself: "This is well met; for now my time hath come. For either this is the day of satisfaction for me or else it is the day in which I shall lay my dead body down beside the highroad." Meantime Sir Kay had come nigh, and finding that Beaumains had prepared himself, he also made himself straightway ready for battle. Then Lynette drew her palfrey to one side of the way and to a place whence she might behold all that befell. [Sidenote: _Sir Kay doeth battle with Beaumains._] So when Beaumains and Sir Kay were in all ways prepared, each gave shout and drave forward very violently to the assault. And they met in the midst of that course and in that encounter the spear of Sir Kay held and the spear of Beaumains, because it was not very well directed, was broken into several pieces, so that he would have fallen only for the address of horsemanship that Sir Gawaine had taught him in the year that had passed. But when Lynette beheld how that the spear of Beaumains was broken in that wise, and how that he was nearly cast out of the saddle in that encounter, she laughed very high and shrill. And she cried out in a loud voice: "Hah! thou kitchen knave, if thou showest not better address than that, thou wilt not be likely to succeed in this adventure that thou hast undertaken." Now Beaumains heard the high laughter of Lynette and the words that she called out to him and with that he was more angry than ever. So therewith he ground his teeth together, and, casting aside the stump of his spear which he still held in his hand, he drew his sword and made at Sir Kay with all his might and main. And he put aside Sir Kay's defence with great violence, and having done so he rose up in his stirrups and lashed a blow at Sir Kay that fell upon his helm like to a bolt of lightning. For in that one blow Beaumains lashed forth all his rage and the indignation of a whole year of the scorn of Sir Kay. And he launched forth all the anger that he felt against the damsel Lynette who had also scorned him. [Sidenote: _Beaumains smiteth down Sir Kay._] So fierce and terrible was that blow he struck that I misdoubt that any knight in all the world could have stood against it, far less could Sir Kay stand against it. For straightway upon receiving that stroke the senses of Sir Kay scattered all abroad and darkness fell roaring upon his sight and he fell down from off his horse and lay there upon the ground as though he was dead. Then Beaumains stood above him smiling very grimly. And he said, "Well, Sir Kay, how like you that blow from the hands of the kitchen knave?" but Sir Kay answered him not one word as you may suppose. Therewith, having so spoken, Beaumains dismounted from his horse and he called the dwarf Axatalese to him and he said: "Axatalese, dismount from thy mule and tie it to yonder bush and take thou the horse of this knight and mount upon it instead." And Axatalese did as his master commanded. And Beaumains said to Sir Kay when he still lay in his swoon, "Sir Knight, I will borrow of you your spear, since I now have none of mine own," and therewith he took the spear of Sir Kay into his hand. And he took the shield of Sir Kay and hung it upon the pommel of the saddle of the horse of Sir Kay that he had given to Axatalese, and after that he mounted his own horse and rode away from that place, leaving Sir Kay lying where he was in the middle of the way. And Lynette also rode away and ever Beaumains followed her in silence. So they rode for a while and then at last and by and by the damsel fell alaughing in great measure. And she turned her to Beaumains, and said, "Sirrah, thou kitchen knave, dost thou take pride to thyself?" and Beaumains said, "Nay, Lady." She said: "See that thou takest no pride, for thou didst but overcome that knight by the force of thy youth and strength, whilst he broke thy spear and wellnigh cast thee out of thy saddle because of his greater skill." Then Beaumains bowed his head and said, "Lady, that may very well be." At that Lynette laughed again, and she said, "Sirrah, thou art forgetting thyself and thou ridest too near to me. Now I bid thee ride farther away so that I may not smell the savor of the kitchen," and Beaumains said, "As you command, so it shall be," and therewith he drew rein to a little greater distance. * * * * * And here it may be told of Sir Kay that some while after Beaumains had gone he bestirred himself and arose and looked about him, and for some while he knew not what had befallen him nor where he was. Then anon he remembered and he wist that he had suffered great shame and humiliation at the hands of Beaumains the kitchen knave. And he saw that in that encounter he had lost his shield and his spear and his horse and that naught was left for him to ride upon saving only that poor gray mule upon which the dwarf of Beaumains had been riding. [Sidenote: _Sir Kay returneth to court, ashamed._] Then Sir Kay wist not what to do, but there was naught else left for him but to mount that mule and ride back again whence he had come. So he did and when he reached the King's court there was such laughing and jesting concerning his adventure that he scarce dared to lift his voice in speech or to raise his face in the court for a week from that time. But Sir Gawaine made no speech nor jest of the mishap that Sir Kay had suffered, only he smiled very grimly and said, "Sir, you would have done well to have hearkened to what I said to you," and Sir Kay, though at most times he had bitter speech enough and to spare, had naught whatever to say to Sir Gawaine in reply. * * * * * And now we turn again to Beaumains and Lynette as they rode onward upon their way as aforetold. [Sidenote: _They behold a white knight._] For after that last speech of Lynette's, they went onward in silence, and ever Lynette looked this way and that as though she wist not that any such man as Beaumains was within the space of a league of that place. So travelling they came, toward the sloping of the afternoon, to a place nigh to the edge of a woodland where was a smooth and level space of grass surrounded on all sides but one by the trees of the forest. Here they beheld a knight who was just come out of the forest, and he was clad all in white armor and he rode upon a white horse. And the sun was shining so far aslant at that time that the light thereof was very red, like to pure gold. And the beams of the sun fell upon the skirts of the forest so that all the thick foliage of the woodland was entirely bathed in that golden light. And the same light flashed upon the polished armor of the knight and shone here and there very gloriously as though several stars of singular radiance had fallen from heaven and had catched upon that lonely knight-rider, who drew rein at their approach and so sat watching their coming. Then Lynette turned to Beaumains and she said: "Sir kitchen knave, look you! yonder is a right knight with whom you may hardly hope to have ado. Now turn you about and get you gone while there is yet time, otherwise you may suffer harm at his hands." To this Beaumains made no reply; otherwise, he rode forward very calmly and when he had come pretty nigh he bespoke that single knight in a loud clear voice, saying, "Sir Knight, I pray you do me battle." At this address that knight aforesaid was very much astonished, and he said: "Sir, what offence have I done to you that you should claim battle of me in so curt a fashion? Gladly will I give you your will, but wit you not that all courtesy is due from one knight to another upon such an occasion?" To this Beaumains made no reply, but turning his horse about he rode to a little distance and there made him ready for the encounter that was about to befall. For at that time his heart was so full of anger at the scorn of Lynette that he could not trust himself with speech, and indeed I verily believe that he knew not very well where he was or what he did. Meantime the White Knight had also put himself into array for battle and when all was prepared they immediately launched the one against the other with such violence that the ground trembled and shook beneath their charge. So they met with great crashing and uproar in the midst of the course and in that meeting the spear of Beaumains was broken into a great many pieces and he himself was cast out of his saddle and down to the ground with such violence that he was for a little while altogether stunned by the force of his fall. Then Lynette laughed so high and so shrill that Beaumains heard her even in the midst of his swoon, and with that his spirit came back to him again and straightway he leaped up to his feet and drew his sword. And he cried out to the White Knight: "Sir Knight, come down from off thy horse and do battle with me afoot, for never will I be satisfied with this mischance that I have suffered." Then the White Knight said: "Messire, how is this? I have no such cause of battle with you as that." But all the more Beaumains cried out with great vehemence, "Descend, Sir Knight, descend and fight me afoot." "Well," quoth the White Knight, "since you will have it so, so it shall be." [Sidenote: _Beaumains doeth battle with the White Knight._] Thereupon he voided his horse and drew his sword and straightway setting his shield before him, he came forward to the assault of Beaumains. Then immediately they met together, each lashing very fiercely at the other, and so that battle began. And so it continued, each foining and tracing this way and that like two wild bulls at battle, but ever lashing stroke upon stroke at one another. Soon the armor of each was stained in places with red, for each had suffered some wound or hurt at this place or at that. Yet ever Beaumains fought with might and main, for he was so strengthened by his passion of rage that rather would he have died than yield in that battle. So they fought with astounding fierceness for a considerable while, and then, at last, the White Knight called out, "Sir, I pray you stay this battle for a little," and with that Beaumains ceased his lashing and stood leaning upon his sword, panting for breath. And the White Champion also leaned upon his sword and panted, and anon he said, "Sir, I pray you tell me your name. For I make my vow to you that never have I met any knight who hath fought a greater battle than you have fought this day--and yet I may tell you that I have fought with a great many of the very best knights of this realm." "Messire," quoth Beaumains, "I may not declare my name at this present, for there are several good reasons why I will not do so. But though I may not do as you demand of me, nevertheless I beseech you that you will extend that favor unto me and will declare to me your name and your degree." "Well," said the White Knight, "never yet have I refused that courtesy to any one who hath asked it of me. Wit ye then that I am called Sir Launcelot of the Lake." [Sidenote: _Beaumains knoweth Sir Launcelot._] Now when Beaumains heard this that the White Knight said and when he wist that it was none other than Sir Launcelot against whom he had been fighting for that while, he was filled with great wonder and astonishment and a sort of fear. So straightway he flung aside his sword and he kneeled down before Sir Launcelot and set his palms together. And he said: "Messire, what have I done, to do battle against you? Rather would I have done battle against mine own brother than against you. Know you that you are the man of all others whom I most revere and admire. Now I pray you, Messire, if I have done well in your sight in this battle which I have fought, that you grant me a boon that I have to ask of you and of no other man." Quoth Sir Launcelot: "What boon is it thou wouldst have? Ask it and if it is meet that I grant it to thee, then assuredly it shall be thine. As for that battle which thou hast done, let me tell thee of a truth that I believe that I have never before met a stronger or a more worthy champion than thou art. So now I prithee ask thy boon that I may have the pleasure of granting it to thee." Then Beaumains said: "Sir, it is this. Wit you that I am not yet made knight, but am no more than a bachelor at arms. So if you think that I am not unworthy of that honor, I pray you make me a knight at this present and with your own hand." "Sir," said Sir Launcelot, "that may not be until I know thy name and of what degree and worthiness thou art. For it is not allowed for a knight to make a knight of another man until first he is well assured of that other's degree and estate, no matter what deed of arms that other may have done. But if thou wilt tell me thy name and thy degree, then I doubt not that I shall be rejoiced to make a knight of thee." Unto this Beaumains said, "Sir, I will tell you my name and degree if so be I may whisper it in your ear." And Sir Launcelot said, "Tell it to me as you list and in such manner as may be pleasing to you." So Beaumains set his lips to Sir Launcelot's ear and he told him his name and his degree. And he told Sir Launcelot many things that had befallen him of late, and Sir Launcelot was astonished beyond measure at all that he heard. Then when Beaumains had told all these several things, Sir Launcelot said: "Messire, I wonder no more that you should have done so great battle as you did against me, seeing what blood you have in your veins and of what royal race you are sprung. Gladly will I make you knight, for I believe in time you will surpass even your own brothers in glory of knighthood, wherefore I shall have great credit in having made you a knight." [Sidenote: _Sir Launcelot maketh Sir Gareth a knight._] Therewith Sir Launcelot took his sword in his hand, and Beaumains kneeled. And Sir Launcelot laid the blade thereof upon the shoulder of Beaumains and so made him knight by accolade. And he said, "Rise, Sir Gareth!" and Sir Gareth arose and stood upon his feet, and his heart was so expanded with joy that it appeared to him that he had the strength of ten men rather than one man in his single body. Now the damsel Lynette had been observing all this from afar, and from that distance she could hear naught of what one champion said to the other, and she beheld what they did with very great wonderment and perplexity. Anon came Sir Launcelot and Sir Gareth to where she was, and when they were come near she said to Sir Launcelot, "Know you, Messire, who is this with whom you walk?" And Sir Launcelot said, "Yea, damsel, methinks I should know him." Lynette said: "I believe that you do not know him, for I am well assured that he is a kitchen knave of King Arthur's court. He hath followed me hither against my will, clad in armor which I believe he hath no entitlement to wear, and I cannot drive him from me." Then Sir Launcelot laughed and he said: "Damsel, you know not what you say. Peace! Be still, or else you will bring shame upon yourself." Then Lynette regarded Sir Launcelot for a while very seriously and anon she said, "Messire, I pray you tell me who you are who take me thus to task." And at that Sir Launcelot laughed again and said: "Damsel, I will not tell you my name, but mayhap if you ask my name of this worthy gentleman who is with you, he will tell you what it is." [Sidenote: _Sir Launcelot leaveth Sir Gareth._] Then Sir Launcelot turned him to Sir Gareth and he said: "Friend, here I must leave you, for I have business that taketh me in another direction. So God save you and fare you well until we shall meet again. And if you will keep upon yonder path and follow it, it will bring you by and by to a fair priory of the forest, and there you and your damsel may have lodging for the night." Thereupon Sir Launcelot bowed in courtesy both to Sir Gareth and to the damsel Lynette and so took his departure, wending his way whither he was minded to go and so in a little was lost to sight. Then Lynette and Sir Gareth and the dwarf also went their way, taking that path that led to the priory of which Sir Launcelot had spoken; and there they found lodgment for the night--the damsel at one place, Sir Gareth at another. * * * * * And now if you would hear more concerning Sir Gareth and Lynette and of what befell them, I pray you read further, for these things shall there be duly set forth for your entertainment. [Illustration: Sir Gareth doeth Battle with the Knight of the River Ford.] [Illustration] Chapter Third _How Sir Gareth and Lynette travelled farther upon their way; how Sir Gareth won the pass of the river against two strong knights, and how he overcame the Black Knight of the Black Lands. Also how he saved a good worthy knight from six thieves who held him in duress._ Now when the next morning had come, all bright and dewy and very clear like to crystal, Lynette arose and departed from that forest priory where she had lodged over-night, giving no news to Sir Gareth of her going. And at that time the birds were singing everywhere with might and main. Everywhere the May was abloom, the apple orchards were fragrant with blossoms, and field and meadow-land were spread thick with a variegated carpet of pretty wild flowers of divers colors, very fair to see. So Lynette rode alone, all through the dewy morn, amid these fair meadow-lands and orchards belonging to the priory, making her way toward the dark and shady belt of forest that surrounded those smooth and verdant fields upon all sides. And ever she gazed behind her very slyly, but beheld no one immediately following after her. For it was some while ere Sir Gareth arose from his couch to find the damsel gone. And when he did arise he was vexed beyond measure that she had departed. So he donned his armor in all haste and as soon as might be he followed hard after her, galloping his horse very violently through those fair and blooming meadows aforesaid, with the dwarf Axatalese following fast after him upon Sir Kay's war-horse. [Sidenote: _Sir Gareth followeth Lynette again._] So Sir Gareth made all speed, and by and by he perceived the damsel where she was, and at that time she was just entering into the forest shades. So he drove forward still more rapidly and anon he came up with her and thereupon he saluted and said, "Save you, Lady!" Upon that salutation Lynette looked about, as though in surprise, and said, "Hah, thou kitchen knave, art thou there?" And Sir Gareth said, "Yea, Lady." And Lynette said: "Methought thou hadst enough of adventure yestereve when that same White Knight rolled thee down into the dust and beat thee in a fair fight afterward." Sir Gareth said, "Lady, thou speakest bitter words to me!" and Lynette laughed, and she said: "Well, Sir Knave, it seems that I cannot speak words that are so bitter as to prevent thee from following after me for I see that I am not to be free from thee in spite of my will to that end." And then she said: "Now I bid thee to ride a little farther away from me, for even yet thou savorest very strongly of the kitchen, and the savor thereof spoileth the fair savor of the morning." So spake Lynette, and thereupon Sir Gareth drew rein a little farther, and so followed after her some distance away as he had done the day before. [Sidenote: _Lynette telleth Sir Gareth of the robber knights._] After that they went a considerable ways in silence, and then by and by Lynette turned her head toward Sir Gareth and spake, saying: "Sirrah, knowest thou whither this path upon which we travel will lead us?" And Sir Gareth said, "Nay, Lady, I know not." "Alas for thee," quoth Lynette, "for I am to tell thee that this path leadeth toward a certain ford of a river, which same ford is guarded by two strong and powerful knights who are brothers. Of these two knights I heard yesternight at the priory that they are very savage robbers, and that, of those who would pass the ford of the river, some they slay and others they rob or else make captive for the sake of ransom. Now I am making my way toward that place where are these two knights in the belief that they may rid me of thee. So be thou advised whilst there is yet time; withdraw thee from this adventure and return whither thou hast come, or else, mayhap, a very great deal of harm may befall thee." "Lady," quoth Sir Gareth, "were there twenty knights instead of two at that ford and were each of those twenty ten times as strong as either of the two are likely to be, yet would I follow after thee to the end of this adventure. Mayhap it may be my good fortune to rid the world of these two evil knights." Then Lynette lifted up her eyes toward Heaven. "Alas," quoth she, "I see that never will I be rid of this kitchen knave until all the pride is beaten out of his body." And after that they rode their way without saying anything more at that time. Anon, and when the sun had risen pretty high toward the middle of the morning, they came out of the forest and into a fair open plain of considerable extent. Here Sir Gareth perceived that there was a smooth wide river that flowed down through the midst of the plain. And he perceived that the road ran toward the river and crossed it by a shallow gravelly ford. And he perceived that upon the other side of the river was a tall, grim, and very forbidding castle that stood on high and overlooked the ford, and so he wist that this must be the ford guarded by those two knights of whom Lynette had spoken. So as they drew nearer to the ford, Sir Gareth beheld a pillar of stone beside the way, and he saw that a great bugle horn of brass was chained fast to this pillar. Then Lynette pointed to the bugle horn and she said: "Sir Kitchen Knave, seest thou yon bugle horn? Thou had best not blow upon that horn for if thou dost thou will arouse those two knights who guard this ford and they will come forth from the castle and it will certes fare very ill with thee." [Sidenote: _Sir Gareth challengeth the robber knights._] Then Sir Gareth said, "Say you so, Lady?" Therewith he went straight to where the horn hung by its chain, and he seized it in both hands and blew upon it so violently that it was as though the brazen horn would be burst with his blowing. For the sound thereof flew far and wide, and came echoing back from the distant walls of the castle as though the trump of doom had been sounded in those parts. Therewith, and after a little while, the portcullis of the castle was uplifted and the drawbridge let fall and there issued forth two knights very large and stout of frame and very forbidding of appearance. These two knights rode down toward the ford and when they had come nigh to it he who was the bigger of the two drave down to the edge of the water and called across to Sir Gareth, "Who are you who dareth to blow so loudly upon our bugle horn?" And to him Sir Gareth replied: "Sir, I blew upon that horn to let you know that I was here and that I come with intent to rid the world of you, if so be God shall be with me in mine endeavor." At that the knight upon the other bank was so enraged that he cast aside his spear and drew his sword and drave straightway into the waters of the ford, splashing with a noise like to thunder. And Sir Gareth also cast aside his spear and drew his sword and drave into the ford with great violence. [Sidenote: _Sir Gareth overthroweth the knight of the ford._] So they met in the midst of the river and the knight of the ford lashed at Sir Gareth a most terrible and vehement blow, which stroke Sir Gareth put aside with great skill so that it harmed him not. Then Sir Gareth upon his part lifted himself on high and lashed at the knight so woful and terrible a blow that his horse tottered under the stroke and the knight himself catched at the pommel of his saddle to save himself from falling. Then Sir Gareth lashed at him another stroke and with that the knight swooned away into darkness and fell out of his saddle and into the water. And the river where he fell was very deep so that when he sank beneath the water he did not rise again, although Sir Gareth waited some while for him to do so. [Sidenote: _Sir Gareth overthroweth the second knight._] Then Sir Gareth, perceiving how that he had finished this enemy, drave his horse very violently across the ford, and to the farther bank, and the knight who was there upon that side of the river drave down against Sir Gareth with his spear in rest with intent to thrust him through the body. But Sir Gareth was aware of his coming and so when the knight of the river was immediately upon him, he put aside the point of the spear with his shield with great skill and address. Then he rode up the length of the spear and when he had come nigh enough he rose up in his stirrup and lashed at the knight of the river so dreadful deadly a blow that nor shield nor helm could withstand that stroke. For the sword of Sir Gareth clave through the shield of the knight, and it clave through the helm and deep into his brain-pan. And with that the knight of the river fell headlong from his saddle and lay upon the ground without life or motion wherewith to rise again. Then Sir Gareth leaped very nimbly out of his saddle and ran to him to finish the work that he had begun. And Sir Gareth plucked away the helm of the knight and looked into his face and therewith beheld that his work was very well done, for already that fallen knight was in the act of yielding up the ghost. Then Sir Gareth wiped his sword and drave it back again into its sheath; and he remounted his horse and rode very quietly back to where the damsel waited for him upon the farther bank. And the damsel looked at Sir Gareth very strangely but Sir Gareth regarded her not at all. So Sir Gareth brought Lynette safely across the ford and afterward they rode on their way as they had aforetime done--the damsel in the lead and Sir Gareth and Axatalese following after at a distance. [Sidenote: _Lynette mocketh at Sir Gareth._] So after they had ridden a long while the damsel turned her about in the saddle and looked at Sir Gareth and she said, "Hah, Beaumains, dost thou take pride in what thou hast done?" And Sir Gareth said, "Nay, Lady; God forbid that I should take pride in any such thing as that." Quoth Lynette: "I am glad that thou dost not take pride in it; for I beheld thy battle from afar and I saw how fortune favored thee. For the first of those two knights, his horse stumbled in the river and so he fell into the water and was drowned; and thou didst strike the second knight with thy sword ere he was well prepared for his defence and so thou wert able to slay him." "Lady," quoth Sir Gareth very calmly, "that which thou sayest doth not in anywise change the circumstances of what I did. For now my work is done and so I leave it to God His mercy to judge whether I did that thing well or whether I did it ill." "Hah," said Lynette, "meseemeth you speak very saucily for a kitchen knave." And Sir Gareth said, still speaking very calmly, "Think you so, Lady?" And Lynette said, "Yea," and she said, "I see that thou still ever forgettest my commands, for thou art riding so nigh to me that methinks I smell the kitchen. Now I prythee draw a little farther away." And Sir Gareth said, "Damsel, it shall be as you command." And therewith he drew rein so as to ride at a little greater distance, and Lynette laughed to see him do so. Now some little while about the prime of the day they came to a certain grassy place of considerable extent, and at that place was a black hawthorn bush, very aged and gnarled and full of thorns that stood alone beside the highroad, and as they drew nigh to it they perceived that there was hung upon the thorn bush a great black shield bearing the device of the red gryphon, and they saw that a great black spear, bearing a black pennon with the device of a red gryphon leaned beside the shield. And they beheld that near by the bush was a noble black horse with trappings and housings all of black, and the horse cropped the grass that grew at that place. [Sidenote: _They behold the black knight at his meal._] All this they beheld, and as they came still nearer they perceived that upon the other side of the hawthorn bush there was a knight clad all in black armor, and they saw that the knight sat beside a great flat stone and ate his midday meal that lay spread out upon the stone. And the knight was unaware of their coming but ever ate with great appetite of the food that was spread before him. Then Lynette drew rein while they were yet at some distance and she laughed and pointed toward the hawthorn bush, behind which sat the knight, and she said: "Sir Kitchen Knave, look you yonder and behold that knight. Seest thou the device upon his shield? I know that device very well and so I may tell thee that that knight is hight Sir Perard and that he is brother of Sir Percevant of Hind, and that he is a very strong, worthy, noble knight and one of great renown in deeds of arms. This is a very different sort of knight from those thou didst overcome at the ford of the river, wherefore be thou advised by me and turn thee about and get thee gone ere yonder knight seest thee, or else harm will certainly befall thee." Quoth Sir Gareth: "Damsel, having followed you so far and through several dangers it is not very likely that I shall turn back at this, even if there be as much peril in it as you say." "Very well," said Lynette, "then if ill befall thee thou art to blame thyself therefor and not blame me." Therewith speaking, she tightened the rein of her palfrey and so rode forward toward that hawthorn bush aforesaid. Now when they had come a little more close to that place, the Black Knight, Sir Perard, was aware of their coming and looked up and beheld them. Then, seeing that it was an armed knight and a damsel that were coming thitherward, Sir Perard arose very slowly and with great dignity and set his helm upon his head, and so he made him ready for whatsoever might befall. Then when he had so prepared himself he came out into the road for to meet them. Then when Sir Gareth and the damsel were come pretty nigh, Sir Perard bespake Sir Gareth, saying: "Sir Knight, I pray you of your courtesy for to tell me who you are and whither you go?" Quoth Sir Gareth: "I may not tell you who I am, but ask you this damsel and she will tell you." Then Sir Perard was greatly surprised at that reply and he said, "Is this a jest?" And he said: "Damsel, since I am directed to you, I pray of you tell to me the name and the degree of this knight." Upon this Lynette fell alaughing in great measure and she said: "Messire, since you ask me that thing, I have to tell you that this fellow is a certain kitchen knave, hight Beaumains, who hath followed me hither from the court of King Arthur, and I have to tell you further that many times I have bid him begone and leave me, but he will not do so, but continually followeth after me." "Fair damsel," quoth the Black Knight, speaking with great dignity, "you are pleased to jest with me, for this is no kitchen knave I trow but a very good worshipful knight of whom you are pleased to say such things." Then Sir Gareth spake very sternly, saying, "Messire, I will not have you or any man gainsay what this lady sayeth." And the Black Knight, still speaking with great dignity, said: "How may I do otherwise than gainsay her, seeing that you wear armor that is indented with the marks of battle? For who ever heard of a kitchen knave wearing such armor?" "Ne'theless," quoth Sir Gareth, "either you must acknowledge what this lady sayeth of me, or else you must do battle with me so that I may defend what she sayeth." "Sir," said the Black Knight, "in that case I will do battle with you, for I cannot accept the saying of this lady." [Sidenote: _Sir Gareth doeth battle with the Black Knight._] So therewith Sir Perard took down his shield from off the blackthorn bush and he took his spear into his hand and whistled his horse to him. And he mounted his horse and made him in all ways ready for battle. Meanwhile Sir Gareth waited very composedly and with great calmness of bearing until the other was in all wise prepared. Then Sir Perard said, "I am ready, Messire." And therewith each knight drew rein and withdrew to such a distance as was fitting for a course to an assault. Then when this was accomplished, each knight shouted to his steed and each charged forward against the other with a terrible speed and violence. So they met in the midst of the course with a crash that might have been heard for two furlongs. In that meeting the spear of each knight was broken into many pieces, even to the hand that held it, and the horse of each staggered back and would haply have fallen had not the knight rider brought him to foot again with shout and prick of spur and with great address of horsemanship. Then each knight voided his horse and each drew his sword and therewith rushed to an assault at arms. And each smote the other again and again and yet again, lashing such blows that it sounded as though several blacksmiths were smiting amain upon their anvils, and for a while neither knight had any advantage over the other, but each fought for that time a well-matched battle. Then of a sudden Lynette cried out very shrilly: "Sir Perard! Sir Perard! Noble, worthy knight! Wilt thou suffer a kitchen knave to have his will of thee?" So she cried out very loud and shrill and Sir Gareth heard the words she uttered. Then a great anger came upon him so that he was uplifted by it, as though the strength of several had entered into his body. So straightway he redoubled his battle to twice what it had been before, giving stroke upon stroke, so that the Black Knight was forced to bear back before the fierceness and violence of his assault. Then Sir Gareth perceived that Sir Perard began to weary a very great deal in that fight and to bear his defences full low, and therewith he redoubled his blows and smote Sir Perard upon the helm so fiercely that his brains swam like water and his head hung low upon his breast. Then, perceiving how that Sir Perard fainted, Sir Gareth ran to him and catched him by the helm and dragged him down upon his knees, and he rushed off the helm of Sir Perard, and catched him by the hair and dragged down his neck so that he might have slain him had he chosen to do so. Then Sir Perard, perceiving how near death was to him, catched Sir Gareth about the knees, and cried out on high, "Messire, spare my life, for so thou hast it at thy mercy." Quoth Sir Gareth, "Sir Knight, I will not spare thy life unless this lady beseech it of me." Then Lynette cried out: "Fie upon thee, thou saucy varlet! Who art thou that I should ask a favor of thee?" [Sidenote: _Lynette asketh the life of the Black Knight._] Then Sir Perard cried out, "Fair Lady, I beseech thee that thou beg my life at the hands of this knight," and thereupon Lynette said: "Fie upon it that it must needs be so. But indeed I cannot suffer so worshipful a knight as thou art, Sir Perard, to be slain by the hand of a kitchen knave. So, Sirrah Beaumains, I bid thee stay thy hand and spare this knight his life." Upon this speech, Sir Gareth released his hold upon Sir Perard and said, "Arise, Sir Knight, for I will spare thy life upon this lady's behest." And therewith Sir Perard arose and stood upon his feet. And Sir Perard said: "Sir, thou hast conquered me in fair battle and for that reason I have yielded me to thee. Now, I prythee tell me, hast thou any commands that thou wouldst lay upon me?" Quoth Sir Gareth: "Yea, Messire, I have a command to lay upon you and this is that command: It is that you straightway go to the court of King Arthur and pay your duty unto him. And you are to say unto King Arthur that Beaumains, the kitchen knave, hath sent you unto him. And I pray you give him news of me and tell him it fareth well with me." And Sir Perard said, "Messire, it shall be done according to your bidding." And Sir Gareth said, "See that it is so." Now in all these things that Sir Gareth did and said he ever bore himself with such dignity and haughtiness that a knight of ten years' standing would not have acted with more dignity than he. And after he had settled those affairs in that wise, he turned to Lynette and addressed himself to her, saying, "Lady, if so be thou art now ready to depart I am ready to accompany thee," and with that the damsel took her departure and Sir Gareth and Axatalese followed after her. So they left that place of battle and soon after they had gone Sir Perard departed upon his way to the court of King Arthur as he had been commanded to do by Sir Gareth as aforesaid. Now after Lynette and Sir Gareth had ridden some while in silence, Lynette turned her face and looked upon Sir Gareth. And she said, "Sir Kitchen Knave, I would I knew who thou really art." To the which Sir Gareth answered very calmly, "Thou hast declared several times who I am and that I am a kitchen knave from King Arthur's court." Then Lynette laughed and she said, "True, I had nigh forgot." And she said, "Ride not so near to me for still, I believe, thou savorest of the kitchen." And thereupon Sir Gareth withdrew to that same distance he had assumed before. [Sidenote: _They behold one fleeing from the forest._] Now somewhile toward the approach of eventide, Sir Gareth and Lynette and Axatalese came away from that part of the country and to where the forest began again. And it befell that as they approached the forest they beheld of a sudden one who came spurring out of the woodlands riding upon a white horse, driving very furiously and at full speed. This rider when he was come nigh suddenly drew rein, and flinging himself from the saddle he ran to Sir Gareth and catched him by the stirrup, crying out: "Sir Knight! Sir Knight! I crave you of your worship that you will lend your aid in a case of woful need!" Then Sir Gareth beheld that this one who had come to him in this wise was an esquire, clad in green and yellow and that he was one of good appearance and of quality. And Sir Gareth said: "Fair Friend, I prythee tell me what service it is that thou wouldst have of me?" "Sir," cried that esquire, "my master, who is a knight of these marches, is beset within the forest yonder by several thieves and I fear they will slay him unless help cometh to him in short order." Sir Gareth said, "Where is your master?" And the esquire said, "Follow me and I will bring you to him." [Sidenote: _Sir Gareth driveth to rescue the wounded knight._] So the esquire mounted his horse again and drave away with all speed and Sir Gareth set spurs to his horse and also drave away at speed, and Lynette and the dwarf followed with speed after Sir Gareth. So anon they entered the forest and coursed therethrough for a little ways and then Sir Gareth perceived where at a short distance there was a knight set with his back against a tree defending himself against six great and brawny villains clad in full armor. And Sir Gareth beheld that there were three other villains who lay dead upon the ground, but that the knight was in a sorry case, bleeding from several wounds and very weary with his battle. Thereupon, beholding this, Sir Gareth drew his sword and cried out in a very loud voice: "Have at ye, villains! Have at ye!" and therewith drave into the midst of that contest. And the thieves were astonished at the violence of his coming so that they knew not what to do, for Sir Gareth drave into their midst without let or pause of any sort. And ere they recovered from their astonishment, Sir Gareth struck one of the villains to the earth at a single blow and then he smote down another. And a third would have defended himself, but Sir Gareth rose up in his stirrups and he smote him so full and terrible a buffet that he clave through his morion and through his head to the very teeth of his head. [Sidenote: _Sir Gareth slayeth the thieves._] Then beholding that dreadful terrible blow that Sir Gareth had struck their companion, the other three villains were adread for their lives, and fled shrieking away into the forest. But Sir Gareth would not let them escape but charged after them with great fury. And the three thieves found that they could not escape, and that there was naught else for them to do but to turn and stand at bay and so they did. But Sir Gareth would not be stayed by this, but he drave straightway into their midst and struck upon this side and upon that, so that maugre their defence all three of those villains were presently stretched, all bathed in their blood, upon the ground. Then Sir Gareth rode back again, wiping his sword very calmly ere he put it back into its sheath. So anon he came to where was that knight whom he had saved and at that time Lynette and Axatalese and the esquire were lending such aid to the wounded man as his case demanded. But when that knight beheld Sir Gareth returning from his battle, he broke away from the others and came to Sir Gareth and embraced him about the knee and said, "Messire, you have certes saved my life." And he said: "I pray you tell me what great and worshipful knight you are who doeth such wonderful battle as I beheld. Never would I have supposed it possible that any single knight could have overthrown six armed men with such ease as I have beheld you do this day." [Sidenote: _Lynette mocketh Sir Gareth._] Now Lynette was standing by at that time and her eyes were wonderfully bright and shining and she looked very strangely upon Sir Gareth. Then hearing what that knight said whom Sir Gareth had rescued she burst out laughing very shrilly and piercingly and she cried out, "Sir Knight, wit you who this is who hath saved your life?" The knight said, "Nay, damsel, I know not." She said: "Wit you then that this is a kitchen knave of King Arthur's court hight Beaumains, so hight because of the whiteness of his hands. He hath followed me hither against my will, and I cannot drive him from me." Then that knight was very much astonished and he said: "Fair damsel, certes you jest with me, for indeed this is some very noble and well-approved knight of great worship. For no one but such a knight as that could have done such deeds of arms as I beheld this day." [Sidenote: _Sir Gareth rebuketh the knight._] Now at that time Sir Gareth was very weary with the battles he had fought during the day, and his body was sore with several wounds that he had suffered, and his spirit was very greatly vexed with the scorn with which Lynette had ever treated him for all this while, wherefore he had but little patience to deal to any man. So straightway he turned him toward that knight and he spake very sternly to him, saying: "Messire, do you intend to gainsay that which this lady sayeth to you concerning me? Wit you that I will not suffer her word to be put in question in any wise. Wherefore, if she is pleased to say that I am a scullion lad, so for her sake you must believe it to be." At this that knight was more astonished than before, and he wist not what to think. So anon he said: "Messire, certes I meant no offence to you, for how should I mean offence to one who hath done me such service as you have rendered to me this day?" "Well," quoth Sir Gareth, "in this I am greatly offended that you should gainsay that which this lady is pleased to say. Wit you that for this while I am this lady's champion, and so I will suffer no one to gainsay her." So said Sir Gareth, and when he had ended that saying, Lynette laughed and laughed again with all her might and main. And she cried out, "Well said, thou kitchen knave!" unto the which speech Sir Gareth made no reply. Then that knight said to Sir Gareth and to Lynette: "Messire, and thou, fair damsel, I know not what all this meaneth but haply you know. But I see, Sir Knight, that thou art wounded in several places, and I doubt not that you are both aweary with your travels, wherefore I pray you that you will come with me to my castle which is not a very great distance away from this, and I beseech you there to lodge and to refresh you for this night." To this Lynette said: "That which thou sayest pleases me very greatly, Messire, for indeed I am aweary and would fain rest me a little. So let us go forward to your castle. But this Beaumains must ride not so close to us for indeed I cannot abide the odor of the kitchen." So after that they all departed from that place, and ever Sir Gareth rode at a distance as the damsel had commanded him to do. [Sidenote: _They come to the castle of the knight._] Now after they had gone a considerable way they came out of the forest and into a valley wherein stood the castle of that knight. And it was a very fair and noble castle and the valley was exceedingly fertile with many rich fields and meadows and with several plantations of trees, both of fruit trees and otherwise. Through this fruitful valley they came to the castle and they rode into the castle courtyard with a great noise of horses' hoofs upon the cobblestones, and at that coming many of the attendants of the castle came running for to take their horses and to serve them. Then Lynette gazed about her and she said to the knight of the castle, "Messire, who are these?" He said: "Fair damsel, these are they who would take your horse and the horse of that noble knight your companion, and others are they who would wait upon you and upon him to serve you both." Then Lynette said: "Not so, Sir Knight, my horse they may take and me they may serve, but it is not meet that a kitchen knave such as Beaumains should be waited upon in that wise, wherefore I bid you to suffer him to wait upon himself." [Sidenote: _Sir Gareth serveth himself._] Upon this speech Sir Gareth turned him to the knight of the castle and his face was very calm, albeit his eyes shone like sparks of fire and he said, speaking very haughtily: "Messire, whitherward is the stable? I pray you to tell me so that I may house my good horse and wait upon myself as this lady, whom I have undertaken to serve, hath commanded me to do." Then the knight of the castle was much troubled and knew not what to reply; yet anon he said, "Messire, I know not what to say in this case but an you ask me I must say the stable lieth yonderways." So spake the knight, and thereupon Sir Gareth turned him without another word and rode away, still very calmly, leaving them alone. So after that the knight and Lynette entered the castle. But the knight, when he was alone, called to him the steward of the castle and he said to him: "Go you and search out that noble and worthy knight, for assuredly he is some great and famous champion. See you that he is served in all wise that such an one should be served, and spare naught to comfort him and put him at his ease, for this day he hath certes saved my life." So the steward did as he was bidden and that evening Sir Gareth was served in all wise befitting for a knight royal such as he really was. Now when the next day was come, and when it was time for Lynette and Sir Gareth and Axatalese the dwarf to depart from that place, the knight of the castle came to Sir Gareth where he sat upon his horse. And he laid his hand upon the stirrup of Sir Gareth and he said: "Messire, I pray you tell me, is there any service that I may do you that you would have of me?" [Sidenote: _Sir Gareth biddeth the knight to do service._] Then Sir Gareth looked down upon that knight and he said: "Sir, there is a service you could render me an you chose to do so, and this is that service: it is that you should go to the court of King Arthur with all the estate that is befitting for one of your degree. And when you have come to the court I would fain have you tell King Arthur that Beaumains, the kitchen knave, hath sent you to him for to pay your court unto him. And I would have you tell the King and Sir Gawaine how it hath fared with me so far as you are aware of." Thus said Sir Gareth, and to him the knight of the castle made reply: "Sir, it shall be done as you ordain; for all those things I will do exactly as you commanded me." So after that they three departed upon their way, the damsel Lynette riding ahead and Sir Gareth and the dwarf riding some distance behind. * * * * * And now if you would hear what other adventures befell Sir Gareth and Lynette at this time I pray you to read further, for there these several things are told of in due order. [Illustration: The Lady Layonnesse.] [Illustration] Chapter Fourth _How Sir Gareth met Sir Percevant of Hind, and how he came to Castle Dangerous and had speech with the Lady Layonnesse. Also how the Lady Layonnesse accepted him for her champion._ So the damsel Lynette followed by Sir Gareth and the dwarf travelled for all that morning and a part of the afternoon without let or stay of any sort and without meeting with any adventure whatsoever, and in all that time the damsel said no word to Sir Gareth whether of good or ill, but ever kept her eyes fixed straight before her as though very much occupied with thought. [Sidenote: _They behold a fair pavilion in a valley._] So about two hours or three after the prime of the day they came to the top of a very long steep hill, and there beneath them in the valley that lay below the hill, Sir Gareth perceived that a considerable company and one that appeared to be of great estate were foregathered. For at that place there were a number of pavilions of divers colored silk and above each pavilion there flew a silken banner bearing the device of the owner of that pavilion. And in the midst of all those other pavilions there was one that was manifestly the pavilion of the knight-champion or of the overlord of all the others. For that pavilion was of crimson silk embroidered with figures in threads of silver and black, and above the pavilion there flew a banner of very great size, which same was also of crimson silk embroidered in silver and black with the figure of a leopard couchant. And from where he stood upon the heights, Sir Gareth saw that all these pavilions were spread in a fair level meadow with grass well mown, as smooth as a cloth of green velvet, and all bright with gay and pretty flowers. And this meadow and other meadows beyond it stretched away to a great distance and at the extremity of the distance was a fair tall castle and a goodly town of many towers, all shining very bright in the clear transparent daylight. All this Sir Gareth beheld very plain, as it were upon the palm of his hand, and he beheld how above all that level, fruitful valley the sky arched like to a roof of crystal--warm and perfectly blue, and filled full of a very great many clouds. Then Lynette said: "Hah, Beaumains, see you yonder pavilions and see you that pavilion which is in their midst?" And Sir Gareth said, "Yea, damsel, I behold them all." [Sidenote: _Lynette telleth Sir Gareth of Sir Percevant._] Quoth Lynette: "Wit you that that central pavilion belongeth to Sir Percevant of Hind, for well do I know the device embroidered upon his banner. And I have to tell you that Sir Percevant is one of the very greatest of the knights champion of this realm and that he hath fought many battles with some of the chiefest Knights of the Round Table and hath come forth with great credit in all those encounters. Now, Beaumains, this is a very different sort of knight from any of those with whom you have hitherto had to do, wherefore be you advised that it is not meet for a kitchen knave to have to do in such an adventure as this. So turn you about and get you gone or else of a surety some great ill will befall you in this affair." Then Sir Gareth looked very calmly upon Lynette and he said: "Lady, it may well be that a man who assumeth to have credit and honor may fail in an undertaking of this sort, but when have you ever heard that such a man of credit or of honor hath withdrawn him from an adventure because there is great danger in it?" Then Lynette laughed and she said: "Hah, Beaumains, thou speakest with a very high spirit for one who is but a kitchen knave. Now if harm befalleth thee because of this undertaking, blame thyself therefor." And Sir Gareth said: "So will I do, and rest you well assured, fair damsel, that never shall I blame you for that or for anything else that may befall me." And at that Lynette laughed again. Then Sir Gareth drew rein and turned downhill to where were those pavilions aforesaid, and so they all three descended from the height into the valley and so came toward that fair meadow wherein the silken tents had been erected. Now as they drew near to the pavilions, they beheld several esquires who were sitting at a bench playing at dice. These, beholding Sir Gareth coming in that wise with the fair damsel and the dwarf, they all arose, and he that was chief among them said: "Sir, what knight are you, and what is your degree, and why come you hitherward?" Him answered Sir Gareth, saying: "Friend, it matters not who I am saving only that I am of sufficient worth. As for my business, it is to have speech with Sir Percevant of Hind, the lord of this company." Quoth the esquire: "Sir, you cannot come past this way nor may you have speech with Sir Percevant of Hind without first making known your name and your degree, for otherwise you come upon him at your peril." Then Sir Gareth laughed, and said, "Say you so?" and therewith he drave past all those esquires and Lynette and the dwarf went with him and no one dared to stay him. So they came to the pavilion of Sir Percevant and Sir Percevant was within his pavilion at that time. Now before the pavilion there was a tall painted post set into the ground, and upon the post there hung a great shield, bearing upon it the device of a leopard couchant in black and white, and so Sir Gareth perceived that this was the shield of Sir Percevant. Then Sir Gareth drew his sword and he went forward and smote the shield such a blow that it rang like thunder beneath the stroke that he gave it. Therewith came Sir Percevant of Hind out of his pavilion and his countenance was all aflame with anger and he cried out very fiercely: "Messire, who are you who dare to smite my shield in that wise?" [Sidenote: _Sir Gareth challengeth Sir Percevant._] But Sir Gareth sat his horse very calmly, and he said: "Messire, I struck your shield for to call you forth so that I might have speech with you. As for my name, I will not tell you that nor my degree. But if you would know these things, I bid you for to ask them of this lady who is my companion." Then Sir Percevant turned him to Lynette, and he said, "Damsel, who is this knight?" And Lynette said: "Sir, I know not otherwise than that he is a kitchen knave of King Arthur's court who hath clothed himself in armor. He is called Beaumains, and fain would I have been rid of him several times, but could not; for ever he followeth me, and, maugre my wishes, will ever serve as my champion." Then Sir Percevant turned unto Sir Gareth with great anger and he said: "Sir, I know not what is this jest that you and your damsel seek to put upon me, but this I do know, that since you have appointed her to speak for you, and since she declareth you to be a kitchen knave, so must I believe you to be. Wherefore, unless you straightway declare your name and your degree to me upon your own account, and unless you prove to me that you are otherwise than this damsel sayeth, I shall straightway have you stripped of your armor and shall have you bound and beaten with cords for this affront that you have put upon my shield." Then Sir Gareth spake very calmly, saying: "Sir, that would be a pity for you to do, for I have to tell you that, whether I be a kitchen knave or no, nevertheless I have had to do with several good and worthy knights of fair repute. For I have to tell you that one of these knights was Sir Launcelot of the Lake and that he made me knight. And I have to tell you that another one of these was your own brother, Sir Perard, whom I overcame yesterday in battle and whom I would have slain only that this damsel besought his life at my hands. And I have to tell you that Sir Perard is even now upon his way to the court of King Arthur, there to pay his duty to the King upon my demand upon him to that end." Then Sir Percevant cleared his brow of its anger, and he said: "Sir, I perceive from all that you tell me that you are some knight of very good quality and merit. Wherefore I will withdraw that which I said and will do you battle because you have struck my shield. And it will go hard with me but I shall serve you in such a way as shall well wipe out that affront in your warm red blood. For I promise you that I shall not let or stay in the battle against you." So spake Sir Percevant and straightway he withdrew him into his tent and several of the knights who were his companions and several esquires who had gathered about in this while of talk, went into his pavilion with him and there aided him to don his armor and to fit himself for battle. [Sidenote: _Of the meadow of battle._] So anon Sir Percevant came forth again in all wise prepared for that battle. And his esquires brought to him a noble horse as white as milk and they assisted him to mount thereon. And Sir Percevant took a great spear into his hand and so turned and led the way toward a fair smooth level lawn of grass whereon two knights might well run atilt against one another. And all they who were of that company followed Sir Percevant and Sir Gareth to that lawn of grass, and the damsel Lynette and the dwarf Axatalese went thither along with the others. So coming to that place a marshal of the lists was appointed, and thereafter each knight was assigned a certain station by that marshal. Then, everything being duly prepared, the word for the assault was given, and each knight launched forth against the other with all the speed with which he was able to drive. So they met in the midst of the course with a great roar and crashing of wood and metal and in that encounter the spear of each knight was broken into small pieces and the horse of each staggered back from beneath the blow and would have fallen had not the knight rider recovered him with rein and spur and voice. [Sidenote: _Sir Gareth doeth battle with Sir Percevant._] Then each knight leaped down from his horse and drew his sword and rushed to the assault afoot with all the fierceness of two wild boars engaged in battle. And thereupon they fell to lashing such blows at one another that even they who looked on from a distance were affrighted at the violence and the uproar of that assault. For the two champions fought very fiercely, and the longer they fought the more fiercely they did battle. And in a little while the armor of each was all stained red, and the ground upon which they fought was all besprinkled with red, yet neither knight had any thought of yielding to the other in any whit or degree, but still each fought on with ever-increasing fury against the other. Now at this time neither knight had aught of advantage against the other, and no man might have told how that battle would have gone, but at the moment of the greatest doubt, Lynette uplifted her voice aloud, as it were in terror, crying out very shrilly and vehemently: "Good worthy knight Sir Percevant, will you then let a kitchen knave and a scullion stay you thus in your battle?" [Sidenote: _Sir Gareth overcometh Sir Percevant._] Then it befell as it had befallen before when Sir Gareth fought with the Black Knight, Sir Percevant's brother, for Sir Gareth heard the words that Lynette cried out, and straightway it was as though the new strength of several men had entered into his body because of his anger at those words. And that anger consumed all else that was before it, whether that other were of prudence or of temper. For straightway Sir Gareth flung aside his shield and seized his sword in both hands and rushed upon Sir Percevant and struck blow upon blow so fiercely and so violently that nor skill nor strength might withstand his assault. Then Sir Percevant fell back before that assault and could not do otherwise, and he bore his shield full low; but ever Sir Gareth followed him and smote him more and more violently so that Sir Percevant could no longer hold up his shield against the assault of his enemy. And Sir Gareth perceived that Sir Percevant waxed feeble in his defence and with that he rushed in and smote Sir Percevant upon the helm so woeful a blow that Sir Percevant could no longer stand upon his feet but sank slowly down upon his knees before Sir Gareth. Then Sir Gareth ran to Sir Percevant and catched him by the helm and rushed the helm off from his head and with that Sir Percevant wist that death overshadowed him. Then Sir Percevant catched Sir Gareth about the thighs and, embracing him, cried out: "Messire, spare my life and do not slay me!" And all those knights and esquires who were in attendance upon Sir Percevant pressed about Sir Gareth where he stood, and lifted up their voices, also crying out: "Sir Knight, do not slay that good worthy knight our champion, but spare his life to him." Then Sir Gareth, all wet with the blood and sweat of battle and panting for breath said in a very hoarse voice: "Ask ye not for this knight's life for I will not spare his life to him except upon one condition, and that condition is that the damsel whose champion I am shall ask his life at my hands." Now at that time Lynette was weeping amain, though whether with dread of that fierce battle or because of something else, who may tell? Yet ever she wept, and ever she laughed and wept again. And she cried out: "Thou saucy knave, Beaumains, who art thou to make such a demand as that?" But Sir Gareth said: "If I be saucy, let it pass, yet so it is as I have said, and I will not spare this knight his life unless thou ask it of me," and therewith he catched Sir Percevant by the hair and lifted his sword on high as though to separate the head of Sir Percevant from off his body. [Sidenote: _Lynette beseecheth Sir Percevant's life._] Then all those knights and esquires crowded around Lynette and besought her that she would ask for the life of Sir Percevant. And Lynette said: "Stay thy hand, Beaumains, and slay him not, for it would be a pity for so good and worthy a knight as Sir Percevant of Hind to lose his life at the hands of a kitchen knave such as thou art." Then Sir Gareth said: "Arise, Sir Knight, and stand up, for the word of this lady hath saved thy life." And therewith Sir Gareth released his hold of Sir Percevant and Sir Percevant arose and stood up. [Sidenote: _Sir Gareth commandeth service of Sir Percevant._] Then Sir Percevant said: "Sir, thou hast beaten me in a very fair and bitter battle and so I yield myself to thee. Now I pray thee tell me what are thy commands upon me?" And Sir Gareth said: "Sir, thou sayest well, and these are my commands: that thou, together with all this thy company of knights and esquires, do take your departure from this field and that ye all go to the court of King Arthur. And it is my desire that when thou hast come to the court of the King thou shalt pay thy duty to him and say to him that Beaumains, the kitchen knave, hath sent thee to pay that duty." Then Sir Percevant bowed his head before Sir Gareth and said: "Sir, it shall be as you command." And after that he said, "Sir, I pray you that you will do me this favor; I pray you that you will come with me to yonder castle at that town which you see afar off. For that is my castle and my town and I am fain that you should rest you ere you go farther upon your way, and that you should refresh yourself at my castle. I perceive that you are wounded in several places, and I would fain that you should have your wounds searched and dressed and that you should have rest and ease ere you go forward, so that your wounds may be healed and that you may be made hale when you undertake your further adventures." To this Sir Gareth said: "Sir, I thank you well for your courtesy and it will pleasure me greatly to go to your castle with you and there to rest me awhile. For indeed it hath been a sore battle that I have fought with you this day and I suffer a very great deal of pain. Moreover I have fought other battles of late and am aweary and in no fit case to go farther at this present." So after Sir Gareth and Sir Percevant had rested them a little, they and all of their companies departed thence and betook their way to the castle of Sir Percevant. There Sir Gareth was bathed and his wounds were searched and dressed and he was put in all ease that was possible. [Sidenote: _Sir Gareth rests him in the castle of Sir Percevant._] And Sir Percevant gave command that ever a company of knights should stand guard over Sir Gareth where he lay so that no harm should befall him, and it was done according to that command. So Sir Gareth abided at the castle of Sir Percevant for five days and in all that time he saw nothing whatsoever of the damsel Lynette; for he lay in one part of the castle and she dwelt in another part. Then at the end of five days, Sir Gareth was well healed of his wounds and was in all ways hale and strong to carry out his further adventures. * * * * * [Sidenote: _Lynette maketh peace with Sir Gareth._] Now when those five days aforesaid were past, Sir Gareth made him ready to depart, and Lynette also made herself ready to depart, and so they took their leave of the castle of Sir Percevant. And they rode out through the gateway of the castle and into the sunlight that lay beyond, and it was a wonderfully bright cheerful pleasant day with all the little birds singing amain and the blossoms falling like snow whensoever that the wind blew through the branches of the apple-trees. Thus they departed and after that they rode for a long while. So they came two or three leagues upon their way, and in that time neither said anything to the other but both rode in silence. Then at last Lynette turned her about and Sir Gareth perceived that her eyes shone very bright. And Lynette said, "Sir, have you anger against me?" Then Sir Gareth, who was riding some little distance away, as he had aforetime done upon her bidding, came nearer to her and said: "Nay, fair damsel; why think you that I should anger have against you? Have I shown you any anger, that you should say those words to me?" She said: "Nay, Messire, never at any time have you shown anger toward me, but you have ever been to me all that it was possible for any noble and worthy knight to be to a lady who had treated him with all consideration and regard, and this you have done in spite of the scornful way in which I have treated you. And also I have very well perceived the manner in which you have borne yourself in these several contests at arms which you have fought, and I have beheld you to be as brave and haughty toward those knights who were strong and valiant, as you have been gentle and kind to me who am a woman." Then Sir Gareth smiled and he said: "Lady, you make much of that which is very little. Know you not that it behooves all true knights to be gentle and patient with all such as are not so strong as they? So it is that in being courteous to you I have done naught except that which I have been taught to do in such a case. As for those bitter words you spake to me, I may tell you that any anger which I might have felt therefor I visited upon those knights against whom I fought. For when you gave me those bitter words, then I gave them bitter blows therefor, and the more you scorned me the more strongly and vehemently did I fight." Then Lynette said: "Sir, you are certes a very high, noble, and worthy knight, and she unto whom you vouchsafe to give your belle regard that lady will be as fortunate as any of whom I ever heard tell. For I believe that it is not possible for any knight ever to have been so tried as I have tried you for all this while that we have journeyed together; wherefore, if you have proved yourself so worthy in this thing, how much more will you prove yourself worthy in those greater things that shall in time come unto you?" So spake Lynette and thereat Sir Gareth laughed a little and said: "Fair damsel, have I now leave to ride beside you, and is there now peace betwixt us?" And Lynette said, "Yea, Messire." So therewith Sir Gareth rode forward until he was come beside Lynette, and from that time forward there was peace and concord betwixt them; for Lynette was now as kind and humble to him as she had been saucy and uncivil before. [Sidenote: _They journey together in concord._] And so as they journeyed together Lynette told Sir Gareth many things concerning the adventure which he was entered upon that he had not known before. For she told him that this lady who was her sister was hight the Lady Layonnesse and that she was but eighteen years of age. And she told him that the Lady Layonnesse was one of the most beautiful ladies in the world, and she told him that the lady was the countess of a very great and rich town, hight Granderegard, and of a noble castle appertaining to the town, which same was called the Castle Dangerous. And she told him that the marches over which the Lady Layonnesse was countess extended for several leagues upon this side and upon that side of the town and the castle, and she told him that the Knight of the Red Lands, who opposed her sister, was so strong and so doughty a knight that she believed it would be hard to find in any part of the realm so powerful a knight as he. And she said to Sir Gareth: "In good sooth, Messire, I have great fear that you will have sad ado to hold your own against this Red Knight of the Red Lands, for as Sir Perard was greater and bigger than those two knights at the ford whom you overthrew so easily, and as Sir Percevant of Hind was greater and bigger than Sir Perard, so I believe is this Red Knight of the Red Lands greater and bigger than Sir Percevant." "Well, Lynette," quoth Sir Gareth, "so far it hath been that I have had success in all my battles but one, and in that one I suffered no dishonor. So I believe I may hope to have a fair fortune with this knight also, for wit you that the fortunes of any knight lie in the hands of God and not in man's hands, wherefore if it is His will that I fare well in this undertaking, then shall I assuredly do so." Thus they talked in great amity of many things, and so they travelled for all that day and the next day and for a part of the day after that. And somewhat early in the morning of the third day they came to the summit of a certain highland whence Sir Gareth beheld a great plain, well tilled and very fertile, spread out beneath that high place where he stood. And he beheld that the plain was very broad and very long and that in the midst thereof there was a hill and that upon the hill there stood a castle and that behind the castle was a town of many fair and well-built houses. [Sidenote: _They behold the pavilions of the Red Knight._] Then Lynette pointed, and she said to Sir Gareth: "See you that castle and that town? That castle is my sister's castle and that town is her town. And, yonder, beneath the walls of the town and of the castle, you may see a number of pavilions spread upon a considerable meadow. Those are the pavilions of the Red Knight of the Red Lands and of the knights and esquires attendant upon him. For there he keepeth continual watch and ward over the castle of my sister, so that no one may either come out thereof or enter thereinto without his leave for to do so." And Sir Gareth said, "Let us go down unto yonder place." So straightway they descended from the highland into the plain, and so went forward upon their way toward the town and the castle of the Lady Layonnesse. Now as they drew more nigh to that place where the pavilions of the Red Knight of the Red Lands and of his companions at arms had been spread, they went past a great many pollard willow-trees standing all in a row. And Sir Gareth beheld that upon each tree there hung either one shield or two or three shields and that each shield bore some device of knighthood. At that sight he was greatly astonished, and he said: "Fair damsel, I prythee tell me what is the meaning of this sight and why those shields are hung to yonder pollard willow-trees?" Quoth Lynette: "Sir, each one of those shields is the shield of some knight whom the Red Knight of the Red Lands hath overthrown. And some of these knights have been slain in battle by the Knight of the Red Lands, and some have not been slain, but all those who were not slain have been disgraced in the encounter which they have fought. For from each knight which he hath overthrown the Red Knight of the Red Lands hath taken his shield and his horse and hath sent him away afoot, unarmed and horseless, wherefore it is thought by some that it were better to have been slain in battle than to have suffered such disgrace as that." Then Sir Gareth said: "Certes, Lynette, that must have been a very doughty champion to have overcome so many knights as these. Now, if it is my fortune to overthrow him in that battle which I am come to fight with him, then do I believe I shall win for myself more honor and credit than ever fell to any young knight of my age since first Sir Percival of Gales assumed his knighthood." So said Sir Gareth, and after that he and Lynette rode onward a little farther until they had come to that meadow where were the pavilions of the Red Knight of the Red Lands and of his knights companion. And Sir Gareth and the damsel rode straight through the midst of those pavilions and many knights and esquires came out thence to see who they were who came thitherward. But ever Sir Gareth and Lynette and the dwarf rode onward until they had come to the center pavilion of all and that was the pavilion of the Red Knight aforesaid. Here at this place were several pages and of one of them Sir Gareth demanded where was that Red Knight. They say, "Sir, he is within his pavilion resting after his midday meal." Sir Gareth said, "Go ye and tell him that there is one come who would have speech with him." [Sidenote: _Sir Gareth beholdeth the Red Knight._] So those esquires departed, and anon there came forth the Red Knight from his pavilion, and he was clad all in a loose robe of scarlet silk trimmed with miniver. And Sir Gareth looked upon him and beheld that he was very big of bone and thew and that the hair of his head and his beard was exceedingly red and that his countenance was terribly lowering and forbidding. Then the Red Knight when he saw Sir Gareth, said, "Who art thou, Sir Knight, and what is thy business here?" And Sir Gareth said: "Messire, I am one come from King Arthur's court to take up the quarrel of the Lady Layonnesse of this place and to serve as her champion therein." Then the Knight of the Red Lands said: "Who are you? Are you a knight of repute and fame at arms?" and Sir Gareth said: "Nay, Sir, not so; for I have only been made knight fortnight, and I have but little service at arms." Then the Red Knight laughed very boisterously and said: "How is this, and what sort of a green knight are you, who dares to come against me! Know that I have laid more than twoscore better knights than you very low in the dust." Quoth Sir Gareth: "That may very well be, Sir Knight. Yet is the fate of every one in the hands of God and so mayhap He will cause me to overthrow you upon this occasion." And Sir Gareth said: "Now, I pray you that you will let me go up to yonder castle and have speech with the lady thereof and if so be she will accept me for her champion, then will I return hitherward immediately to do battle with you." And the Red Knight said, "Go and speak with her." So Sir Gareth went up toward the Castle Dangerous and Lynette went with him. And when they had come pretty nigh to the castle, the lady thereof appeared at an upper window and called down to Sir Gareth, saying, "Sir, who are you and whence come you?" [Sidenote: _Sir Gareth beholdeth the Lady Layonnesse._] Then Sir Gareth looked up and beheld the lady where she stood at the window, and he beheld her face that it was very exceedingly beautiful. For, though she had dark hair like to Lynette's, and though she had cheeks resembling in their clear whiteness the cheeks of Lynette, and though her lips were red as coral like to Lynette's, yet was she ten times more beautiful than ever was Lynette. So, beholding how beautiful she was, the heart of Sir Gareth leaped straightway up to her, even as a bird flyeth upward, and there it rested within her bosom. Then Sir Gareth said to her: "Lady, you ask me who I am, and I am to tell you that I am one come from King Arthur's court to serve you as your champion if so be you will accept me as such." Then the Lady Layonnesse said, "Sir, are you a knight of good fame and service?" And Sir Gareth said, "Nay, Lady, but only a green knight very little used to arms. For I have but been a knight for these few days and though I have fought several battles with good fortune in that time, yet I know not as yet what may be my fate when I meet such a knight as the Red Knight of the Red Lands. Yet this is true, Lady, that though I be but very young and untried at arms, yet is my spirit very great for this undertaking." Then the Lady Layonnesse said: "Sir, what is your name and what is your degree?" And Sir Gareth said: "I may not tell you that at this present, for I will not declare my name until that my kindred (who yet do not know me) shall have acknowledged me." To this the Lady Layonnesse said: "This is very strange, and I am much affronted that King Arthur should have sent to me from his court a knight without a name and without any credit at arms for to serve as my champion." And Sir Gareth said, "Lady, there was reason for it." Then the Lady Layonnesse said, "Is not that my sister Lynette whom I behold with thee?" and Sir Gareth said, "Yea, Lady." The Lady said, "Who is this knight, Lynette?" and Lynette replied, "I know not, my sister, saving only that I have good reason to believe that he is the noblest and the haughtiest and the most worthy of all knights whom I have ever beheld." "Well," quoth the Lady Layonnesse, "if thou dost thus vouch for him, then upon thee be the peril of my choosing." And Lynette said, "Let it be so." [Sidenote: _The Lady Layonnesse giveth Sir Gareth her scarf._] Then the Lady Layonnesse said, "Sir Knight, I take thee for my champion." And therewith she let fall from the window where she stood a fair scarf of green samite embroidered with threads of gold. And Sir Gareth catched the scarf with such joy that it was as though his heart would burst for happiness. And he wrapped the scarf about his arm, and immediately it was as though the virtue of his strength had been increased threefold. * * * * * Now if so be you would know how Sir Gareth sped in his business with the Red Knight of the Red Lands, I beg of you for to read that which followeth, for therein withal it shall be immediately declared. [Illustration] [Illustration: The Lady Layonnesse cometh to the Pavilion of Sir Gareth] [Illustration] Chapter Fifth _How Sir Gareth fought with the Red Knight of the Red Lands and how it fared with him in that battle. Also how his dwarf was stolen, and how his name and estate became known and were made manifest._ Now after Sir Gareth had received the scarf of the Lady Layonnesse as aforetold, he and Lynette and the dwarf returned to a certain meadow nigh to the pavilions where it had been ordained that the battle should be held. There they found that the Red Knight of the Red Lands had made himself in all ways ready for that battle. For he was now clad all in armor as red as blood, and in his hand he bore a great spear that was also altogether red; and on the tip of the spear was a red banneret that was likewise as red as blood. At that field that had been prepared for battle, there was a great concourse of people assembled and there also the damsel Lynette took her stand at a place that had been assigned unto her; and the dwarf Axatalese was near by in attendance upon her. And there had been a marshal of the field appointed to judge of the battle that was to be fought, and as each knight came to the field, the marshal led him to where he was to take his stand--which stand was in such a place as should offer a fair course and so that the sun should not shine into the eyes of either of the knights contestant. So when everything was duly prepared for battle and when the knights had taken each his place and when each knight was in all ways ready for the course to be run, the marshal cried out the call to the assault. Thereupon each knight immediately leaped his horse away from where it stood and hurtled the one against the other like a whirlwind with a great thunder of galloping hoofs. So they came together in a cloud of dust and with a terrible crashing of splintered wood. For in that encounter each knight shattered his lance into pieces, even to the hand that held it, and so violent was the blow that each gave the other that both horses staggered back as though they had struck each against a solid rock instead of against an armed rider. Then each knight voided his tottering horse, and each drew his sword, and immediately they rushed together with such eagerness that it was as though the lust of battle was the greatest joy that the world could have for them. So they fell to fighting with the utmost and most terrible fury, lashing such blows that the sound of the strokes of iron upon iron resembled the continual roaring of thunder. [Sidenote: _Of the battle of Sir Gareth with the Red Knight._] So they fought for so long a while that it was a wonder that any man of flesh and blood could withstand the blows that each gave and received. For ever and anon the sword would find its place and upon such a blow some cantel of armor would maybe be hewn from the body of that knight who received the stroke. And the book that telleth of this battle sayeth that the side of each knight was in a while made naked in places because that the armor had been hewn away from it. And it sayeth the armor of Sir Gareth was wellnigh as red as was the armor of his enemy because of the blood that dyed it that ensanguine color. And the same history says that they were somewhile so bemazed by the blows that they endured that either would at times seize the sword of the other for his own, for it is recorded in that history that they fought in that wise for more than two hours at a stretch without taking any rest from battle. But although the battle continued for that long time, yet by and by their blows waxed somewhat faint and feeble compared to what they had at first been, and each knight tottered upon his feet at times because of his weakness and loss of blood. So at last the Red Knight of the Red Lands cried out to Sir Gareth: "Sir Knight, stay thy hand and let us rest, for I see that neither of us can fight this battle to its end as we are now fighting." So said the Red Knight, and at that saying Sir Gareth held his hand and said, "So be it, Sir Knight, as you ordain." So they stinted their fighting for that while and they sat them down to rest, each upon a bank of earth. And a page came to the Red Knight of the Red Lands and unlaced his helm and the dwarf Axatalese did the same for Sir Gareth, and the page and the dwarf took each the helm from off the head of his master, and so they two sat where the wind might blow cold upon their faces. Then anon Sir Gareth lifted up his eyes and he beheld where that the Lady Layonnesse stood at the high window of the castle aforesaid, and several of the chief folk of the castle stood with her at that time. Then Sir Gareth saluted the Lady Layonnesse and when she beheld him salute her she cried out, in a very shrill and piercing voice: "Alas, Sir Knight! Fail me not! For whom have I to depend upon but thee?" So she cried out in that very shrill voice, and Sir Gareth heard her words even from that distance. Then when he heard those words his heart grew big within him once more and his spirit waxed light and he called out, "Sir Red Knight, let us at our battle again!" Therewith each knight resumed his helm and when each helm was laced into place, Axatalese and the page of the Red Knight leaped aside, and the two came together once more, greatly refreshed by that rest which they had enjoyed. So they fought for a great while longer, and then they had pause again for a little. Then Sir Gareth perceived that the Red Knight was panting as though his bosom would burst and therewith he rushed at his enemy with intent for to smite him one last blow and so to end the battle. But the Red Knight was very wary and he was expecting that assault, wherefore he quickly avoided Sir Gareth's stroke, and thereupon he himself launched an overthwart blow that smote Sir Gareth upon the hand, and upon that blow the sword of Sir Gareth fell down out of his hand into the grass of the field. [Sidenote: _Sir Gareth falleth and is in great danger._] Then the Red Knight leaped upon Sir Gareth and he struck him again and yet again and he struck him a third time a blow upon the helm and at that third blow the brains of Sir Gareth melted within him and he fell down upon his knees and then down to the ground for he had not power to stand. Then the Red Knight leaped upon Sir Gareth and fell upon him with intent to hold him down so that he might finish with him and Sir Gareth could not put him away. But when the damsel Lynette beheld how that Sir Gareth was beneath his enemy and was in danger of being slain, she shrieked out aloud in a very shrill penetrating voice, crying, "Alas, Beaumains! Do you fail your lady, and are you but a kitchen knave after all?" [Sidenote: _Sir Gareth overcometh the Red Knight._] Now Sir Gareth heard those words, even through the swooning of his senses, and therewith it was with him as it had been twice before; for as he heard the words there came new strength into his body, and with that he heaved himself up and cast the Red Knight from him. And he leaped to his feet and rushed to where his sword lay in the grass. And he catched up his sword and sprang upon the Red Knight and smote him a very terrible blow. And Sir Gareth so smote him again and yet again. And he smote him a fourth time so woeful a blow upon the helm that the Red Knight fell down to the earth and could not rise again. Then Sir Gareth fell upon the Red Knight and held him where he was upon the ground. And he drew his miseracordia and cut the thongs of the helm of the Red Knight and plucked the helm from off the Red Knight's head. And he set his miseracordia to the throat of the Red Knight and with that the Red Knight beheld Death, as it were, looking him in the face. Then all they who were thereabouts came running to where the two knights lay, and they cried out aloud to Sir Gareth, saying, "Sir Knight! Sir Knight! Spare the knight our champion and slay him not!" And the Red Knight said in a voice very faint and weak, "Sir Knight, spare me my life!" Then Sir Gareth cried out, "I will not spare this knight unless he yield him altogether to my will." And the knight said, "I yield me." And Sir Gareth said, "Still I will not spare this knight his life unless yonder damsel crave his life at my hands." [Sidenote: _Lynette asketh for the life of the Red Knight._] Then Lynette came forward to where Sir Gareth still held his enemy to earth and she was weeping a very great deal. And she said: "Brave Sir Beaumains, be ye merciful as well as powerful and spare this good worshipful knight his life." And Sir Gareth said, "So will I do at thy demand." [Sidenote: _Sir Gareth layeth his commands upon the Red Knight._] Therewith Sir Gareth got him up upon his feet and the Red Knight arose also, and so sore had been their battle that both knights had to be held upon their feet by those who stood near by. Then the Red Knight said, speaking in a very weak and fainting voice, "Fair Sir Knight, what are thy commands upon me?" and Sir Gareth said: "These are my commands: that so soon as you shall be sufficiently healed of your hurts you and all these your people shall depart hence and take your way to the court of King Arthur. And my command is that you shall tell King Arthur that Beaumains, the kitchen knave, hath sent you thither for to pay your homage unto him. And because you have dishonored other knights as you have done by taking away their shields and horses, it is my will that you shall also be dishonored; for I ordain that your shield shall be taken away from you and that it shall be hung upon one of these willow-trees where you have hung the shields of those knights whom you have overcome in battle as I have overcome you. And I ordain that your horse shall be taken away from you and that your armor shall be taken away from you and that you shall travel to the court of King Arthur afoot; for so you have made other knights walk afoot whom you have beaten in battle as I have beaten you." Then the Red Knight bowed his head full low for shame and he said: "This is a very hard case, but as I have measured to others so it is meted unto me, wherefore, Messire, it shall be done in all ways as you command." Then Lynette came to Sir Gareth and took him by the hand and set his hand to her lips and she was still weeping at that time. Then Sir Gareth smiled upon her and said, "Hah! Lynette, have I done well?" and Lynette still wept, and she said, with all her weeping, "Yea, Messire." And anon she said: "I pray you, Messire, that you will go with me up to the castle of my sister so that you may there be cherished and that your wounds may be looked to and searched and dressed." But to this Sir Gareth said: "Not so, Lynette; for behold I am sorely wounded and I am all foul with the blood and dust and sweat of battle and so I will be refreshed and made clean ere I appear before that most fair lady your sister. So this night I will lie in the pavilion of this Red Knight, there to be cleansed of my hurts and to be refreshed. Then to-morrow I will come up unto my lady your sister." [Sidenote: _Sir Gareth abideth in the pavilion of the Red Knight._] And so it was done as Sir Gareth would have it, for that night he lay in the pavilion of the Red Knight and he was bathed and refreshed, and a skillful leech came and dressed his hurts. And the Red Knight of the Red Lands had a guard of several knights set around about the pavilion so that the repose of Sir Gareth should not be disturbed. * * * * * Now after that battle aforetold the damsel Lynette betook her way to the castle of her sister, and she entered into the castle and there was great rejoicing at her return. Then they who first met her said to her: "Thy sister awaiteth thee and she is in that room in a turret where she keeps her bower." And Lynette said, "I will go thither." So she went to that place and there she found the Lady Layonnesse, and her brother (who was Sir Gringamore) was with her. And Lynette ran to her sister and embraced her and kissed her. And she said: "Save you, my sister and give you joy that the champion whom I brought hither hath freed you from your enemy." The Lady Layonnesse said: "Where is that knight and why hast thou not brought him hither with thee so that I may render to him my thanks?" To this Lynette made reply: "Sister, he hath been sore wounded in his fight and he is moreover so befouled with the blood and dust of battle that he would not come hither at this present but lyeth in the pavilion of the Red Knight until the morrow." [Sidenote: _Lynette telleth her sister of Sir Gareth._] Then the Lady Layonnesse said: "I pray you tell us who is this champion who hath thus set me free from my oppressor?" and Lynette said: "That I know not, only this I may tell you: that at the court of King Arthur there would no knight undertake the adventure because I would not declare your name and your degree before the King's court there assembled. Then there arose a youth of whom Sir Kay made great scorn and said that he was a kitchen knave hight Beaumains and the youth did not deny that saying. And King Arthur gave him leave to go with me and undertake this quest, and the youth did so. So we travelled together. And I was very angry because I thought that King Arthur had given me a kitchen knave for my champion instead of a good worthy knight, and so I treated Beaumains with great scorn, but ever he repaid all my scorn with very patient and courteous speeches. So he followed me hither and now he is that champion who hath just now overthrown thine enemy." Then the Lady Layonnesse cried out, "What matters it if this young knight is a kitchen knave? Lo! he is my champion and hath risked his life for my sake. So because he hath fought that battle for me I will even raise him up to sit beside me, so that whatsoever honors are mine, they shall be his honors also. For if so be he is now lowly, then by me shall he be exalted above the heads of all you that are hereabouts." [Sidenote: _Lynette defendeth Beaumains._] So said the Lady Layonnesse, and thereat Lynette laughed with great heartiness. And when she had ended her laughter, she said, "My sister, I believe that it shall not be necessary for you to lift up this young knight. For if we should come to know who he really is, it might well be that we should discover that it is he who would exalt you rather than you would exalt him. For this champion can be no such kitchen knave as he pretends to be, but rather is he some one of great worth and of high degree. For several days I have so tried the patience of this knight that I do not believe that any one was ever so tried before. But although I so tried him very sorely he was always passing patient and gentle with me. Think you that any kitchen knave would be so patient as that? Moreover, I have beheld this knight in this short while fight six battles, and always he bore himself with such haughtiness and courage that were he an old and well-seasoned Knight of the Round Table of the King he could not have proved himself to be more noble or more worthy. You yourself have beheld to-day how he did battle against the Red Knight who is certes one of the greatest knights in the world, seeing that he hath never before been overcome; you have beheld how he hath suffered wounds and the danger of death; think you then that any kitchen knave could have fought such a battle as you beheld him fight? Nay, my sister, rather this young knight is someone of a very great and high estate." Then Sir Gringamore spake, saying: "Lynette speaketh very truly, my sister, and in good sooth I believe that this is no kitchen knave, but one who is sprung from the blood of right champions. Now tell me, Lynette, I pray thee, is there no one who knoweth this knight who he really is?" and Lynette replied: "Yea, there is one who knoweth and that is the dwarf Axatalese. He could tell us who this knight really is, for he hath followed him for a long time every where he hath gone." Then Sir Gringamore bethought him for a little while, and anon he said: "Meseemeth it is needful that we have this dwarf for so only shall we come to know who that knight is. Now thou and I and Lynette will go down to the place of those pavilions. And thou shalt go to the pavilion of the knight and bring the dwarf out thence, for I doubt not he will come at thy bidding. Meantime, whilst thou are finding that dwarf I shall be hidden in some secret place, and when thou hast brought him near enough to me I will leap out upon him and will catch him. Then we will fetch him hither, and it will go hard but we learn who this knight is." So it was done as Sir Gringamore said; for he and the damsel Lynette went to a place nigh to the place of pavilions where there was a hedge. And Sir Gringamore hid him behind the hedge and so after he was hidden Lynette went alone to the pavilion of the Red Knight where Sir Gareth lay. Now at that time they all slept, even to the guard that surrounded the tent. And so Lynette passed through their midst and none heard her. And Lynette came to the pavilion where Sir Gareth lay and she lifted the curtain of the door of the tent and looked within and beheld Sir Gareth where he lay sleeping upon a couch with a night-light burning very faintly near by him. And she beheld where the dwarf Axatalese lay sleeping near to the door of the tent. Then Lynette entered the pavilion very softly and she reached out and touched Axatalese upon the shoulder and therewith he immediately awoke. And Axatalese was astonished at beholding the damsel at that place, but Lynette laid her finger upon her lips and whispered very low to him, "Say naught, Axatalese, but follow me." And Axatalese did so. So the maiden brought Axatalese out of the pavilion and he followed her in silence. And she brought him through the other pavilions and still ever he followed her in silence and no one stayed them in their going. So Axatalese followed Lynette and she led him by a path that brought them out of the field where the pavilions were and to that place near by where Sir Gringamore lay hidden behind the hawthorn hedge. Then when Axatalese was come very close to that place Sir Gringamore leaped out of a sudden from the thicket and catched him. And Axatalese lifted up his voice and fell to yelling very loud and shrill, but anon Sir Gringamore clapped his hand upon the mouth of the creature and silenced him. And Sir Gringamore drew his miseracordia and set it at the throat of Axatalese and said to him, "Sirrah, be silent, if you would live." And at that Axatalese ceased to struggle and was perfectly silent. Then Sir Gringamore released his hand from the mouth of Axatalese and Axatalese was afraid to utter any further outcry. [Sidenote: _They bring Axatalese to the castle._] So after that Sir Gringamore and Lynette brought Axatalese to the castle and into the castle. And they brought him to that place where the Lady Layonnesse awaited their coming. Then, when they were safely come to that place, Sir Gringamore said to Axatalese, "Sirrah Dwarf, tell us who is that knight, thy master, and what is his degree?" And Axatalese cried out, "Alas, Messire, harm me not." Quoth Sir Gringamore, "No harm shall befall thee, only speak as I bid thee and tell us who thy master is." [Sidenote: _Axatalese telleth of Sir Gareth._] Then Axatalese trembling with fear, said: "Fair Messire, the knight my master is hight Sir Gareth and he is the son of King Lot of Orkney and the Queen Margaise, the sister of King Arthur, and so it is that he is right brother of those noble worthy champions, Sir Gawaine and Sir Gaheris, and he is the brother of Sir Mordred of Orkney." Now when Lynette heard the words that Axatalese spoke she smote her hands very violently together and she cried out in a loud and piercing voice: "Said I not so? Well did I know that this was no kitchen knave, but otherwise that he was some very noble and worthy knight. So he is, for there is none better in all the world than he. Rejoice, my sister, for here indeed is a great honor that hath befallen thee. For this is a very worthy champion to have saved thee from thy distresses." And the Lady Layonnesse said: "Sister, I do indeed rejoice and that beyond all measure." And she turned her to Sir Gringamore and said: "My brother, let us straightway hasten and go to this worthy knight so that we may give him such thanks as is fitting for one of his degree to receive." "Nay," quoth Sir Gringamore, "not so. Rather let us wait until to-morrow and until he has altogether rested himself from this day of battle. Meantime, I will take this dwarf back whence we brought him and to-morrow we will pay Sir Gareth all due honor." [Sidenote: _Sir Gringamore payeth court to Sir Gareth._] So it was as Sir Gringamore ordained. For first he took Axatalese back to the place of the pavilions, and after that they waited until the morn. And when the morn was come Sir Gringamore and the Lady Layonnesse and Lynette went down to that place of the pavilions and to the pavilion of Sir Gareth, and the Lady Layonnesse and the damsel Lynette waited outside of the tent and Sir Gringamore entered thereinto. And Sir Gringamore came to where Sir Gareth lay and he saluted Sir Gareth saying, "Save you, Sir Gareth of Orkney." Then Sir Gareth was greatly astonished and he said: "How know you my name and my degree, Messire?" And Sir Gringamore said: "Sir, my sister the damsel Lynette, and I, catched thy dwarf last night and took him away to my sister's castle. There we compelled him to tell us who you were, and so we had knowledge of your name and your condition." And Sir Gringamore said: "Sir Gareth, we are rejoiced beyond measure that you have so greatly honored us as to come hither and to serve as the champion of my sister, the Lady Layonnesse. Now if you will suffer her to have speech with you, she standeth without the door of the pavilion." And Sir Gareth said, "Let her come in for I would fain see her near at hand." [Sidenote: _The Lady Layonnesse cometh to Sir Gareth._] So Sir Gringamore went out of the pavilion and immediately he returned, bringing the Lady Layonnesse and Lynette with him. And the Lady Layonnesse came and kneeled down beside the couch whereon Sir Gareth lay. And Sir Gareth saw her face near by and he saw that it was ten times more beautiful than he had supposed it to be when he saw it from a distance at the upper window of the Castle Dangerous as aforetold of. And Sir Gareth loved her from that moment with all his heart and from that time forth his love never wavered from her. That day they brought Sir Gareth to the castle in a litter and Sir Gareth abided at the castle for a fortnight and in that time he was altogether healed of his hurts that he had got in his battle with the Red Knight. And ever Sir Gareth loved the Lady Layonnesse more and more and ever she loved him in like manner. So they were continually together and it was said of all that heaven had never sent to the earth two more beautiful young creatures than they. Then at the end of that fortnight aforesaid, Sir Gareth said: "Now it behooves me to return to the court of the King to proclaim myself to my brothers. For since I have succeeded in overthrowing the Red Knight of the Red Lands and so of achieving this adventure, I believe I am not unworthy to proclaim myself even unto my brothers." So spake Sir Gareth, and to this the Lady Layonnesse replied: "Sir, it is indeed well that you return to the court of the King. But when you go I beseech you that you will permit my brother, Sir Gringamore, and my sister Lynette, and I myself for to go with you. For so you who departed alone will return with a company of those who love and honor you." Thus said the Lady Layonnesse for it had come to pass by this time that she could not bear to be parted from Sir Gareth even for so short a while as a few days. [Sidenote: _They all depart for the court of the King._] Accordingly, it was done as she said and straightway preparation was made for their departure. So the next day they took leave of the Castle Dangerous for a while, betaking their way with a considerable court of knights, esquires, and attendants to the King's court at Carleon where the King was at that time still abiding. * * * * * Now return we to the court of King Arthur ere those others shall come thither, so that we may see how it befell at that place after the departure of the kitchen knave Beaumains. Now it hath been told how that Sir Kay departed to follow after Beaumains for to have a fall of him; and it hath been told how that Sir Kay returned to court upon a gray mule; and it hath been told how that Sir Kay was made the mock and laughing-stock, all because of the misadventure that had befallen him. After that there passed five days, and at the end of that time there came Sir Perard to the court with the word that Sir Gareth had bidden him for to carry thither; to wit, that the kitchen knave, Beaumains, hath beaten him in battle and had sent him thither for to pay his duty unto the King. [Sidenote: _How the several knights do homage._] Then King Arthur said: "'Fore Heaven! What sort of a kitchen knave is this to overcome so brave and well-seasoned a knight as Sir Perard? This can be no kitchen knave, but rather is he some youth of very heroic race who hath been dwelling for all this while unknown in our midst, in the guise of a kitchen knave." So said the King. And Sir Gawaine said, "Lord, I may well believe that what you say is indeed the case." Then two days after Sir Perard had come to Carleon in that wise, there came thither that knight whom Sir Gareth had saved from the six thieves. And he brought a very considerable court of esquires and attendants with him; and he also told of the further doings of Sir Gareth. And when they at Carleon heard those things, both the King and the court made loud marvel and acclaim that Beaumains should have become so wonderful a champion as to do those things that were told of him. After that there passed a week and at the end of that time there came Sir Percevant of Hind with a great court of knights and esquires accompanying him; and he also brought the same word that Sir Perard had done; to wit, that Beaumains, the kitchen knave, had overcome him in battle and had sent him to the King's court for to pay his duty to the King. And at that King Arthur and all of his court knew not what to think of a kitchen knave who should do such wonderful works. So passed a fortnight and at the end of that time there came the Red Knight of the Red Lands, walking afoot and without shield or armor but surrounded by even a greater court of knights and esquires than Sir Percevant had brought with him. And he also brought the same word to the King--that the kitchen knave, Beaumains, had overcome him and had sent him thither to pay his duty to the King. And besides this he told the King many things concerning this same Beaumains that the others had not told; to wit, how Beaumains had carried his adventure of the Castle Dangerous through to a worthy ending and how that he was even then lodging at the castle of the Lady Layonnesse of Granderegard. So when King Arthur and his court heard all these things, he and they wist not what to think, but marvelled as to who this extraordinary young champion was. [Sidenote: _Queen Margaise cometh to court._] Now the day after the Red Knight of the Red Lands had come to Carleon as aforetold, it befell that there came to the court of the King an herald; and the herald brought news that Queen Margaise of Orkney was even then upon her way for to visit the King. Then King Arthur was very glad that his sister was coming thither for he loved her above all others of his kin. So it came to pass that when the day after the next day had come, Queen Margaise reached the court of the King as she had promised to do, and the King and the court gave her royal greeting. Then Queen Margaise looked all about and by and by she said, "Where is my son Gareth whom I sent thitherward a year ago?" At that King Arthur was very much astonished, and for a little he wist not what to think; then he said, "I know of no such one as Gareth." [Sidenote: _Queen Margaise grieveth for Sir Gareth._] Upon this Queen Margaise was filled with anxiety, for she wist not what to believe had happened to her son. So her color changed several times and several times she tried to speak and could not. Then at last she did speak, saying: "Woe is me if harm should have befallen him, for certes he is the very flower of all my children." Then King Arthur took suddenly thought of Beaumains and he said: "Sister, take heart and look up, for I believe that no harm but rather great honor hath befallen thy son. Now tell me, did he come hither about the time of the feast of Pentecost a year ago?" And the Queen said, "Yea." Then King Arthur said: "Tell me, was thy son fair of face and had he ruddy hair and was he tall and broad of girth and had he a dwarf named Axatalese with him?" And the Queen said, "Yea, that was he!" Then King Arthur said: "He hath been here, but we knew him not." And the Queen said, "What hath befallen him?" Then King Arthur told the Queen his sister all that had befallen. For he told her how that Gareth had come thither and in what guise; and he told her how Gareth had dwelt all that year unknown at the court under the name of Beaumains because of the whiteness of his hands; and he told her how that Beaumains had gone forth upon that adventure to the Castle Dangerous; and he told her how he had succeeded in that adventure; and he told her of the several other things that are herein told, and ever Queen Margaise listened to him. But when King Arthur had finished his telling the Queen was very angry and she said: "Methinks, my brother, that you should have known my son for one of high and noble degree, even though he were clad in green as you tell me and even though he did beseech no greater boon of you than food and drink and lodging. For certes there was ever that in his bearing that bespake better things than these." [Sidenote: _King Arthur placates Queen Margaise._] Then King Arthur, speaking very mildly, said: "My sister, how may one know another, his name and his degree, only by looking in his face? Yet wit you that had I not thought there was somewhat high and noble about this youth I had not given him leave to undertake this adventure in which he hath succeeded so very gloriously." So spake King Arthur, but Queen Margaise was hardly yet appeased, nor was she pacified for a long time afterward. Then, at last, she was pacified. Now a day or two after this time the King called Sir Gawaine and Sir Gaheris to him and he said to these two: "Take you a noble court of knights and gentlemen and go you forth and find your brother and bring him hither to our court in all such royal estate as is befitting for such a knight to enjoy. For of a surety it will be a great honor for to have such a knight amongst us." Then Sir Gawaine and Sir Gaheris were much pleased that the King should so favor their brother, wherefore they fulfilled that command to the full, for they chose them such a court as was as noble as possible, and they set forth upon that journey as the King had commanded. [Sidenote: _Sir Gawaine and Sir Gaheris depart to find Sir Gareth._] So they travelled for one whole day and for a part of another day, and toward the afternoon of that second day they beheld a great company of knights and lords and ladies ahorseback coming toward them. And many esquires and attendants accompanied that fair company, and they so shone with cloth of gold and with many jewels and with bright shining armor that it bedazzled the eyes to look upon them. And Sir Gawaine and Sir Gaheris wondered what lordly company that could be. And when that company had come nearer, they two perceived that at the head thereof there rode two knights in armor and two ladies upon ambling palfreys and they saw that the two ladies were very beautiful. And when that company had come still nearer Sir Gawaine and Sir Gaheris perceived that one of those knights who rode with the ladies was none other than him whom they had aforetime called "Beaumains"; and that one of the damsels was the damsel Lynette who had come to court a short time before. [Sidenote: _They meet Sir Gareth upon the way._] Then when Sir Gawaine and Sir Gaheris perceived their brother at the head of that company they immediately set spurs to horse and raced forward to meet him with all speed they could command. And when they had come to where Sir Gareth was, they leaped down from off their horses and ran to him, crying aloud, "Brother, Brother!" and Sir Gareth leaped down from his horse and ran to them and so they kissed and embraced each other upon the highroad, weeping for joy. Thus it was that Sir Gareth was acknowledged by those two noble and worthy knights-champion, his brothers, and so his kindred met him and gave him welcome. * * * * * [Sidenote: _Sir Gareth becometh a Knight of the Round Table._] And now it remains but few things to say; for there remaineth only to be said that Sir Gareth was received at the court with such rejoicings as you may well suppose. And it remaineth to be said that at that same time there suddenly appeared upon one of the seats of the Round Table near to the seat of Sir Launcelot of the Lake a name in letters of gold, and the name was this: GARETH OF ORKNEY. For from that time Sir Gareth became a Knight of the Round Table, being elected thereto in that miraculous way that was usual in the case of those who were chosen for that high and worshipful companionship. And it remaineth to be told that in a little while Sir Gareth was wedded to the Lady Layonnesse with great pomp and ceremony and that thereafter he returned with her to the Castle Dangerous of which he was now the lord. And in after times Sir Gareth became one of the most famous of all the knights of the Table Round, so that much is told of him in divers books of chivalry. Yet there shall be no more told of his adventures at this place, albeit there may be more said concerning him in another book which shall follow this book. Yet it is to be said that these are the most famous adventures that befel him, and that the history of Gareth and Lynette is the one which is most often told of in stories and sung in ballads and poems. * * * * * So endeth the Story of Gareth of Orkney, which same was told at this place in part because it is a good worthy history to tell at any place, and in part because that time in which he did battle with and was knighted by Sir Launcelot, as aforetold, was the only time that Sir Launcelot was seen by any of the court of King Arthur until after he had accomplished the Adventure of the Worm of Corbin. For that which followeth dealeth of the adventure of the Worm of Corbin and with how that Sir Launcelot overcame that dragon and became acquainted with the Lady Elaine the Fair, who was the mother of Sir Galahad, who was the flower of all chivalry. Wherefore, if you would know that part of the history of Sir Launcelot that relates to those things, you must needs read that which is written hereinafter. [Illustration] PART III The Story of Sir Launcelot and Elaine the Fair _Here followeth the history of Sir Launcelot's wanderings and of how he came to the town of Corbin, and of how he slew the great Worm of Corbin that for somewhiles brought sorrow and death to the folk of Corbin. Here you shall also read the history of Elaine the Fair, the King's daughter of Corbin, and of how for her sake Sir Launcelot fought in the tournament at Astolat. All these and several other things are herein duly set forth, so that, should you please to read that which is hereafter written, I believe you shall find a great deal of pleasure and entertainment in that history._ [Illustration: How Sir Launcelot held discourse with ye merry Minstrels.] [Illustration] Chapter First _How Sir Launcelot rode errant and how he assumed to undertake the Adventure of the Worm of Corbin._ And now you shall be told how it befell Sir Launcelot after that he had fought with Sir Gareth and had made him knight as told in the history of Sir Gareth. * * * * * You are to know that after Sir Launcelot left Sir Gareth he went his way very cheerfully, and many times he bethought him of how the damsel Lynette had taken Sir Gareth to be a kitchen knave, and at that thought he would laugh with great joy of so excellent a jest. [Sidenote: _Sir Launcelot rideth errant._] So with great cheerfulness of spirit he rode ever onward upon his way, whilst the daylight slanted farther and farther toward sunset. And, after awhile, the sun sunk in the West, and the silence of the twilight fell like to a soft mantle of silence upon the entire earth. The darkness fell, the earth melted here and there into shadow and every sound came very clear and loud as though the bright and luminous sky that arched overhead was a great hollow bell of crystal that echoed back every sudden noise with extraordinary clearness. Then Sir Launcelot was both hungry and athirst and he wist not where he might find refreshment to satisfy the needs of his body. [Sidenote: _Sir Launcelot meeteth the strolling minstrels._] So, thinking of food and drink, he was presently aware of the light of a fire shining in the gray of the falling twilight and thitherward he directed his way, and in a little pass, he came to where there was a merry party of strolling minstrels gathered around about that bright and cheerful fire. Some of these fellows were clad in blue and some in yellow and some in red and some in green and some in raiment pied of many colors. And all they were eating with great appetite a savory stew of mutton and lentils seasoned with onions and washed down with lusty draughts of ale and wine which they poured forth, ever and anon, from big round-bellied skins into horns and cups that were held to catch it. These jolly fellows, beholding Sir Launcelot coming to them through the dusk, gave him welcome with loud voices of acclaim and besought him to descend from horseback and to eat with them, and Sir Launcelot was right glad to do so. So he dismounted from his horse and eased it of its saddle and turned it loose to browse as it listed upon the grass of the wayside. And he laid aside his shield and his spear and his sword and his helmet and he sat him down with those minstrels and fell to eating and drinking with might and main. And the minstrels bade him to take good cheer and to eat and drink all that he desired and Sir Launcelot did so. [Sidenote: _The minstrels chaunt._] Then, after Sir Launcelot and the minstrels had supped their fill, those lusty fellows brought forth other skins of wine and filling again the several cups and flagons they all fell to drinking and making merry. And several of the minstrels brought forth lutes and others brought forth viols, and anon he who was the chief minstrel called upon one to stand forth and sing, and that fellow did so, chaunting a rondel in praise of his sweetheart's eyes. After that, another sang of battle and still another sang in praise of pleasant living; meantime the others accompanied, with lute and viol, those who sang, and Sir Launcelot listened to their music with great pleasure of heart. All about them lay the deep silence of the moonlit night with only that one red spot of fire and of cheerful mirth in the midst of it, and the fire shone very bright upon the armor of the knight and lit up all those quaint fellows in red and green and yellow and blue and pied so that they stood forth against the blackness behind them as though they had been carved out from it with a sharp knife. Then he who was chief among the minstrels said to Sir Launcelot, "Messire, will ye not also sing?" At this Sir Launcelot laughed, and quoth he: "Nay, good fellows, I cannot sing as ye do, but I will tell ye a story an ye list to hear me." [Sidenote: _Sir Launcelot telleth a conte._] At that they all cried out to tell them that story and thereupon he did so, telling them a certain goodly conte of two knights who loved a lady, but she loved neither of them, having set her heart upon an esquire of low degree. So of these two knights the one became an hermit and the other by force of his knighthood brought it to pass that the esquire was exalted from his squirehood to become a king. But when the esquire became a king the lady would have none of him, but turned her love to the knight who had exalted him to his high estate. So the lady left the esquire who was king and married the noble knight who had made him king, and so, having made choice of the greatest and the noblest of all the three, she dwelt happily with him to the end of her life. To this the minstrels listed in silence and when Sir Launcelot had finished they gave him great applause without measure. After that the minstrels sang again and Sir Launcelot told them another tale of chivalry; and so with good cheer the night passed pleasantly away until the great round moon, bright and full like to a bubble of shining silver, floated high in the sky above their heads, very bright and as glorious as day and bathing all the world in a flood of still white light, most wonderful to behold. [Sidenote: _Sir Launcelot would leave the minstrels._] Then perceiving it to be midnight, Sir Launcelot bestirred himself, and he said: "Good fellows, I thank ye with all my heart for the entertainment ye have given me, but now I am refreshed I must go again upon my way." To this he who was chief among the minstrels said: "Sir Knight, we would fain that you would remain with us to-night and would travel with us upon our way to-morrow, for indeed you are the pleasantest and cheerfulest knight that ever we met in all of our lives." [Sidenote: _He asketh of some adventure._] At this Sir Launcelot laughed with great good will, and he said: "Good fellows, I give you gramercy for your fair regard. Ye are indeed a merry company and were I not a knight methinks I would rather be one of your party than one of any other company that ever I fell in with. But it may not be, for, lo! I am a knight and I must e'en go about my business as becometh one who weareth spurs of gold. So here and now we part. Ne'theless you may haply do me one service, and that is to tell me whether anywhere hereabout is to be found an adventure such as may beseem a knight of good credit to undertake." Upon this one of those minstrels spake saying: "Messire, I know where there is an adventure, which, if you achieve it, will bring you such great credit that I believe Sir Launcelot of the Lake himself would not have greater credit than you." At this Sir Launcelot laughed with great good will. "Well," quoth he, "I would not be overbold, yet this I may say, that anything Sir Launcelot of the Lake might not fear to undertake, that also I shall not fear to assume, and whatever he might find strength to do that also I may hope to accomplish. For indeed I may tell ye that I hold myself to be altogether as good and worthy a knight as ever is Sir Launcelot of the Lake." "Ha!" quoth the chief minstrel, "I perceive, Sir Knight, that thou hast a very good opinion of thyself. Now, were Sir Launcelot here, haply thou wouldst not venture to reckon thyself so high as thou now dost." At that all those minstrels laughed in great measure, and Sir Launcelot laughed with them as loud as any. "Good fellows," said he, "I believe I reckon myself to be no better than another man born of woman, yet this I have to say: Oftentimes have I beheld Sir Launcelot and sometimes have I contended against his will, but never at any time have I found him to be stronger or worthier than am I myself. But let us not debate so small a matter as this. Let us instead learn what is that adventure concerning which yonder good fellow hath to advise us." "Messire," quoth the minstrel, "have ye ever heard tell of the Worm of Corbin?" "Nay," said Sir Launcelot, "but tell thou me of it." [Sidenote: _The minstrel telleth of the Worm of Corbin._] "Sir," said the minstrel, "I will do so. You are to know that some ways to a considerable distance to the eastward of this place there is a very large fair noble town hight Corbin; and the King of that country is King Pelles. Now one time it chanced that Queen Morgana le Fay and the Queen of North Wales were upon a visit to Corbin, and whilst they were there there was given in that place a great jousting and feast in their honor. [Sidenote: _Of the damsel who came to the feast of the King._] "Whilst King Pelles sat at table with the two queens (all of his court and his daughter Elaine the Fair being with him) there came into the pavilion where the feast was held a wonderfully fair damsel, tall and straight and clad from top to toe in flame-colored satin. In her hand she bare a paten of silver and upon the paten was a napkin, and on the napkin there was a wonderful ring of gold set with a clear blue stone. And the damsel spoke in a voice both high and clear, saying: 'Lords and Ladies, here have I a ring that may only be worn by the fairest and worthiest lady in this room.' "At these words, as you may suppose, there was a great deal of wonder and much expectation, and a great deal of talk. For some said that one lady should by rights have that ring and some said that another lady should have it. [Sidenote: _Of how Queen Morgana tryeth the ring._] "Now the first to essay that ring was Queen Morgana le Fay, for she supposed that this was a masque devised by King Pelles in honor of her. So she took the ring in her hand and essayed to pass it upon her finger, but lo! it would not pass the first joint thereof. "At that Queen Morgana was filled with wrath, but still she dissembled her anger and sat, waiting to see what would next befall. [Sidenote: _Of how the Queen of North Wales tryeth the ring._] "So after Queen Morgana le Fay had thus failed to wear that ring, the Queen of North Wales said unto herself, 'Haply King Pelles may intend this ring for me.' So she also took the ring and would have placed it upon her finger, but lo! it grew so large that it would not stay where it was placed, but fell off upon the table before the whole court of the King. "At this many who were there laughed aloud, and thereat the Queen of North Wales was filled with anger and mortification as much as Queen Morgana le Fay had been. But she also dissembled her anger before the court and sat to watch what would befall. "So after these two queens had so essayed, several others of the ladies who were there each tried to put the ring upon her finger, but no one could do so, for either it was too large, or else it was too small. Then last of all the Lady Elaine the Fair, the King's daughter, essayed the adventure of the ring, and lo! it fitted her as exactly as though it had been made for her. "At this both of those two queens aforesaid were more angered than ever, for each said to herself, 'Certes, this King hath done this to put affront upon us.' So that night they communed together what they should do to punish King Pelles of Corbin and the Town of Corbin for that affront which they deemed themselves to have suffered. [Sidenote: _Of how Queen Morgana layeth a curse upon the town._] "Now the next morning those two queens quitted the court, and as they and their attendants passed by the market-place of the town they perceived where there lay a great flat stone that marked the centre of the town. Then Queen Morgana le Fay cried out: 'See ye yonder stone! Beneath that slab there shall breed a great Worm and that Worm shall bring sorrow and dole to this place ten thousand times more than the shame which I suffered here yesterday. For that stone shall be enchanted so that no man may lift it. And beneath that stone the Worm shall live; and ever and anon it shall come forth and seize some fair young virgin of this town and shall bear her away to its hiding-place and shall there devour her for its food.' "So it was as the Queen said, and now that Worm dwelleth at Corbin beneath the stone, and ever bringeth sorrow and death to that place. And it cometh out only at night, so that the terror of the Worm of Corbin is greater than it would otherwise be, for no eye hath ever beheld it in its comings and its goings. So if any champion shall achieve the death of that Worm, he shall be held to have done a deed worthy of Sir Launcelot of the Lake himself." "Friend," said Sir Launcelot, "thou sayest true and that were indeed a most worthy quest for any knight to undertake. As for me, I am so eager to enter upon that quest that I can hardly stay my patience." With this saying, Sir Launcelot rose from where he sat; and he whistled his horse to him and when his horse had come to where he was he put the saddle upon its back. And he took his shield and spear in his hand and mounted upon his charger and made him ready to leave that place. But ere he departed, the chief minstrel and several others came to him, and the chief minstrel laid his hand upon the horse's neck and he said: "I pray you, Messire, tell us who you are who have seen Sir Launcelot of the Lake so often and who declare yourself to be as good a knight as he." [Sidenote: _Sir Launcelot revealeth himself to the minstrels._] Then Sir Launcelot laughed and he said: "Good friend, I am riding errant as you behold. In these my travels I would fain withhold my name from the knowledge of men. Nevertheless, since we have eaten and drunk together, and since we have cohabited in good fellowship together, I will tell you that I myself am that very Sir Launcelot whom ye appear to hold in such high regard. Wherefore it is that I am, certes, as good as he could possibly be, let that be saying much or saying little." So saying, Sir Launcelot set spurs to his horse and rode away and left them astonished at his words. And long after he had left those merry fellows he could hear their voices in the distance babbling together very loud with wonder that Sir Launcelot of the Lake had been amongst them for all that time without any one of them suspecting him who he was. For by this time all the world knew Sir Launcelot of the Lake to be the greatest champion that ever the world had seen from the very beginning unto that time. * * * * * After that, Sir Launcelot rode forward upon his way toward the eastward through the moonlit night, and by and by he entered a great space of forest land. And somewhile after he had entered that woodland the summer day began to dawn and all the birds began at first to chirp and then to sing very blithely and with a great multitude of happy voices from out of every leafy thicket. Then up leapt the jolly sun and touched all the upper leafage of the trees and turned them into gold. [Sidenote: _Sir Launcelot beholdeth Corbin._] And anon the sun rose high and higher and when it was very high in the heavens Sir Launcelot came out of the forest into an open country of level meadows and of pasture-lands. And in the midst of that place, a great way off, he beheld where there was a fair walled town set upon a hill with a smooth shining river at its foot, and he wist that this must be the Town of Corbin of which the strolling minstrels had told him the night before. So Sir Launcelot rode forward and drew near the town. And as he drew closer to it he thought that this was one of the fairest towns that ever he had beheld in all of his life. For the castle of the town and the houses of the town were all built else of stone or else of brick, and a thousand windows sparkled in the brightness of the day, shining like to stars in heaven. And the river that flowed beside the town wound down between fair green meadows which lay upon either side, and betwixt banks of reeds and rushes and pollard willows, and it was like to a great serpent of pure silver lying in the grass. The walls of the castle and the walls of the town came down to the river, and stood with their feet, as it were, in the clear and crystal-bright water, and there were trees that overhung the water upon this side and upon that, and there was a bridge with three arches that crossed over the river and led to the town. All these things Sir Launcelot beheld and so it was that the town appeared exceedingly pleasant to his eyes. [Sidenote: _Sir Launcelot bespeaks the town's folk._] Now when Sir Launcelot had come pretty close to the town he met a party of town-folk with several pack-mules hung with bells and laden with parcels of goods. These Sir Launcelot bespoke, saying, "I pray ye, fair folk, tell me, is this the Town of Corbin?" Thereunto they replied, "Yea, Sir Knight, this is that town." Sir Launcelot said, "Why are ye so sad and downcast?" Whereunto the chief of that party--a right reverend man with a long white beard--made reply: "Sir Knight, wherefore do you ask us why we are sad? Whence come you that you have not heard how we are cursed in this town by a Worm that torments us very grievously; and how is it that you have not heard tell how that Worm devoureth every now and then a tender virgin from our midst?" "Sir," quoth Sir Launcelot, "I have indeed heard of this Worm that bringeth you so much woe and dole. Know ye that it is because of this very Worm that I have come hither. For I purpose, if God's grace be with me, to destroy that vile thing and so to set ye all free from the curse that lies upon you!" "Alas, Sir Knight," quoth the old man, speaking very sorrowfully, "I do not doubt that you are possessed of all the courage necessary for this undertaking, yet for all that you may not hope to succeed in your quest. For even if you were able to slay the Worm, yet you could not come at it. For you are to know that it lyeth beneath a great stone and that the stone is sealed by magic which Queen Morgana le Fay set upon it so that no man may raise it from where it lyeth." [Sidenote: _Sir Launcelot speaketh words of cheer._] Then Sir Launcelot spoke words of good cheer to that old man and to his companions, saying: "Let that be as it may, yet for all that ye need not despair of succor. Know ye not that naught can be achieved until it first be essayed? As for that enchantment that lyeth upon the stone, I tell ye this: Behold this ring which I wear upon my finger! It is sovereign against all magic whatsoever, wherefore I know that the spells which bind this stone into its place cannot prevail against the counter magic of this ring. So ye shall be well assured that I shall lift that stone, and after that, when it shall be lifted and when it shall come to battle betwixt me and that Worm, then shall the issue lie altogether with God, His Grace and Mercy." [Sidenote: _How Sir Launcelot entered Corbin._] Now when those who were there heard what Sir Launcelot said, their hearts were filled with hope and joy, for it seemed to them that here indeed might be a champion who should deliver them out of their distresses. Wherefore when they heard his words they presently lifted up their voices in loud acclaim, some crying, "God be with you!" and some crying, "God save you from destruction!" some crying this, and some crying that. Then Sir Launcelot smiled upon them and said, "Save you good people," and therewith set spurs to flank and rode away. But many of those who were there went with him, running beside his horse, seeking to touch him and even to touch the horse which he rode. And all the time they gave him loud acclaim without measure and without stint. For the virtue of Sir Launcelot went forth from him like a shining light wherefore it seemed to them that here was one who should certainly free them from the curse that lay upon them. * * * * * And thus it was that Sir Launcelot of the Lake rode across that three-spanned bridge and into the Town of Corbin and so to his adventure with the Worm of Corbin. [Illustration: Sir Launcelot slayeth the Worm of Corbin:] [Illustration] Chapter Second _How Sir Launcelot slew the Worm of Corbin, and how he was carried thereafter to the Castle of Corbin and to King Pelles and to the Lady Elaine the Fair._ [Sidenote: _The folk of the town welcome Sir Launcelot._] So thus it was that Sir Launcelot entered the town of Corbin to slay the Dragon that lay beneath the stone. And with his coming a great multitude gathered very quickly, hurrying from all sides, crying out and blessing him as he rode forward upon his way. And ever a great roar of voices sounded all about him like to the noise of many waters. [Sidenote: _Sir Launcelot cometh to the place of the Dragon._] So, upborn by that multitude, Sir Launcelot went forward very steadfastly toward the market-place of the town, in the midst of which lay that great stone, aforetold of, with the Worm beneath it. And when he had reached the place, he bade the multitude abide where they were. So, upon that command, the people stood afar off, and Sir Launcelot went forward alone to where was the slab of stone. And he looked down upon the slab and beheld that it was very flat and wide and so big that three men might hardly hope to lift it. Besides this, he beheld that it had been sealed by magic as had been reported to him, for many strange letters and figures had been engraved into the face of the stone. Now you are to remember that it was aforetold of in the "Book of the Champions of the Round Table" that Sir Launcelot wore upon his finger a ring which the Lady of the Lake had given him when he quitted the Lake; and you all remember that that ring was of such a sort that he who wore it might dissolve all evil magic or enchantment against which he should direct his efforts. Wherefore it was that Sir Launcelot was aware, as he had already told the people outside of the walls of the town, that he might lift that stone even if another, because of the magic that was upon it, should not be able to stir it where it lay. So Sir Launcelot put aside his sword and his shield and he went forward to the slab and he seized the slab in both of his hands. And he bent his back and lifted, and lo! the bands of enchantment that lay upon the stone were snapped and the slab moved and stirred in the bed wherein it lay. [Sidenote: _Sir Launcelot lifteth the stone._] Then when the multitude of the people who gazed upon him beheld the slab how it moved and stirred in its bed, a great shout went up from several thousand lips like to one mighty voice of outcry. Therewith Sir Launcelot bent again to the stone and heaved with all his might. And lo! he lifted the stone and he raised it and he rolled it over upon the earth. Then he looked down into the hole that was beneath the stone and he was aware that there lay something in the hole that moved. And anon he beheld two green and glassy eyes that opened upon him and looked up at him from out of the hole; and he beheld that those eyes were covered over as with a thin film to shelter them from the dazzling light of the daytime. And as Sir Launcelot gazed he beheld that that thing which lay within the hole began to crawl out of the hole, and Sir Launcelot beheld that it was a huge worm, covered all over with livid scales as hard as flint. And the Worm lifted the fore part of its body to the height of a tall man and gaped very dreadfully with a great mouth an ell wide, and all glistening with three rows of white and shining teeth. And Sir Launcelot beheld that the Worm had as many as a thousand feet, and that each foot was armed with a great claw like the claw of a lion, as hard as flint, and very venomous with poison. And the Worm hissed at Sir Launcelot. And its breath was like the odor of Death. [Sidenote: _The Worm of Corbin cometh forth._] Such was that dreadful terrible Worm that lay beneath the stone at Corbin. And when the people of the town saw it thus appear before them in the broad light of day, they shrieked aloud with the terror of that which they beheld. For it was like to something that had come to life out of a dreadful dream, and it did not seem possible that such a thing should ever have been beheld by the living eyes of man. But Sir Launcelot beholding the Worm in all its terror leaped to where was his sword and he seized his sword in both hands and he ran at the Worm and lashed at it a blow so mighty that it might easily have split an oak tree. But the scales of the Worm were like adamant for hardness wherefore the stroke of the sword pierced them not but glanced aside without harming the creature. Then when the Worm felt itself thus smitten, it hissed again in a manner very terrible and loud, and it reached out toward Sir Launcelot and strove to catch him into the embrace of a hundred of its sharp claws. But Sir Launcelot sprang aside from the embraces of the Worm and he smote it again and again, yet could not in any wise cut through the scales that covered its body. And at every blow the Worm hissed more terribly and sought to catch Sir Launcelot into its embraces. [Sidenote: _Sir Launcelot doeth battle with the Worm._] Thus for a long time Sir Launcelot avoided the Worm, but, by and by it came to pass that he began to wax faint and weary with leaping from side to side, weighed down as he was with his armor. So, at last, it befell that the Worm catched Sir Launcelot in the hook of one of its claws, and thereupon they who looked on at that battle beheld how in a moment it had embraced Sir Launcelot in several hundred of its claws so that his body was wellnigh hidden in that embrace. And the Worm, when it so held Sir Launcelot in its embrace, tore at him with its claws and strove to bite him with its shining teeth. And anon it catched its claws in the armor of Sir Launcelot and it tore away the epaulier upon the left side of Sir Launcelot's shoulder, and it tore away the iron boot that covered his left thigh, and it cut with its claws through the flesh of the left shoulder of Sir Launcelot and through the flesh of his thigh to the very bone, so that the blood gushed out in a crimson stream and ran down over his armor and over the claws of the Worm. Then Sir Launcelot, finding himself as it were thus in the very embrace of Death, put forth all his strength and tore away free from the clutches of the Worm ere it was able to do him further harm. And seeing how that the case was now so ill with him, he catched the haft of his sword in both of his hands, and he rushed at the creature and he stabbed with his sword into the gaping mouth of the creature and down into its gullet so that the cross-piece of the sword smote against the teeth of the creature's mouth. Then when the Worm felt that dreadful terrible stroke driven thus into its very vitals, it roared like a bull in its torments, and it straightway rolled over upon the ground writhing and lashing the entire length of its body, bellowing so that those who heard it felt the marrow in their bones melt for terror. [Sidenote: _Sir Launcelot slayeth the Worm._] But Sir Launcelot, looking down upon the lashings of the Worm, beheld where there appeared to be a soft place nigh to the belly and beneath the scales of the back and sides, and therewith he rushed at the Worm and plunged his sword twice and thrice into that soft spot, whereupon, lo! thick blood, as black as ink, gushed forth after those strokes. Then again Sir Launcelot pierced the Worm twice and thrice in such another place and thereafter it presently ceased to bellow in that wise and lay shuddering and writhing in death, rustling its dry scales upon the earth in its last throes of life. Then Sir Launcelot beheld that his work was done and he stood leaning upon his sword, panting and covered all over with the blood and slime of that dreadful battle. And the people beholding how that the Worm was now slain, fell to shouting aloud beyond measure. And they came running from all sides to that place like to a flood so that they filled the entire market-place. And they crowded around and gazed upon the Worm with horror, and they gazed upon Sir Launcelot in wonder that Heaven should have sent so wonderful a Champion to save them out of their distresses. And ever Sir Launcelot stood there leaning upon his sword panting and with the blood flowing down from his shoulder and his thigh so that all that side of his body was ensanguined with shining red. [Sidenote: _The knights of Corbin do honor to Sir Launcelot._] So as he stood there, there came a party of knights riding into that place. These thrust their way through the multitude to where Sir Launcelot was in the midst of the crowd as aforesaid. When they had come to Sir Launcelot the chief of those knights said, "Sir, art thou he who hath slain the Worm?" Sir Launcelot said, "Thou seest that I am he." Then he who spoke to Sir Launcelot said, "Messire, I fear me you are sorely hurt in this battle." Quoth Sir Launcelot: "I am hurt indeed, but not more hurt than I have been several times before and yet live as you behold me." Then those knights went and looked upon the Worm where it lay and they gazed upon it with wonder and with loathing. And they gave great praise beyond measure to the knight who had slain it. After that they sent for a litter and they laid Sir Launcelot upon the litter and bare him away into the Castle of Corbin where King Pelles of Corbin was then holding his court in royal pomp of circumstance. And they brought Sir Launcelot to a fair chamber of the castle where a number of attendants came to him and eased him of his armor and led him to a bath of tepid water steeped with healing herbs. And there came a skilful leech and searched the wounds of Sir Launcelot and spread soothing unguents upon them and bound them up with swathings of linen. And after that they bare Sir Launcelot to a fair soft couch spread with snow-white linen and laid him thereon, and he was greatly at ease and much comforted in body. [Sidenote: _King Pelles of Corbin doeth honor to Sir Launcelot._] Then after all this was done in that wise, there came King Pelles of Corbin to that place for to visit Sir Launcelot, and with him came his son, Sir Lavaine, and his daughter, the Lady Elaine the Fair. And Sir Launcelot beheld that King Pelles was a very noble haughty lord, for his beard and his hair were long and amplelike to the mane of a lion, and resembled threads of gold sprinkled with threads of silver. And he was clad all in a robe of purple studded over with shining jewels and he wore a fillet of gold about his head set with several gems of great price. Upon the right hand of King Pelles there came his son, Sir Lavaine--a very noble young knight, newly created by the bath--and upon his left hand there came his daughter, the Lady Elaine the Fair. [Sidenote: _Of the Lady Elaine the Fair._] Then Sir Launcelot looked upon the Lady Elaine the Fair and it seemed to him that she was the most beautiful maiden that ever he had beheld in all of his life. For he saw that her hair was soft and yellow and shining like to the finest silk; that her eyebrows were curved and very fine, as though they had been marked with a sharp and delicate pencil; that her eyes were very large and perfectly blue and very lustrous, and as bright as precious jewels; that her forehead was like cream for whiteness; that her cheeks were like roses for softness of blush; that her lips were like coral for redness, and that betwixt her lips her teeth were white, like to pearls for whiteness. Such was the Lady Elaine, as Sir Launcelot beheld her, and he was amazed at her surpassing beauty, and at the tender grace of her virgin youth. Then King Pelles and Sir Lavaine and the Fair Elaine came close to where Sir Launcelot lay upon his couch, and there they kneeled them down upon the ground. And King Pelles spake, saying: "Messire, what thanks shall we find fit to give to you who have freed this entire land from the dreadful curse that lay upon it?" "Lord," said Sir Launcelot, "thank not me but give your thanks to God whose tool and instrument I was in this undertaking." "Messire," quoth King Pelles, "I have not forgot to give thanks to God. Nevertheless seeing the instrument which He hath fitted to His hand is so perfect an instrument, one may praise that also. So we do praise you and give thanks from our heart to you for the deliverance which you have brought to us. Now I pray you tell me who you are who have brought this great succor to our state, for methinks you must be some famous hero, and I would fain thank you in your own name for what you have done to benefit us." "Lord," said Sir Launcelot, "this you must forgive me if I tell you not my name. For there is supposed to be shame upon my name, wherefore I am now known as le Chevalier Malfait, because in the eyes of those to whom I am accountable I have done amiss." "Well," quoth King Pelles, "I dare be sworn you have not at any time done greatly amiss in that which you have done. Nevertheless an you will have it so, so it shall be as you will, and with us all of this place you shall be known as le Chevalier Malfait until such time as it pleases you to assume your proper name and title." * * * * * [Sidenote: _Sir Launcelot lyeth sick in Corbin._ ] Thus I have told you all the circumstances of that famous adventure of the Worm of Corbin and there remaineth now only this to say: That Sir Launcelot did not recover from his hurt as soon as he had supposed he would. For the venom of the Dragon had got into his blood, wherefore even after a twelvemonth had gone by, he still remained in the castle of King Pelles at Corbin, albeit he was by that time quite healed in his body. And also there is this to tell--that at the end of the twelvemonth aforesaid, King Pelles came to Sir Launcelot and said to him: "Messire, I would that you would henceforth dwell with us at this court. For not only would you be a great credit to any court in which you live, but here we all love you as one loveth the apple of his eye." [Sidenote: _Sir Launcelot remaineth at Corbin._] "Lord," said Sir Launcelot, "ye cannot love me more than I love ye all who have been so good to me in the days of my sickness and disease. So I will be exceedingly rejoiced to remain with ye yet a while longer; for this is indeed a pleasant haven in which to rest in the long and toilsome journey of life, and I have nowhere else to go." Then King Pelles took Sir Launcelot into his arms and kissed him upon the brow and so they became plighted in friendship unto one another. So Sir Launcelot remained at Corbin and went not any farther errant at that time. But meantime, and for all that while, there was great wonder at the court of King Arthur whither Sir Launcelot had gone and what had become of him that no one in all of the world heard tell aught of him. [Illustration: Sir Launcelot confideth his Shield to Elaine the Fair] [Illustration] Chapter Third _How King Arthur proclaimed a tournament at Astolat, and how King Pelles of Corbin went with his court thither to that place. Also how Sir Launcelot and Sir Lavaine had encounter with two knights in the highway thitherward._ [Sidenote: _King Arthur proclaimeth a tournament._] Now it fell upon a time that King Arthur proclaimed a great tournament to be held at Astolat, upon Lady's Day Assumption. And the King sent word of this tournament throughout all the land, both east and west and north and south. So it came about that word of the tournament was brought one day by herald to King Pelles at Corbin, and when this news came to him he ordained that his court should make them ready to go to Astolat to that passage of arms, in pursuance of the word that the herald of King Arthur had brought to Corbin. [Sidenote: _Sir Launcelot is troubled._] Then Sir Launcelot was much troubled in his mind for he said to himself, "I fear me that if I go unto Astolat with this court there may be some one there who will know me." For Sir Launcelot was still very bitterly affronted at his kinsmen because that they had chid him so greatly for the manner in which he had ridden in a cart upon that adventure to rescue Queen Guinevere as aforetold of. For the pride of Sir Launcelot was stiff and stubborn and he could not bring himself to bend it or to break it. Neither could he bring himself to overlook such an affront as that which he had suffered from the words that Sir Lionel and Sir Ector de Marishad said to him. Wherefore, until full justification had been rendered unto him, he was unwilling that any of his former companions should behold him or know him who he was. Yet did he not see how he could refuse to obey the behest of King Pelles, for as he was now become a knight of the court of the King of Corbin he was bound to obey whatsoever that King should command him to do. Wherefore he wist not what to do in this case, and so was much troubled in mind. [Sidenote: _King Pelles talketh with Sir Launcelot._] Now King Pelles was aware how it was with le Chevalier Malfait and that he was unwilling to go to the tournament at Astolat. So one day the King took Sir Launcelot aside and he said to him: "Messire, will you not also go with our court to this tournament that King Arthur hath proclaimed?" To this Sir Launcelot said, "Lord, I would rather that I did not go." King Pelles said: "Sir Knight, far be it from me to urge you to go if it be greatly against your wishes; yet you are to know that it will be a very sad thing for all of us if you do not go with us. For it is the truth that you are, beyond all others, the foremost of our court, and its most bright and shining light; wherefore it will be sad for us if we go thither without you." Then Sir Launcelot looked very steadfastly at King Pelles and his heart went out toward the King and he said, "Do you then desire my company so very greatly?" King Pelles said, "Yea." "Well," said Sir Launcelot, "let it be so and I will go with you." And at that saying King Pelles was glad beyond measure. So when the time came Sir Launcelot made him ready to go with the others to Astolat, and when the day of departure arrived he went with them. [Sidenote: _King Pelles and his court journey to Astolat._] Thereafter they travelled by easy stages toward Astolat, and upon the third day after their departure from Corbin they came to the castle of a certain Earl, which castle stood about three leagues or a little more from the town. This Earl was a kinsman of King Pelles and in great amity with him, wherefore he was glad to have the King and his court to lodge with him at that time. And they of Corbin were also glad, for this was a very noble excellent place in which to lodge and all the other castles and inns nigh to Astolat were at that time very full of folk. So it came about that King Pelles and his court remained several days at that place, and in all that time Sir Launcelot kept himself ever in retreat, lest some one with whom he was acquainted should chance to see him and know him who he was. To this end, and that he might conceal himself, Sir Launcelot was most often with the court of the Lady Elaine the Fair and not often with the court of the King. [Sidenote: _The Lady Elaine and Sir Launcelot talk together._] Now the Lady Elaine was not very well pleased with this, for she held Sir Launcelot in great admiration above all other men, and she would fain have had him stand forth with the other knights who were there, so that his nobility might be manifested amongst them. So one day whilst they two sat together in the garden of the castle of that Earl (the court of the Lady Elaine and several lords of the King's court being near by playing at ball) the Lady Elaine spake her mind to Sir Launcelot upon this point saying: "Fair Sir, will you not take part in this noble and knightly tournament the day after to-morrow?" To this Sir Launcelot replied, "Nay, Lady." She said to him: "Why will you not so, Messire? Methinks with your prowess you might win yourself very great credit thereat." Then for a little Sir Launcelot was silent, and after a little he said to her: "Lady, do you disremember that I call myself le Chevalier Malfait? That name I have assumed because my friends and my kinsmen deem that I have done amiss in a certain thing. Now, since they are of that opinion I am very greatly displeased with them, and would fain avoid them until I am justified in their sight. At this tournament there will be many of those who knew me aforetime and I would fain avoid them if I am able to do so. Wherefore it is that I am disinclined to take part in the battle which the King hath ordained." After this they were silent for a little, and then by and by the Lady Elaine said: "Sir Knight Malfait, I would I knew who you really are and who are your fellows of whom you speak." At that Sir Launcelot smiled and said: "Lady, I may not tell you at this present who I am nor who they are, but only that they are very good worthy knights and gentlemen." "Aye," quoth the Lady Elaine, "that I may very well believe." So at that time no more was said concerning this matter but ever the mind of the Lady Elaine rested upon that thing--to wit, that Sir Launcelot should take part in that tournament aforesaid. So at another time when they were alone together, she said: "Sir Knight Malfait, I would that thou wouldst do me a great favor." Sir Launcelot said: "Lady, ask whatsoever thou wilt, and if it is in my power to do that thing, and if it is according to the honor of my knighthood, then I shall assuredly do whatsoever thou dost ask of me." "Sir," quoth the Lady Elaine, "this is what I would fain ask of thee if I might have it. It is that thou wouldst suffer me to purvey thee a suit of strange armor so that thy friends might not know thee therein, and that thou wouldst go to the tournament disguised in that wise. And I would that thou wouldst wear my favor at that tournament so that I might have glory in that battle because of thee." [Sidenote: _Sir Launcelot will take part in the tournament._] Then Sir Launcelot sighed very deeply, and he looked steadfastly at the Lady Elaine, and he said: "Lady, you know not how great a thing it is you ask of my pride, for I would fain remain unknown as I am at this present. And you know not what it is you ask of my knighthood, for wit ye it must be against my one-time friends and companions-in-arms that you would have me contend. So it is that if I should have success in such an affair as this, whatsoever credit I should win therein shall bring discredit unto them. Moreover, I must tell you that never in all of my life have I worn the favor of any lady, having vowed my knighthood to one who is a queen and the wife of a king. Natheless, though all this is so, yet far be it from me to refuse a boon when it is you who ask it of me. For I speak the truth, Lady, when I say that I would freely lay down my life at your bidding. So in this case, maugre all that I have said, I will even do as you ask me, wherefore, if you will purvey me that armor of which you speak, I will do your will in all ways that I am able." So spake Sir Launcelot, and thereat the Lady Elaine smiled upon him in such wise and with such great loving-kindness that it was as though both her joy and her great love stood revealed in the midst of that smile. Quoth she: "Assuredly I shall gain great honor and glory at thy hands. For I believe that thou art indeed one of the very greatest and foremost knights in all of the world, as well as the perfect peer of all noble gentlemen." Now the Earl, the lord of that castle, had a son hight Sir Tyre, who was then lying abed, ill of a flux, and the armor of Sir Tyre was at that place. So the Lady Elaine went to the Earl and she besought him to lend her that armor for the use of Sir Launcelot, and the Earl listened to her and gave it to her. So she had the armor of Sir Tyre brought to Sir Launcelot and thus the Lady Elaine purveyed him in all wise for that tournament so that no one might know him who he was. [Sidenote: _The Lady Elaine giveth her sleeve to Sir Launcelot._] Then, after all this had been accomplished, the Lady Elaine came to the chamber where Sir Launcelot was, and her brother Sir Lavaine was with her. And the Lady bore in her hand a sleeve of flame-colored satin very richly bedight with many pearls of great price. And she said to Sir Launcelot: "I beseech you to take this sleeve, Sir Knight, and I beseech you that you wear it as a favor for my sake." Then Sir Launcelot smiled very kindly upon the Lady Elaine and he said, "Will this give you pleasure?" and she said, "Yea." Then Sir Launcelot smiled again and he said, "It shall be in all things as you will have it." So he took the sleeve, and he wound it about the crest of the helmet he was to wear at the tournament, and the sleeve formed a wreath of satin about the helmet like to a wreath of fire. And the pearls upon the wreath were like to drops of dew as you behold them of an early morning. Wherefore because of the brightness of that wreath and because of the pearls upon it, the favor of the Lady Elaine was of such a sort that all the world could not but see it what it was. And so Sir Launcelot accepted the favor of the Lady Elaine the Fair. Then after Sir Launcelot had thus accepted that favor, Sir Lavaine spake and said: "Sir Knight Malfait, I beseech you that you will take me with you unto this tournament as your knight-companion. For I believe that in your company I shall assuredly gain me great honor and much glory and renown, wherefore I ask of you that you will grant me this great courtesy." [Sidenote: _Sir Launcelot accepteth Sir Lavaine as his companion._] Then Sir Launcelot looked upon Sir Lavaine and smiled upon him and loved him exceedingly, and he said to Sir Lavaine: "Friend, I will gladly accept thee as my companion-in-arms, and I believe in very sooth that it would be hard for me to find any one whom I would be better pleased to have with me at such a time." And so it was that Sir Lavaine also had his will with Sir Launcelot. Then Sir Launcelot turned him to the Lady Elaine and said, "Lady, see you this shield and this armor of mine?" And she said, "Yea, I see them." Sir Launcelot said: "Lady, this shield is a very precious thing to me, for it and all mine armor was given to me by a very wonderful lady who is not of this world in which we mortals dwell. Since that time she gave mine armor to me I have sought ever and in all wise to use those defences as became a gentleman so that whatever mark of battle there should be upon them there should be no mark of dishonor to mar their brightness. Now I beseech you for to take this shield and that armor to your maiden bower and to hold them there in trust for me and that as sacredly as though they were your very life." Therewith Sir Launcelot gave the Lady Elaine his shield and he said: "I charge you, Lady, for to let no one touch this shield or to meddle with it until I return hither to reclaim it and mine armor of you." And the Lady Elaine said: "It shall be as you say, and I shall hold this shield and this armor as sacred as my life." [Sidenote: _Sir Launcelot and Sir Lavaine depart for Astolat._] So these matters were all brought to settlement and the next day Sir Launcelot in the armor of Sir Tyre, and Sir Lavaine in his own armor, rode out from the castle of that Earl and away from that place and so betook their way toward Astolat. Now it chanced that same day that two very worthy knights of King Arthur's court were upon that road on which Sir Launcelot and Sir Lavaine travelled to Astolat, and these two knights were Sir Gawaine and Sir Mador de la Porte. With these were several lords who paid homage and respect to them, and all that party stood beneath the shade of several trees nigh to a water-mill where it was very cool and pleasant. And some of those who were there sat upon their horses, and some had dismounted therefrom and were lying in the cool and pleasant grass beneath the shade. Then Sir Gawaine perceived where Sir Launcelot and Sir Lavaine came riding and he said to those who were with him: "Behold yonder two knights coming hitherward. Now I am of a mind that Sir Mador de la Porte and I shall try a fall with them, so stand ye by and see what happeneth." [Sidenote: _Sir Gawaine and Sir Mador bespeak Sir Launcelot and Sir Lavaine._] So Sir Gawaine and Sir Mador took horse and rode a little forward and met the two and saluted them very courteously, and Sir Launcelot and Sir Lavaine saluted those others in like manner. Then Sir Gawaine said: "Messires, I pray ye tell me who ye are and whither ye go upon this pass." Now Sir Launcelot knew very well who those two knights were because of the devices upon their shields. Wherefore he changed his voice a little when he answered Sir Gawaine so that Sir Gawaine should not know him. And he said: "Messire, I know not by what right ye demand such knowledge of us, nevertheless I may tell you that I am called le Chevalier Malfait, and this, my comrade, is hight Sir Lavaine of Corbin. As for our journey and its purpose, I may furthermore tell you that we intend, God willing, to enter the tournament at Astolat to-morrow, in which friendly battle you also, doubtless, intend to take a part." Then Sir Gawaine said: "Tell me, Sir Knight Malfait, will you and your companion try a fall with me and my companions-in-arms?" Now Sir Launcelot had no very great relish for such an encounter as that for he feared by some hap he should betray himself who he was. Yet he wist that he must accept the challenge of Sir Gawaine, wherefore after a little while of silence he said: "Sir Knight, we two would fain go our way in peace, but an it cannot be otherwise we must needs accept your challenge. But will you not let be and suffer us to pass onward?" "Well," said Sir Gawaine, "this is a strange thing that you should pretend to aspire to that tournament of to-morrow and yet have no heart to meet in friendly tilt two knights whom you encounter upon the way." "Sir," quoth Sir Launcelot, "we fear you not in any wise, wherefore, make yourselves ready in God's name, and we upon our side will do our endeavor." [Sidenote: _The four knights run a tilt._] [Sidenote: _Sir Gawaine is overthrown._] So Sir Gawaine and Sir Mador de la Porte made themselves ready as Sir Launcelot had advised, and when they were in all ways prepared they withdrew to a little distance so as to have a good course to run. Then when all were ready for that encounter, each knight shouted and set spurs to his horse, and all four thundered together with such violence that the ground trembled beneath them. So they met in the middle of the course and so furious was the meeting of those four good knights that you might have heard the roar of that encounter for half a mile away or more. In that encounter both Sir Lavaine and Sir Mador broke each his spear upon his enemy and neither of them suffered a fall. But Sir Gawaine had no such fortune for his spear broke into splinters unto the very truncheon thereof, and the spear of Sir Launcelot held, so that Sir Gawaine was lifted out from his saddle and flung upon the ground with such violence that he rolled thrice or four times over and over before he ceased to fall. Now those who looked upon that encounter were well assured that Sir Gawaine would easily overthrow his opponent into the dust, for Sir Gawaine was held to be one of the very greatest knights in all of the world. Wherefore it was that when they beheld how violently he had been flung to earth by that unknown knight against whom he had tilted, they were astonished beyond all bounds of wonderment. But Sir Mador de la Porte, when he beheld how Sir Gawaine lay there in the dust as though dead, voided his horse and ran to the fallen knight where he lay. And he raised the umbril of Sir Gawaine's helmet, and lo! the face of Sir Gawaine was like to the face of one who was dead. And at first Sir Mador thought that he was dead, but after a while Sir Gawaine sighed and then sighed again, and thereupon Sir Mador knew that he was not dead, but in a swoon from the violence of the fall. And Sir Mador rejoiced very greatly that no more ill had come of that encounter. Then Sir Mador turned to Sir Launcelot, and cried out: "Sir Knight Malfait, go thy way in the fiend's name. For indeed thou art well named Malfait, seeing what an evil thing it is that thou hast done to this worshipful knight. For wit you that this is none other than Sir Gawaine, the nephew of King Arthur himself, whom you have overthrown; and had you slain him, as at first I believed you had, it would have been a very ill thing for you. Moreover, you are to know that this knight was to have been the leader of all those upon King Arthur's side in the battle to-morrow-day, but now God knows if he will be able to wear armor again for many days to come. Wherefore go thy way and trouble us no more." Quoth Sir Launcelot: "Well, Sir Knight, this quarrel was altogether of your own seeking, and not of ours. Wherefore, if ill hath befallen this worshipful knight, it is of his own devising and not of mine." But Sir Mador only cried out the more vehemently: "Go your way! Go your way, and leave us in peace!" And thereupon Sir Launcelot and Sir Lavaine drew their bridle reins and set heel to horse and rode away from that place, leaving Sir Mador and those others who were there to cherish Sir Gawaine and to revive him from his swoon as best they might. [Sidenote: _Sir Bernard of Astolat followeth Sir Launcelot and Sir Lavaine._] Now there was among those knights who were with Sir Gawaine and Sir Mador a certain old and very worthy knight of Astolat, hight Sir Bernard, surnamed of Astolat. Seeing Sir Launcelot and Sir Lavaine departing in that wise, Sir Bernard hied him after them and when he had come up with them he saluted them, and said, "Messires, I pray ye tell me where it is ye lodge this night." Sir Launcelot said: "Fair Sir, we know not where we lodge for we go to seek such lodging as we may find in Astolat." Sir Bernard said: "You will find no lodging in Astolat this night, for all places are full. Now I pray ye that you will lodge with me, for I have a very good and comely house and I shall be greatly honored for to have you lodge with me. For I make my vow, Sir Knight Malfait, that never saw I such a buffet as that which you gave to Sir Gawaine anon. Nor do I believe that ever Sir Launcelot of the Lake himself could have done more doughtily than you did in that encounter. Wherefore, I think that you will win you great glory to-morrow-day, and that I shall have due worship if so be that ye two shall have lodged with me over this night." Then Sir Launcelot laughed, and he said to Sir Bernard: "Well, Sir Knight, I give you gramercy for your courtesy, and so we will gladly take up our inn with you until the time of the tournament. Only this I demand, that we shall be privily lodged apart from any one else, for we wish it that we shall not be known until to-morrow and after this tournament shall have transpired." "Messire," quoth Sir Bernard, "it shall all be as you desire." So those three rode on their way together until they had come to Astolat and to the habitation of Sir Bernard of Astolat. [Sidenote: _Sir Launcelot lodgeth with Sir Bernard._] [Sidenote: _King Arthur knoweth Sir Launcelot._] Now the habitation of Sir Bernard was a very fair house over against the castle of Astolat where King Arthur and his court had taken up their inn. And there was a high terraced garden belonging to the castle of Astolat, and the garden overlooked the garden of the house of Sir Bernard. That day it chanced that King Arthur was walking back and forth in that terraced garden where the air blew cool over the plats of flowers and grass. As the King so walked he chanced to look down over the edge of the terrace into the garden of Sir Bernard's house, and at that time Sir Launcelot was walking privily in the garden for to refresh himself, and no one was with him. At that time Sir Launcelot had laid aside his armor for the sake of coolness and was walking in light raiment and bareheaded to the air, wherefore it befell that King Arthur immediately knew him who he was. Then the King was much astonished to see Sir Launcelot in that place, and he said to himself, "What does Sir Launcelot here?" And at first the King was of a mind to send word to Sir Launcelot, bidding him to come to where he was. But afterward he bethought him that mayhap Sir Launcelot would be displeased at being thus summoned to declare himself. For the King perceived that Sir Launcelot did not choose to be known to any one at that time. So King Arthur said to himself: "Well, let be! To-morrow, I dare say, Sir Launcelot will declare himself in such a wise as shall astonish a great many knights who shall do battle against him upon yonder meadow-of-battle. Wherefore, let him e'en declare himself in his own fashion." Thus it was that King Arthur communed within himself. Wherefore he did not betray the presence of Sir Launcelot to anybody at that time, but kept that matter shut in his own bosom. Nevertheless, when he had come again to where was his court, he said to the knights there assembled: "Messires, I have this day beheld a certain knight who hath come hither who will I believe play his play with the best of you all at the jousts to-morrow." The knights who were there said to the King: "We pray you, Lord, tell us who that knight is, so that we may pay him such regard as he is worthy of." "Nay," quoth King Arthur, "I will not tell you at this time who is that knight, but haply you will know to-morrow who he is." Then one of the knights who was there said: "Mayhap that was the knight who overthrew Sir Gawaine this day in the highroad over against the town a little distance away. He calleth himself le Chevalier Malfait, and hath for his companion a youthful knight hight Sir Lavaine, the King's son of Corbin." Then King Arthur laughed, and said, "Like enough that was he." And so the King departed into his lodging, leaving all those knights much wondering who that knight could be of whom the King spoke to them. * * * * * Thus it was that Sir Launcelot and Sir Lavaine came to Astolat, and now followeth the history of that famous bout at arms so far as it affected Sir Launcelot of the Lake and his companion-at-arms, Sir Lavaine of Corbin. For in that affair at arms, as you shall presently hear tell, Sir Lavaine gained him such great glory and renown that thereafter he was regarded as one of the great heroes of chivalry, and by and by received that crowning honor of becoming a knight-companion of the Round Table. [Illustration] [Illustration: Sir Launcelot and Sir Lavaine overlook the Field of Astolat:] [Illustration] Chapter Fourth _How Sir Launcelot and Sir Lavaine fought in the tournament at Astolat. How Sir Launcelot was wounded in that affair, and how Sir Lavaine brought him unto a place of safety._ [Sidenote: _Of the lists at Astolat._] So it is true that in these days one may not hope ever to behold a sight like to the field-of-battle at Astolat upon Lady's Day Assumption, when that tournament proclaimed by King Arthur was about to be fought before the eyes of the King. For upon that morning--which was wonderfully bright and clear and warm--the entire green meadow was altogether covered over with a moving throng of people of all degrees--lords and ladies, knights and dames, esquires, burghers, yeomen and tradesfolk--all moving, each toward some stand from whence he might view the battle that was about to take place. And here were gay attires and bright colors and the fluttering of silk and the flash and sparkle of shining baubles, and because of the sheen and sparkle of all these the whole world appeared to be quick with life and motion. Yet ever by little and little this confusion of many people pushing themselves hither and thither resolved itself to order as one by one that multitude took seat and brought itself to quietness. And so it came to pass at last that the field prepared for battle was cleared of all save a few who lingered and whom the guardians of the lists pushed back into their places. [Sidenote: _The knights-contestant enter the field-of-battle._] Then, all being thus brought to order, the Marshal of the Tourney blew his trumpet, and straightway there entered upon this side of that wide meadow and upon that side thereof the two companies of knights who were to contend the one against the other. Then, lo! how the sunlight flashed upon shining armor! How it catched the pens and bannerets so that they twinkled at tips of lances like to sparks of fire! How war-horses neighed for love of battle! How armor clashed and shield plates rang as those goodly companies of knights brought themselves by degrees into array for battle! Upon the one end of the meadow there gathered the knights-champion who were of the party of King Arthur, and the chiefs of that party were the King of Scots and the King of Ireland, and with them were many knights of the Round Table, much renowned both in song and battle. And the number of knights of that company were two hundred and ten in all. [Sidenote: _Of the two parties-contestant._] Upon the other end of the meadow of battle there assembled the party of those who were to withstand the party of King Arthur; and the chiefs of that company were the King of North Wales and the King of an Hundred Knights, and the King of Northumberland and Galahaut the High Prince. And though there were no knights of the Round Table in that company, yet there were many champions of very great renown and high credit in courts of chivalry. And the number of that party were two hundred thirty and two. [Sidenote: _Sir Launcelot and Sir Lavaine overlook the field of Astolat._] Now near to a certain part of the field-of-battle the trees of the forest came down close to the meadow, and made, as it were, a green wall of foliage circumjacent to that part of the field. Here, beneath the shade of the green trees of the forest where it was cool and shady and very still, Sir Launcelot and Sir Lavaine had taken stand at a certain place whence they could look out upon those two parties of knights there gathered in battle array. And, that while, the eyes of Sir Lavaine shone like sparks of light and his cheeks were flaming red, like as though they were on fire, and his breath was thick and stifled when he breathed it. For this was the first great battle in which he had ever taken a part and he wist not what was to befall him in that affair at arms. But that same while Sir Launcelot neither moved nor spake but sat his horse like to a statue made of iron; calm and steadfast and gazing very steadily out upon that plain before him. Then Sir Lavaine spake in a voice wonderfully high and clear. "Messire," said he, "upon what side do you will that we take part in this battle?" Quoth Sir Launcelot: "To neither party do I yet will that we shall join us. Rather let us wait a while and observe the issue of this battle, and when we behold that one side is about to lose in the battle then will we join with that side. For if so be we aid to bring victory out of defeat for that party, then shall our credit and our glory be magnified in that same degree." And Sir Lavaine said, "Sir, thou speakest with great wisdom." Then, as those two watched in that wise, they beheld that three knights-champion came forth from one side and that three champions came forth from the other side and they wist that these six champions were to engage man to man and so to test the strength of this side and of that ere the two arrays should join in battle-royal. And Sir Launcelot knew these six champions very well and he declared to Sir Lavaine who they were. To wit, he declared that the champions upon King Arthur's side were the King of Scots and the King of Ireland and Sir Palamydes, and that the knights of the other party were the King of Northumberland, and the King of an Hundred Knights, and Galahaut the High Prince. [Sidenote: _How the battle openeth._] Then, even as Sir Launcelot was telling Sir Lavaine who were these six champions who thus stood forth to undertake battle against one another, the herald blew his trumpet very loud and shrill. And therewith, in an instant of time, each knight had set spurs to his horse, and each horse leaped forward from his station and rushed forward, and so they came, three knights against three, like to thunderbolts launched against one another. So they met together in the midst of the course with a crash of splintering wood and a roar of armor that might easily have been heard a mile away. In that meeting Sir Palamydes and Sir Galahaut the High Prince smote down one another into the dust. And the King of an Hundred Knights smote down King Angus of Ireland with such terrible violence that he lay like dead upon the ground and had to be borne away out of the field by his esquires and could not again do battle that day. As to the King of Northumberland and the King of Scots, they broke each his lance upon the other without suffering a fall. So that first encounter was somewhat to the advantage of the party against King Arthur. [Sidenote: _Of the grand assault at arms._] Then all who beheld that noble encounter of knight against knight shouted aloud in acclaim, and the shout of that vast acclaim was like the multitudinous roaring of a strong wind in the forest. Thereupon in the midst of all that roaring the herald blew his trump again and therewith the two parties contestant rushed the one upon the other, the earth shaking and trembling beneath that charge like to an earthquake. So in another moment they met together in such an uproar of iron and cracking of splintered wood that the ears of those who heard that meeting were stunned with the crash thereof. Then all the air was full of dust and splinters of wood and scraps and shreds of silk and of plumes. Anon, out of a thick red cloud of dust there arose the roar of a mighty battle; the shouts of men, the neighing of horses, the crash of blows and the groans of those who fell. At times, some knight would come forth out of the press reeling in the saddle and all red from some wound he had got. At other times, a party of esquires would run into that cloud, presently to come forth again bearing with them a wounded knight whom they had rescued. At other parts of the field there were knights armed with spears who ran tilt against one another, and ever and anon a knight would be flung from the saddle or else horse and knight would roll together upon the earth all in a smother of dust. So for a while the battle was toward and yet no one could see how it went. For what with all that dust and the contending of single champions, no one could tell whether it inclined to this side or to that. But after a while the dust lifted a little, and those who contended became fewer upon one side than upon the other and so stinted the fierceness of their battle. Then it was that those who looked down upon that battle beheld that the party of King Arthur was pushing their opponents back, little by little, toward the barriers upon their side of the field (and if so be they were pushed altogether against that barrier then was their battle lost for good). Then Sir Launcelot said to Sir Lavaine: "Behold yonder company of noble knights, how that they hold together and stand against their enemies in spite of that defeat which must certainly fall upon them in the end." "I see it," said Sir Lavaine, "and have great pity for them." "Hast thou so?" said Sir Launcelot. "Then let us take side with that side which is so sore bestead, for I believe that if you will help me a little we may well aid them and maybe stay the ill-fortune that seems like to overwhelm them." "Sir," quoth Sir Lavaine, "spare not, and I upon my side will do the best that I am able for to help you." [Sidenote: _Sir Launcelot and Sir Lavaine take part in the battle._] So with that Sir Launcelot and Sir Lavaine rode out from the forest wherein they had sheltered themselves, and they set their spears in rest and they drove forward to where those knights were doing combat. And they drove faster and faster forward until they drove full tilt into the thickest of the press. The history of these things saith that in this charge and in other charges that he made in that onset, Sir Launcelot smote down Sir Brandiles, and Sir Sagramore, and Sir Dodinas, and Sir Kay, and Sir Griflet, and the history saith that he smote down all those good knights of the Round Table with one spear ere that spear burst asunder. And the same history saith that Sir Lavaine smote down Sir Lucian the botteler and Sir Bedivere with one spear in that charge and that then that spear also was burst into pieces. And the history saith that Sir Launcelot got him another spear and that Sir Lavaine did likewise and that thereafter they two charged again as they had done before. And it saith that in this second assault Sir Launcelot smote down Sir Agravaine, and Sir Gaheris and Sir Modred and Sir Melyot of Logres, and that Sir Lavaine smote down Sir Hozanna le Cure Hardy, and that after that those second spears were burst in assault as the first had been. Then Sir Lavaine withdrew a little to get another spear, but by that time the madness of battle was upon Sir Launcelot so that he drew his sword and he ran into the thickest of the press and smote upon the right hand and the left hand with all his might and main so that in a wonderfully short pass he had smitten down Sir Safir and Sir Epynogris and Sir Galleron. And so terrible were the buffets he gave that all who were nigh to him drew away from him from fear of the terrible blows which he bestowed upon whomsoever came within his reach. [Sidenote: _The Lady Elaine taketh joy in the battle._] By now all who looked upon that field were aware of how terrible a battle it was that the knight of the red sleeve fought against his enemies, wherefore they shouted aloud with a great voice of outcry and loud acclaim. And the Lady Elaine the Fair beheld how her champion did battle, and seeing him she could not contain the passion of her joy, but laughed and wept and trembled for that joy. And she catched King Pelles ever by the arm and cried out to him, "Lord! Lord! see what our champion doeth and what my brother doeth!" and King Pelles said, "I see! I see!" and held tight hold of the rail of the dais before him. Then King Arthur where he sat said to those about him: "Behold yonder champion, what battle it is he doeth. Saw ye ever a better battle than that?" And they say, "Nay, never so great a battle!" But when Sir Gawaine beheld the flame-colored sleeve that the champion wore about his helmet, he said to King Arthur, "Yonder knight is he who cast me down yesterday into the dust of the highway over against the town," and Sir Gawaine said, "because of that and because of the battle he now doeth, I would deem yonder knight to be none other than Sir Launcelot of the Lake. And yet it cannot be Sir Launcelot, for this knight weareth the sleeve of some lady as a favor upon his helmet, and all the world knoweth that Sir Launcelot would never wear the favor of any lady in such a wise as that." [Sidenote: _Of the pause in battle._] Meantime the battle was stayed for a little while, for at that time it seemed as though neither horse nor man could do any more for that while. Yet though the battle was stayed, nevertheless each knight braced himself for a greater battle than that which had gone before. For all knew that now indeed the time had come when either one party or the other must win that battle. So in that pause of battle Sir Launcelot and Sir Lavaine each chose him a good strong new spear of ash wood, and each drank a cup of lusty spiced wine for to refresh his strength. And, ere they began to battle afresh, Sir Bors de Ganis and Sir Ector de Maris and Sir Lionel upon the other side called together such kindred of their blood as were upon that field: to wit, Sir Blamor de Ganis, Sir Bleoberis and Sir Aliduke, Sir Galihadan, and Sir Bellanger--all these knights being of Sir Launcelot's kin. These say to one another: "If we do not overthrow yonder single knight who fights so wonderfully against us we shall certes lose this battle. For never knight fought so unless it was Sir Launcelot. For lo! he himself is the single bulwark against us in this battle." So it was that these kinsmen of Sir Launcelot ordained it that they should join themselves together for to overthrow that knight by main strength if need be. [Sidenote: _His kinsmen take battle against Sir Launcelot._] [Sidenote: _Sir Launcelot is wounded._] Then anon the battle was called again and anon each side hurled itself against the other side, well knowing that at this time it must be else to conquer or else to lose. And in that charge the kinsmen of Sir Launcelot hurled themselves against that knight of the red sleeve and against those who were by him. And Sir Bors and Sir Ector and Sir Lionel drave three at once at Sir Launcelot and he drave against them--one against three. But so heavy was the might of the assault of those three, that they overthrew the horse of Sir Launcelot by the weight of their three horses so that the horse of Sir Launcelot and Sir Launcelot himself were cast down upon the earth beneath the feet of the horses of those who charged against him. And in that charge the spear of Sir Bors smote Sir Launcelot in the side, and the point of the spear burst through the armor of Sir Launcelot and pierced deep into his side. Therewith the head of the spear brake from the truncheon and remained thrust deep into the side of Sir Launcelot, and Sir Launcelot groaned aloud, deeming that he had got his death wound. So Sir Launcelot lay upon the ground and could not rise and he would maybe have been beaten to death beneath the feet of the horses. But Sir Lavaine beheld how it was with him, whereat he shouted aloud with a great voice and he and all that party rushed to the aid of Sir Launcelot. And Sir Lavaine smote down the King of Scots at one blow from out of his saddle. And he turned the horse of the King of Scots to where Sir Launcelot lay. And he stood above Sir Launcelot and defended him against the assault of all those others who were around about, and so, maugre their vehement assaults, he brought Sir Launcelot to horse again. Then Sir Launcelot was clean wode because of the passion of agony he suffered from that grievous wound he had got. Wherefore he drew his sword and he stood up in his stirrups and he smote right and left like a madman. And he smote down one after the other Sir Lionel and Sir Bors de Ganis, and he smote Sir Bleoberis such a buffet that he fell down to the earth in a swoon as if he had been dead. And in that time Sir Lavaine smote down Sir Bellanger, and two other knights of worship and renown. Then Sir Launcelot turned him about and smote Sir Blamor down from off his horse and with that Sir Ector made at him. But Sir Launcelot was blind with his passion of battle and of pain, and he wist not who that was who came against him. Wherefore he turned upon Sir Ector and he smote him so dreadful terrible a buffet, that the head of Sir Ector hung down low upon the neck of his horse. Then Sir Launcelot catched Sir Ector and rushed off the helm from the head of Sir Ector with intent to slay him, for at that time he was so mad that he wist not where he was or what he did. [Sidenote: _Sir Launcelot spareth Sir Ector._] Then he beheld the face of his brother Sir Ector, and he beheld that face all white and wan from the blow he himself had struck, and he beheld his brother's cheeks all white and streaked with blood, and therewith his senses returned to him, and in that instant he wist where he was and what he did. Thereupon he cried out in a great and terrible voice: "Woe! Woe! Woe is me! what is it that I do!" And therewith he rushed away from that place where Sir Ector was, and he rushed into the thickest of the press, striking right and left like a madman in fury. And it stands recorded that all in all in that battle Sir Launcelot struck down thirty knights with his own hand, and that sixteen of those thirty were knights of the Round Table. And it is recorded that Sir Lavaine struck down fourteen knights and that six of those knights were knights of the Round Table. And it was because of Sir Launcelot and Sir Lavaine that their party prevailed in that battle. For, because beholding how they fought, their party took great heart and added strength to strength and so drave their enemies back across the meadow-of-battle until they were pushed back against the barriers of their side of the meadow and so the battle was won. And thus that was achieved that else had been lost had not Sir Launcelot and Sir Lavaine lent their aid to that party with whom they joined in battle against the party of King Arthur. * * * * * But Sir Launcelot sat wounded nigh to death. Yea, he deemed that the sickness and the sweat of death was even then upon him, for an exceeding faintness overclouded his spirit. To him where he sat came the King of North Wales and the King of Northumberland and the King of an Hundred Knights and these say to him: "Sir, may God bless you, for without your aid, and that of your companion this day had certes been lost to us." And then they said: "Now we pray you that you will come with us to King Arthur so that you may receive at his hands the prize you have so worshipfully deserved." Thus they spake very cheerfully, for not one of those worthies knew that Sir Launcelot had been so sorely wounded in the battle he had fought. [Sidenote: _Sir Launcelot would fain depart._] Then Sir Launcelot spake in a very weak voice, so that it sounded like to one speaking from a very great distance away. And he said: "Fair lords, if I have won credit in this I have paid a fair price for it, for I am sore hurt and wist not what to do. Now this I pray of you that you will suffer me to depart from this place, for I am in great pain and would fain go away from here to somewhere I may have aid and comforts." Then those three kings would have had him go to a fair pavilion for to have his wound searched and dressed, but ever he besought them to suffer him to depart. So they suffered him, and he rode very slowly away from that place, and Sir Lavaine rode with him. * * * * * So it was that Sir Launcelot and Sir Lavaine did battle at that famous tournament at Astolat as I have told you. And now if you would know how it fared with Sir Launcelot after he rode away from that place, wounded as aforesaid, you shall immediately hear of it in that which followeth. [Illustration: Sir Gawaine knoweth the shield of Sir Launcelot] [Illustration] Chapter Fifth _How Sir Launcelot escaped wounded into the forest, and how Sir Gawaine discovered to the court of King Pelles who was le Chevalier Malfait._ So Sir Launcelot and Sir Lavaine rode away from that field of battle. And they rode together into the forest, and all that while Sir Launcelot contained his suffering to himself so that Sir Lavaine wist not how grievous was his wound nor how great was the passion of agony that he then endured because of that hurt. But after they had ridden a mile or two or three into the woodland, Sir Launcelot could no longer thus contain himself, wherefore he let droop his head very low and he groaned with great dolor. Then Sir Lavaine was aware that some grievous hurt must have befallen Sir Launcelot. Wherefore he cried out: "Messire, I fear me ye are sore hurt. Now tell me, I beseech you, how is it with you?" [Sidenote: _Sir Launcelot declareth his wound._] Then Sir Launcelot groaned again and he said: "Woe is me! I suffer much pain." And therewith he made to dismount from his horse and would have fallen had not Sir Lavaine catched him and upheld him. After that Sir Lavaine aided Sir Launcelot down from his horse, and Sir Launcelot leaned against a tree of the forest, groaning as from the bottom of his soul, and Sir Lavaine wist not what to do to help him. Then Sir Launcelot turned his eyes, all faint and dim, upon Sir Lavaine, and he said: "Oh, gentle knight, Sir Lavaine, for the mercy of God I beseech you to pluck forth the blade of a spear that has pierced into my side, for I suffer a great pang of torment." Then Sir Lavaine was aware of what sort was that wound and he made haste to strip off the body armor from Sir Launcelot. So, when that body armor was thus removed, Sir Lavaine beheld a grievous wound where the blade of the spear had pierced deep into the side of Sir Launcelot a little above the midriff. And Sir Lavaine perceived that the blade of the spear was yet in the wound and that the hurt was very deep. So beholding that wound Sir Lavaine wept, and cried out: "Dear my Lord! Woe is me! I dare not pull out that blade; for an I do so, I dread me sore that you will die here in the forest ere aid can be brought to you and so it shall be I who killed you." "No matter," said Sir Launcelot, speaking very faint and with failing breath. "Do as I bid you, for the point of that blade lieth near to my heart and I suffer a great deal of pain from it." [Sidenote: _Sir Lavaine draweth for the steel._] Then Sir Lavaine laid hold of the shaft of the spear, and he strove to draw forth the blade from out Sir Launcelot's side, yet he could not do so. And thereupon Sir Launcelot cried aloud in a very piercing voice, "Spare not! Spare not! but pull forth that steel!" So with that Sir Lavaine plucked again with all his might and he drew the steel forth from out of the wound. And as the blade came forth from out of the flesh, Sir Launcelot cried out again in a voice very loud and shrill, saying, "God! God! that this should be!" And with that a great issue of blood gushed out of the wound like a crimson fountain and Sir Launcelot sank down upon the ground in a swoon that was like the swoon of death. Then Sir Lavaine believed that he had assuredly slain Sir Launcelot, wherefore he wept aloud with a great passion of grief, smiting his hands together and crying, "Woe is me! For I have slain my dear lord!" Thereupon he kneeled down beside Sir Launcelot and fell to feeling his heart. And he perceived that the heart still beat but very faintly, and so he wist that Sir Launcelot was not dead but only in a deadly swoon. So Sir Lavaine turned Sir Launcelot where that the wind blew upon him and after a while Sir Launcelot opened his eyes again. Then with his sight all swimming he beheld Sir Lavaine kneeling beside him weeping, and he said, speaking in a voice very weak and faint, "Lavaine, am I yet alive?" And Sir Lavaine said, "Yea, Lord." Sir Launcelot said, "Then bear me away from this place." And Sir Lavaine said, "Whither shall I take you?" Sir Launcelot said: "Listen, Friend, bear me away into the forest to the westward of here. For after a while to the westward of this place you shall find a forest path that runs across your way. And you shall take that path toward the right hand and so you will come after another while to the hut of an hermit of the forest. Bring me to that holy man; for if any one can cure me of this hurt he alone can do so." Sir Lavaine said: "Lord, how shall I take you such a journey as that, so that you shall not die?" Sir Launcelot replied: "I know not how you shall take me, but this I know: that if you take me not to that place I shall certes die here before your eyes in this forest." [Sidenote: _Sir Lavaine beareth Sir Launcelot thence._] So Sir Lavaine, weeping, made a litter of straight young trees and he laid his cloak upon the litter and he bound the litter to the horses. Then he lifted Sir Launcelot and laid him upon the litter as though it were a little child whom he laid there. Thereafter he took the foremost horse by the bridle, and so, led away into the forest whither Sir Launcelot had bidden him to go. So in that wise they travelled in the forest for a great while and by and by night descended and the full moon arose all white and shining into the sky. And it rose ever higher and higher and it shone down upon the forest woodlands so that here it was all bright and there it was all agloom with shadow; and anon Sir Lavaine, as he led the horses in that wise, would walk in that silver silent light and anon he would be lost in those shadows. And all that while Sir Launcelot lay so still that several times Sir Lavaine thought haply he was dead. Then he would say, "Sir, art thou dead?" And ever Sir Launcelot would answer, "Not yet." Thus they travelled for a great while in that still forest (all so silent and wonderful) and beneath the clear pale moonlight that caused everything to appear like to an enchantment of stillness. So, somewhat after the middle watch of the night, Sir Lavaine beheld before him a little chapel built up against the rocks of a cliff of stone and beneath the black and umbrageous foliage of a large oak tree. And the moonlight shone down past the oak tree and bathed all the front of that little chapel with pure white silvery light, so still and silent that the chapel appeared as in a strange and singular picture as it were seen in a dream. [Sidenote: _They come to the forest chapel._] Thither Sir Lavaine led the horses bearing between them the wounded knight, whose face, as white as the moon above, was turned upward against the sky. And when Sir Lavaine had come to the door of the chapel he smote upon it with the butt of his lance; and he smote again, and therewith the door was opened and there appeared in the doorway the figure of an aged man with a long white beard like to snow for whiteness. And that man was the hermit of the forest afore spoken of several times in these histories. Then when that reverend hermit beheld where Sir Launcelot lay in the litter, so sorely wounded, he came to him and felt of his heart. So, perceiving him to be alive, he aided Sir Lavaine to lift the wounded man from the litter and to bear him into the hut and to lay him upon a soft and fragrant couch of leaves and moss. At that time Sir Launcelot was in a deep swoon like as though he were dead; yet he was not dead, for after the hermit had bathed his face with strong wine, and after he had set pungent herbs to his nostrils, by and by Sir Launcelot revived so as to sigh very deep and to open his eyes. And Sir Launcelot said, "Where am I? Am I still alive?" The hermit said, "Yea, Messire." Sir Launcelot said, "I wist that maybe I was dead." Then the hermit searched Sir Launcelot's wound and bathed it and put unguents upon it and bound it about with bandages of linen and so Sir Launcelot was put at ease. And after that Sir Launcelot fell into a deep sleep so still and profound that it was like to the slumber of a little child. * * * * * Now whilst Sir Launcelot thus slept, Sir Lavaine and the hermit walked in the moonlight upon a little lawn of grass before the door of the hermitage. By and by the hermit said to Sir Lavaine: "Sir Knight, know you who yonder knight is whom you brought hither to-night?" and Sir Lavaine said, "Nay, I know not, save that he calleth himself le Chevalier Malfait." [Sidenote: _The hermit declareth Sir Launcelot's name._] "Well," quoth the hermit, "God knows that all we who live upon His earth may easily do ill in His sight; yet I dare to say that that yonder knight hath done as little ill as any of us. Sir, you must know that he is none other than Sir Launcelot of the Lake." At this Sir Lavaine cried out aloud in great wonder, saying: "What is it that you tell me! Lo! This knight hath dwelt at the court of my father, King Pelles of Corbin, for more than a year yet no one there wist that it was Sir Launcelot of the Lake whom we entertained in our midst." "And yet," quoth the hermit, "that wounded man is none other than he." * * * * * [Sidenote: _King Arthur sits at feast._] Now that same night whilst Sir Launcelot lay thus wounded in the hermit's cell in the forest, a great feast was held at Astolat in the presence of King Arthur. There were set fourteen tables in the great hall of the castle of Astolat, and at those tables there sat down seven hundred in all of the lords and knights and ladies of that land--kings, earls, dukes, barons, knights, and esquires with their dames--fifty at each table. Then King Arthur looked all about but he beheld no sign of Sir Launcelot, wherefore he said to the King of North Wales who sat nigh to him: "Where is that worthy knight who was with you to-day--he who wore about his helmet a flame-colored sleeve embroidered with fair pearls of price?" To this the King of North Wales replied: "Lord, we know not where that worshipful champion now is. For although we besought him to come hither with us, and although we besought him to come to you so that you might award unto him the prize of battle, yet he would not. For he proclaimed himself to be wounded and craved our leave to withdraw himself--wherefore we gave him that leave and he hied him away and we know not whither he hath gone." "Now I am right sorry for that," quoth King Arthur, "for I would rather have that knight to feast with us than any one of all those who wear spurs in this hall. And I am still more sorry to hear that so worshipful a champion as that should have met with mishap in this battle of to-day. Yet do I hope that wound which he suffered is not so sore but that he will soon be well again." "Lord," quoth the King of North Wales, "mefeareth that that noble knight, whomsoever he may be, hath been very grievously hurt; for when he spake to us his voice was passing weak and he appeared to suffer a great deal of pain." Then King Arthur was much grieved at what he heard and he said: "That is sad news for me, for rather would I lose half of my kingdom than that death should befall that noble champion." So said King Arthur, yet he would not say who was that champion of the red sleeve, for he perceived that Sir Launcelot would fain conceal his name, wherefore neither would he betray it. [Sidenote: _The Lady Elaine grieveth._] Now King Pelles sat not far from King Arthur's high seat at the table, and the Lady Elaine the Fair sat with him and several lords of their court were there also. These heard what was said between King Arthur and the King of North Wales, and when the Lady Elaine the Fair heard how that her champion was so sorely wounded that he was like to die, it was as though a sword of terror had been thrust into her bosom; for hearing those words she turned all as white as ashes and sank back into her chair as though she would swoon. Seeing her thus, all white and stricken, King Pelles said, "Daughter, what ails thee?" and she said: "My father, did you not hear how that the Chevalier Malfait hath been sorely wounded and mayhap may be even now lying nigh to death?" "Yea, I did hear that," said King Pelles, "but such is the chance of battle that every good knight is called upon to face." Then the Lady Elaine cried out: "Father! Father! I am sorely afraid that great ill hath befallen that noble knight. Now I pray thee, let us go hence." King Pelles said, "Whither shall we go?" She said: "Haply, my brother, Sir Lavaine, will bring him to the castle of the earl our kinsman, wherefore I pray you, sir, let us make haste thither and see if that be so." And King Pelles said, "It shall be as you will have it." So King Pelles besought leave of King Arthur to quit that feast, and King Arthur gave him leave and King Pelles withdrew with the Lady Elaine and all of his court from that company. Yet when they returned to the castle of the earl, Sir Launcelot was not there, for, as hath been told, he lay at that time in the hermit's cell in the forest with his soul hanging in the scales betwixt life and death. [Sidenote: _King Arthur speaketh to Sir Gawaine._] But King Arthur ever bore in mind how it was Sir Launcelot had been wounded, wherefore, when that feast was over, he took Sir Gawaine aside, and he said to him: "Sir, I would that you would seek out that knight of the red sleeve where he is and bring him aid and succor." Sir Gawaine said: "Lord, I pray you tell me; know you who is that knight? Methinks he should be Sir Launcelot of the Lake, for I know of no other than he who could do so nobly in battle as that champion did to-day. And yet, he cannot be Sir Launcelot, for you wist very well that Sir Launcelot would not wear the favor of any lady in such a wise as he wore the sleeve about his helm to-day. So I know not who that knight can be." "Well," said King Arthur, "when you have succored him then you will know who he is." [Sidenote: _Sir Gawaine departs in search of Sir Launcelot._] So Sir Gawaine withdrew from the court to seek that wounded champion. And he remembered him that the knight had called himself le Chevalier Malfait and that his companion-in-arms was Sir Lavaine, the son of King Pelles of Corbin. So Sir Gawaine went to where were a number of knights who knew of King Pelles, and he asked of these and of several others: "Know ye, Messires, where I shall find King Pelles of Corbin?" They say to him, "King Pelles is lodging at such and such a place." So Sir Gawaine took horse and rode forth to the castle of the earl with whom King Pelles had taken up his lodging, and King Pelles and his court were still at that place. Then Sir Gawaine made demand to have speech with King Pelles and therewith he was brought before the King where he was. And the Lady Elaine the Fair was with King Pelles at that time, and Sir Gawaine, when he beheld her, was amazed at her beauty. Then Sir Gawaine said to King Pelles: "Fair Lord, can you tell me where I shall find that wounded knight who called himself le Chevalier Malfait?" King Pelles said, "Alas! I know not where he is." Sir Gawaine said, "Lord, I pray you tell me who he is and what is his name." To this King Pelles made reply: "Messire, I know not who that knight is saving only that he came to us somewhat more than a year ago and that he slew the great Dragon of Corbin; and that he was sorely wounded in his encounter with the Dragon. Since that he hath abided at our court but never have we known him by any other name than le Chevalier Malfait." Then Sir Gawaine said: "Now I pray you tell me who was the lady who gave her sleeve as a favor unto that knight, for no doubt she may know who he is." Then the Lady Elaine said: "Messire, it was I who gave my sleeve to him, yet neither do I know who he is nor whence he came." Sir Gawaine said: "Have you naught that you may know him by?" Whereunto the Lady Elaine made reply: "Sir, by leave of our cousin, the earl of this castle, I purveyed armor in which le Chavalier Malfait might do battle in this tournament. Now when he quitted us he confided his armor and his shield to me that I might hold them in safe keeping for him until his return hither. Perhaps you can tell from his shield who is that worshipful knight." Sir Gawaine said: "I prithee, fair lady, tell me what device was painted upon the shield?" And the Lady Elaine said: "I know not what was that device for the shield was all encased in leather laced upon it and painted white so that no one might see the device which it beareth." [Sidenote: _Sir Gawaine knoweth Sir Launcelot's shield._] Then Sir Gawaine said, "Let me see that shield." And thereupon the Lady Elaine sent her attendants to fetch the shield and they brought it to her where they were. Then Sir Gawaine unlaced the leather from the shield and drew the shield forth from its case, and lo! the shield shone all dazzling bright, like to the sun in his glory. And Sir Gawaine beheld the device upon the shield that it was a knight kneeling to a lady upon a field of silver, and by that he knew (and several others who were there knew) that it was the shield of Sir Launcelot. Thereupon Sir Gawaine turned him to the Lady Elaine the Fair and he said: "Lady, it is no wonder that this knight who hath worn thy favor should have done so well in battle yesterday. For wit ye that this is the shield of Sir Launcelot of the Lake and wit ye that it is to none other than he to whom you gave your sleeve. So I wish you much joy of that great honor that hath come to you through him; for you are to know that never hath it ever been heard tell of before this that Sir Launcelot hath worn the favor of any lady when he hath gone to battle." But as for the Lady Elaine, when she knew that it was Sir Launcelot of the Lake to whom she had given her sleeve, she was filled full of a great joy and also with a sort of terror. For she had much joy that she should have been so wonderfully honored by that noble knight Sir Launcelot of the Lake, and yet when she bethought herself how she had set her regard upon him who regarded no lady in the light of love she was filled with a sort of terror because she forecast that nothing but sorrow could come to her who had placed her heart and all her happiness in the keeping of this knight, who had no heart or happiness to bestow upon any lady in return. But King Pelles was unaware of what thoughts lay within the heart of his daughter. His spirit was greatly uplifted with the thought that Sir Launcelot should have been a knight of his court for so long a while and he said: "Messire, this is a very wonderful thing that you tell us, for who would have thought that he was Sir Launcelot who has been with us all this time? Now I know not any glory that could come to us that should be greater than that; to wit, to have had that noble, worthy, and glorious champion for to serve as a knight of our court. For now, because of him, this court hath become famous for all time, that otherwise would not have been known very far or for a very long while." "Lord," said Sir Gawaine, "I do indeed give you great joy of this honor that you have had through him; for I must tell you that yours is the only court in all the world in which Sir Launcelot has ever served as champion, saving only in the Court of King Arthur. Wherefore this is a very singular honor that hath been visited upon you." So spake King Pelles and so spake Sir Gawaine; but all that while the Lady Elaine the Fair sat in silence saying naught to any one for her soul was so deeply disturbed with joy and pride that Sir Launcelot should have been her champion, and with fear and anxiety upon behalf of her knight--that she wist not very well what was being done or said by any of those who sat around about her. That night Sir Gawaine abided at the Court of Corbin, and there was a great feast prepared for his entertainment and all honor and regard was paid to him that was possible to pay any man, even were that man a king. And at that feast Sir Gawaine sat at the right hand of King Pelles and the Lady Elaine sat upon the left hand of the King. And Sir Gawaine and the King talked a very great deal together, yet ever the Lady Elaine sat wrapped in silence, very distraught, passing by her food without tasting of it. For always her thoughts dwelt upon Sir Launcelot as aforesaid, and ever her heart was filled with anxiety as to what had befallen him and where he was, and how it fared with him and who was cherishing him in his sickness and his pain. Yea, even, she wondered whether he was living or whether he was dead. Wherefore it was she knew not what passed about her, but sat silent with her spirit remote and afar off from all those who made merry and laughed and talked and jested so nigh to her. For the soul in such times of trouble and anxiety is oftentimes very solitary and silent; ever wrapped in its own broody thoughts like to a spirit wrapped in a cloud of darkness that shutteth out from its sight all the bright world of gayety and rejoicing that lieth around about it. And so it was with the Lady Elaine at this season. * * * * * Now, when the morning had come, Sir Gawaine departed from that place to return to the King's court which was still at Astolat, there to bring them news that it was Sir Launcelot who had fought in that battle and that it was he who had been wounded. [Sidenote: _Queen Guinevere is angered._] But when that news came to Queen Guinevere she was filled full of a great passion of anger and of indignation against Sir Launcelot and against the Lady Elaine. For it is to be remembered that Sir Launcelot had vowed his vows of service unto Queen Guinevere, and she upon her part had accepted those vows and acknowledged him as her knight-champion. Wherefore it was that finding he had worn the favor of another lady in that wise, she was filled with a most consuming passion of anger. At first she would not believe that it was true that Sir Launcelot had worn the sleeve, and when she was convinced that it was true she withdrew herself from the sight of all, and went and locked herself into her chamber--and how it was with her in that place no one could tell. [Sidenote: _Queen Guinevere bespeaketh Sir Bors._] Then, after a while, she sent for Sir Bors de Ganis, who was the nighest of kin to Sir Launcelot of all those then at court. And the Queen said to Sir Bors: "What is this your kinsman hath done, Messire? He hath forsworn himself and is shamed of his knighthood in my sight and in the sight of all. For who ever heard of any knight of worship who would swear his faith to one lady and yet wear the favor of another? So I say this knight is forsworn and is no true knight." Quoth Sir Bors: "Lady, there is no man in all the world who would dare to say to me that Sir Launcelot is shamed of his knighthood, but you may say that because you are a lady. Now I pray you tell me why should not Sir Launcelot wear the favor of so kind and so beautiful a lady as that of the Lady Elaine, the King's daughter of Corbin? Such service cannot injure you, who have always to your service so high and noble a knight as King Arthur himself!" So spake Sir Bors very sternly, and therewith Queen Guinevere's cheeks flamed like fire and she stamped her foot upon the ground in wrath and cried out in a very loud voice: "Do you dare to speak thus to me who am your Queen? I say this unworthy knight is forsworn in that he sware his faith to me, and that he came not to me to relieve him of that vow ere he accepted the favor of another lady. Now I bid you go, find Sir Launcelot and bring him straightway hither that he may answer me to my face and that he may clear himself if he is able of that unknightly faithlessness." Then Sir Bors was filled with indignation against the Queen and at the same time he was filled with great pity for her. For many things came into his mind at that time, wherefore he did not choose to look into the Queen's face, but only bowed low before her and said: "Lady, it shall be as you command. I shall straightway go seek my kinsman and will bring your commands to him that he shall come and present himself before you." [Sidenote: _Sir Bors departeth in search of Sir Launcelot._] So forthwith Sir Bors departed from the court to seek Sir Launcelot. But after he had left her the Queen went into her privy closet and fast locked herself in. And she wept amain; and as she wept she communed in solitude with her soul, saying: "My soul! My soul! Is it anger thou feelest or is it aught else than anger?" [Illustration: Sir Launcelot leapeth from the window:] [Illustration] Chapter Sixth _How the Lady Elaine went to seek Sir Launcelot and how Sir Launcelot afterwards returned to the court of King Arthur._ Now ever the Lady Elaine the Fair, as aforesaid, took great grief beyond all measure concerning the fate of Sir Launcelot. For he lay wounded she knew not where and she knew not whether he were healing or dying. So upon a day she came to her father, King Pelles, where he was, and she had been weeping a great deal--yea, even whilst she spoke to her father she began weeping afresh. So, still weeping, she said: "Sire, I pray thee let me go and seek for this noble champion, Sir Launcelot of the Lake, where he lieth wounded, for mefeareth he hath been so grievously hurt that he may even now be upon the edge of death." Then King Pelles said: "My daughter, what is this thou wouldst do? Wouldst thou, a young damsel, go thyself errant in search of this wounded knight?" and the Lady Elaine said, "Yea." The King, her father said, "This may not be." Then the Lady Elaine wept all the more and with such passion that it was as though her heart would break. And therewith she kneeled down before her father and cried most vehemently: "Sire, let me go! Else I believe I shall become distracted with my fears lest he be dying of his wounds." Then King Pelles was very sorry for the Lady Elaine and he lifted her up and embraced her in his arms and kissed her upon the face. And King Pelles sought to comfort her, wiping away the tears from her face. And he said, "My daughter, weep not so." She said, "Lord, I cannot help it." Then he said: "My daughter, weep no more, for it shall be as thou wouldst have it. Go now in God's name upon this quest, if so be it will ease thy heart to do so, and I will send safe escort with thee." [Sidenote: _The Lady Elaine departeth in search of Sir Launcelot._] So it was that the Lady Elaine the Fair went upon that quest in search of Sir Launcelot, and her father purveyed for her such an escort as he had said. For he sent with her a company of seven worthy and noble knights with their esquires and attendants; and seven damsels of her court also went with her. These betook their way to Astolat, for it seemed to the Lady Elaine that there they might best hope to have news of the wounded knight. And when they had come to Astolat she took up her inn at that place, and sent forth several to make diligent inquiry if any news might be heard of the wounded knight. So those whom she sent made inquiry upon all sides, and upon a certain day, they found a woodchopper who had come out of the forest with a cart load of wooden fagots. This woodman brought news of Sir Launcelot and of Sir Lavaine; for he declared that he had seen them when they had entered the forest after the tournament. So her agents brought the woodchopper to where the Lady Elaine was, and she said to him, "What knowest thou, good fellow?" [Sidenote: _The woodman telleth of Sir Launcelot._] To this the woodman made reply: "Lady, I will tell you all. One day whiles I was in the forest I heard the sound of voices talking together, and greatly wondering what those voices were, I made my way privily to that place where I heard them speaking. There I beheld a half-armed knight who lay upon the ground all bathed in his own blood, and another knight, armed at all points, stood beside this knight, and the hands of the second knight were all red with blood. So methought that the armed knight had haply slain his fellow there in the woodlands in foul wise, for so it appeared to be. So whilst I stood there I heard that knight who lay on the ground complaining very grievously that he was hurt nigh to death, and I heard him entreat that knight who was armed that he should bear him to the westward and so by a forest path to the cabin of a certain hermit that dwelleth in those parts. Therewith I went away from that place as privily as I had come thither, for methought that maybe some ill deed had been done at that place and that so I should be punished if I meddled in it; wherefore I went away and left those two knights in that wise." Then the Lady Elaine the Fair asked that woodman if one of those horses was white and the other piebald and he said: "Yea, as white as milk and piebald with white and black." And the Lady said, "Then that must be they." [Sidenote: _The Lady Elaine cometh to the forest chapel._] So that same day she and her company made them ready and they rode away from Astolat and so came into the forest toward the westward. And after a while they came to a path that went across the way and they took that path to the right hand. So they travelled that path for a great while, and by and by they beheld before them the hut of the hermit where it was all built up against a great rock of the forest and overshadowed by the thick foliage of the aged oak tree that grew above it. Then as they drew near they heard the neighing of horses and they wist that they must be the horses of Sir Launcelot and of Sir Lavaine. Then, as the horses neighed in that wise, and as the horses of the Lady Elaine's party answered their neighing, there came one and opened the door of the hut and stood gazing at the Lady Elaine and her party as they drew near, shading his eyes from the slanting sun. And the Lady Elaine beheld who it was who stood there and she knew that it was Sir Lavaine, wherefore she cried out in a loud and piercing voice, "My brother! My brother!" Then Sir Lavaine, when he heard her, cried out upon his part as in great amazement, "My sister, is it thou?" and therewith he ran to her and he took her hand and she stooped from her horse and kissed his lips. Then she said to Sir Lavaine, "How is it with him, doth he live?" Whereunto Sir Lavaine said, "Yea, he liveth and will live, albeit he is weak like to a little child." She said, "Where is he?" And Sir Lavaine said, "Come and you shall see." [Sidenote: _The Lady Elaine beholdeth Sir Launcelot._] So he lifted the Lady Elaine down from her horse and he took her by the hand and led her into the hut of the hermit and there she beheld Sir Launcelot where he lay upon a pallet and lo! his face was white like to white wax and his eyes were closed as though in slumber and it seemed to the Lady Elaine that he rather resembled a white and sleeping spirit than a living man. So the Lady Elaine went silently forward to where Sir Launcelot lay and she kneeled down beside the pallet and the tears ran down her face like to sparks of fire. Therewith Sir Launcelot opened his eyes and he beheld her who she was and he smiled upon her. And Sir Launcelot said, "Is it thou?" She said: "Yea, Messire." He said, "Whence cometh thou?" She said, "I come from my father's house." He said, "And have you come hitherward from thence only for to find me?" whereunto she said, "Yea." Sir Launcelot said, "Why have you taken so great trouble as that upon my account?" And at that she bowed her head low and said, "Certes, thou knowest why." And this she spake not above a whisper, and so that I believe they two alone heard her words. Then Sir Launcelot said no more but lay gazing upon her albeit he could see naught but her head, for her face was hidden from him. So after a while he sighed very deep and said: "Lady, God knows I am no happy man. For even though I may see happiness within my reach yet I cannot reach out my hand to take it. For my faith lieth pledged in the keeping of one with whom I have placed it and that one can never be aught to me but what she now is. And it is my unhappy lot that whether it be wrong or whether it be right I would not have it otherwise, and so my faith remaineth pledged as aforesaid." [Sidenote: _Sir Launcelot and the Lady Elaine commune together._] Now the Lady Elaine wist what Sir Launcelot meant and that he spoke of the Lady Queen Guinevere unto whom he had vowed his faith of knighthood. And Elaine wept and she said, "Alas, Launcelot, I have great pity both for thee and for me." And at that Sir Launcelot sighed again as from the bottom of his heart and said, "Yea, it is great pity." Then after a while the Lady Elaine came out from where Sir Launcelot lay, and she gave command that they should abide at that place until the wounded knight was healed of his hurt. So the Lady Elaine established her court there in the forest nigh to where Sir Launcelot lay. And they set up pavilions around about that place so that all that erstwhile lonely and silent woodland was presently gay with bright colors and cheerful with the sound of many voices. And methinks that these days, whilst the Lady Elaine dwelt there in the forest nigh to the chapel of the good old hermit of the forest, and whilst she abided ever close to Sir Launcelot in that time of his grievous sickness, were the happiest days of all her life unto that time. For it was as though Sir Launcelot were all her own and as though there was none in the world but they two. For ever she was nigh to him and cherished him in all ways, the whiles the voices of those others who were there sounded remote and afar off as though they were of a different world than hers. So ever the Lady Elaine drank deep draughts of love and joy, and thought not of the morrow, but only of the day and of the joys that the day set to the lips of her soul, as it were, in a bright, shining chalice of pure gold. For so it is, oftentimes, that the soul drinketh deep from that chalice and reckoneth not that at the bottom of the cup there lyeth the dregs of sorrow or of despair that must by and by likewise be quaffed, and which, when drunk, must turn all the life thereafter to bitterness, as though those dregs were compounded of the gall and of the wormwood of death. [Sidenote: _They return to Corbin._] Thus the Lady Elaine the Fair abided with her court there in the forest for nigh a month and by the end of that time Sir Launcelot was healed of his infirmities, though like to a little child for weakness. And after he was healed she then had a fair litter prepared with several soft cushions of down. And she had that litter hung with hangings of flame-colored satin; and she had them lay Sir Launcelot therein and so they bore him thence. Thus they bore him in that litter by easy stages until they had brought him to Corbin and there he was received with great rejoicing and high honor. * * * * * Now it hath been told how that Queen Guinevere bade Sir Bors for to go seek Sir Launcelot and to bear him a command for to return to the court of the King. So Sir Bors did as the Queen bade him, but he did not find Sir Launcelot until after he had been brought back to Corbin as aforetold of. [Sidenote: _Sir Bors cometh to Corbin._] Thereafter it happened that one day Sir Bors had news that Sir Launcelot was lying at the court of King Pelles. So he went thither and there he beheld Sir Launcelot who was then wellnigh entirely recovered from his wound. But when Sir Launcelot beheld Sir Bors, such joy seized upon him that it was as though his heart would break, wherefore he ran to Sir Bors and he catched him in his arms, and embraced him with great passion and kissed him many times upon the face. And they of the court of King Pelles were very glad that so famous a knight had come thither, wherefore they paid him great honor. Only the Lady Elaine was troubled in spirit, for she wist that now Sir Bors was come Sir Launcelot would not stay with them for long, but that he would in a little while desire to return again to the court of King Arthur. [Sidenote: _Sir Bors speaketh to Sir Launcelot._] And so she had reason for her fears, for the next day after he had arrived at Corbin, Sir Bors took Sir Launcelot aside and he said to him, "Sir Knight, I am a messenger." Sir Launcelot said, "What message have you, and from whom?" Sir Bors said: "I bear a message from Queen Guinevere and it is that you return immediately to the court of King Arthur and that you present yourself to her and pay your duty to her as of old." Then after Sir Bors had thus spoken, Sir Launcelot turned him away and stood at a window with his back to Sir Bors. And then after a considerable while he said, "Sir, do you not know that my duty lieth here?" Sir Bors said: "That I believe full well. Nor can I find fault with you if you remain here in spite of the message I bring you. That which I am here for is not to command you to come to Camelot, but only to give you the commands of another." Then Sir Launcelot said: "Would you return to Camelot if you were me and I were you?" Sir Bors said, "That I cannot tell." Then after another while Sir Launcelot cried out: "Nay, I will not go; for though my heart lieth there and not here, yet I hold the happiness of another in my hand and I cannot cast it away." "Then," quoth Sir Bors, "I will return and tell them at the court of the King that your honor binds you here." And Sir Launcelot said, "Do so." And then he said, "There is but one favor I beseech of you, Messire." Sir Bors said, "What is that?" Sir Launcelot said: "It is this: I pray you of your courtesy that you will depart immediately from this place, for the sight of you bringeth to me such great desire to behold my kinsmen and my friends once more that I believe that I shall not be able to contain myself because of that desire if you remain here any longer." And Sir Bors said, "I will go within the hour." So that very hour Sir Bors betook himself away from Corbin and returned to the court of King Arthur, and when he had come there he delivered his message to the Queen and thereat she was like one whose heart had been broken. For when she received that news from Sir Launcelot she withdrew into her bower and no one saw her for a long time thereafter. Now after Sir Bors had departed from Corbin in that wise, Sir Launcelot was very heavy and sad, and though several days went by, yet was he not less sad at the end of that time, but still walked like one in a dream with his thoughts a great way off. [Sidenote: _The Lady Elaine biddeth Sir Launcelot to return._] And all this the Lady Elaine observed and her spirit was troubled because of the sadness of Sir Launcelot. So one day she sent for Sir Launcelot to come to her bower and when Sir Launcelot had come thither she said to him, "Launcelot, I know what is in thy heart." Sir Launcelot said, "What is there in my heart?" She said, "It is in thy heart that thou wouldst fain return to the court of King Arthur." "Lady," said Sir Launcelot, "it matters not what may be my inclination at this present, for above all those inclinations it is my will that I remain at this place." Then Elaine looked very steadfastly at him and she smiled, but there was as it were despair in her face even though she smiled. And after a little she said: "Not so, Messire, for I cannot bear to see you dwell with us thus in sadness. Wherefore, this command I lay upon you that you leave this court and that you return to the court of King Arthur, which same is the place where you do rightly belong." Then Sir Launcelot turned away from her, for he wist that there was joy in his face at the thought of returning to his kinsmen and his friends once more, and he would not have her see that joy. Then after a while, and with his back turned, he said, speaking as with a smothered voice: "Lady, if that be your command I must needs obey, but if I do obey you it shall be only to go for a little while and then to return after that while." So for a little no more was said, but the Lady Elaine ever gazed upon Sir Launcelot where he stood with his back to her, and after a while she said, "Ah, Launcelot! Launcelot!" Upon that Sir Launcelot turned him about and cried out, "Elaine, bid me stay and I will stay!" But she said, "Nay, I bid thee not, I bid thee go." Then Sir Launcelot went from that place with his head bowed down upon his bosom, and after he had gone she wept in great measure, for it was as though she had cut off her hope of happiness with her own hand, as though it had been a part of her body. [Sidenote: _Sir Launcelot returneth to court._] So the next day Sir Launcelot took horse and departed from Corbin, betaking his way toward Camelot, where was the court of King Arthur, and though he thought a very great deal of the Lady Elaine, yet he could not but look forward with joy in coming back again to the court of the King and of beholding the Queen and his knights companions once more. * * * * * [Sidenote: _Sir Launcelot cometh to the Queen._] Now when Sir Launcelot reached Camelot the news of his coming spread like fire throughout the entire place and everywhere was heard the noise of loud rejoicing and acclaim. But Sir Launcelot spake to nobody but came straight to where Queen Guinevere was and he stood before the Queen and his face was very gloomy and he said to her, "Lady, here am I." Then Queen Guinevere gazed at him with great coldness and she said to him, "Sir Knight, what brings thee hither?" Sir Launcelot said: "Lady, it is thy command that brings me. For alas! I find it to be thus with me that thy word hath power to bring me to thee whether it be from glory or from happiness or from peace or from prosperity. Yea; all these things would I sacrifice at thy behest." Then Queen Guinevere gazed upon Sir Launcelot for a long while and her soul was tossed and troubled with a great ferment of passion, and yet she wist not whether that passion was of indignation or of grief or of anger or of something else that was not like any of these. And first her face had been very white when he stood before her, and anon it flamed red like to fire, and she said: "Sir Knight, one time I sent my word to thee by a messenger and thou heeded him not. Now it matters not that thou comest, for thy coming and thy going are henceforth of no moment to me." Then Sir Launcelot's heart was filled to bursting with bitterness and despair, and he cried out aloud: "Lady, thou beholdest me a miserable man. For I have left all my duty and all my service and all my hope of peace and happiness and have come to thee. Hast thou not then some word of kindness for me?" But the Queen only hardened her heart and would not answer. Then Sir Launcelot cried out in great despair: "Alas! what is there then left for me? Lo! I have cast away from me all my hope of peace and now even thy friendship is withdrawn from me. Nothing then is left to me and my life is dead." [Sidenote: _The Queen is angry._] Then Queen Guinevere's eyes flashed like fire, and she cried out: "Sir Knight, you speak I know not what. Now I bid you tell me this--is it true that you wore as a favor the sleeve of the Lady Elaine the Fair at the tournament of Astolat?" Sir Launcelot said, "Yes, it is true." Then the Lady Queen Guinevere laughed with flaming cheeks and she said: "Well, Sir Knight I see that you are not very well learned in knighthood not to know that it is both unknightly and dishonorable for a knight to sware faith to one lady and to wear the favor of another. Yet what else than that may be expected of one who knoweth so little of the duties and of the obligations of knighthood that he will ride errant in a hangman's cart?" So spake Queen Guinevere in haste not knowing what she said, her words being driven onwards by her passion as feathers are blown by a tempest over which they have no control. But when she had spoken those words she was terrified at what she had said and would have recalled them. But she could not do that, for who can recall the spoken word after it is uttered? Wherefore, after she had spoken those words she could do nothing but gaze into Sir Launcelot's face in a sort of terror. And as she thus gazed she beheld that his face became red and redder until it became all empurpled as though the veins of his head would burst. And she beheld that his eyes started as though from his head and that they became shot with blood. And she beheld that he clutched at his throat as though he were choking. And he strove to speak but at first he could not and then he cried out in a harsh and choking voice, "Say you so!" and then again in the same voice he cried, "Say you so!" [Sidenote: _Sir Launcelot leapeth from the window._] Therewith he turned, staggering like a drunken man. And there was a tall window open behind him, and straightway he leaped out of that window into the courtyard beneath, where he fell with a loud and dreadful crash. But yet it was as though he had not fallen for he immediately leaped up to his feet and ran away all bruised and bloody from that place like one gone wode. Then Queen Guinevere shrieked aloud with a great passion of terror and remorse. And she cried out she knew not what and smote her hands very violently together. Thereat several came running to her and to them she cried out in a voice of vehement passion: "Go you, run with might and main and fetch Sir Launcelot hither to me again!" So those ran with all despatch but they could not find Sir Launcelot. For immediately after leaving the Queen as aforesaid, he had leaped upon his horse and had thundered away with all speed, and no one knew whither he had betaken himself. [Sidenote: _Sir Bors is indignant._] Now the word of all this was talked about the court of the King almost as soon as it had happened, for all the court was loud with the noise of it. Thereat, when the kinsmen of Sir Launcelot had heard what had passed, they were filled with great indignation at the manner in which he had been treated; and most of all Sir Bors was indignant, for he said to himself: "Lo! this Lady first sends me to seek my kinsman and to bring him to her and when he cometh at her bidding then she treats him with contumely altogether unworthy for a knight to endure. What then must Sir Launcelot think of me who was her foolish messenger to fetch him hither?" [Sidenote: _Queen Guinevere bespeaketh the kinsmen of Sir Launcelot._] But Queen Guinevere, not knowing of the indignation of the kinsmen of Sir Launcelot, sent for three of them to come to her, and these three were Sir Ector and Sir Lionel and Sir Bors de Ganis. When these three had come to her they found her weeping and when they stood before her she said, "Messires, I have done amiss." To this they said nothing lest from anger they should say too much. Yet the Queen beheld their anger, wherefore she dried her tears and spake with pride, saying: "Messires, I ask you not to forgive me who am your Queen, but I would fain ask Sir Launcelot to forgive me and I know that out of his gentleness he will do so. Now as your Queen and sovereign I lay this command upon you, that you straightway go in quest of Sir Launcelot and that you find him and that you bring him hither to me so that I may beseech his forgiveness for all that I have said amiss to him." So spake Queen Guinevere, and those knights who were there, though they were very angry with her yet they could not but obey the command which she laid upon them. * * * * * [Sidenote: _Of the Quest of Sir Launcelot._] So began the Quest of Sir Launcelot concerning which a very great deal hath been both written and said. For upon that quest there went forth those three knights as aforesaid, to wit; Sir Ector, Sir Lionel, and Sir Bors de Ganis, and after that there went forth Sir Gawaine and Sir Ewaine and Sir Sagramore the Desirous and Sir Agravaine and Sir Percival of Gales. All these undertook the Quest of Sir Launcelot and in that quest several adventures happened to them. Yet of all those adventures little of anything shall here be said saving only that which shall concern those adventures that befell Sir Ewaine and Sir Percival and Sir Gawaine; of which more anon. * * * * * And now there followeth the story of the Madness of Sir Launcelot, and of how he returned in a very strange manner to the Lady Elaine the Fair--and of how she was made happy by that return. [Illustration] PART IV The Madness of Sir Launcelot _Here follows the story of how Sir Launcelot went mad from grief and of how he roamed the woods as a wild man of the woods. Also many other adventures that befell him are herein told, wherefore I hope that you may have pleasure in reading that which is here written for your entertainment._ [Illustration: The Madman of the Forest who was Sir Launcelot:] [Illustration] Chapter First _How Sir Launcelot became a madman of the forest and how he was brought to the castle of Sir Blyant._ [Sidenote: _Sir Launcelot driveth through the forest._] [Sidenote: _Sir Launcelot falleth in a fit._] Now when Sir Launcelot had quitted the presence of Queen Guinevere as aforetold, and having leaped to horse as aforetold, he rode very furiously away, he wist not whither and cared not. And he raced like a whirlwind, striving, as it were, to escape from himself and his own despair. Thus he drove onward until he reached the shades of the forest, and he rode through the forest, rending the branches with his body, until his horse was all a lather of sweat. So he pursued his way till night descended upon him, and still he drove ever forward, he knew not whitherward. And he travelled in that wise all that night until about the dawning of the day, what time he came to that part of the woodland where was the hut of the hermit of the forest, and there he beheld the chapel and the cell of the hermit. Here Sir Launcelot leaped down from his horse, and he burst very violently into the dwelling-place of that good man so that the hermit was amazed at his coming. And Sir Launcelot cried out in a loud and violent voice, "God save you!" and therewith he fell forward and lay with his face upon the floor. Then the hermit ran to him and he lifted up his head and looked in his face and he beheld that Sir Launcelot was in a fit. So the hermit eased Sir Launcelot of his armor and he loosed the jerkin and the shirt at his throat so that his throat was bare. And he lifted Sir Launcelot and brought him to his own cot and he laid him down thereon and there Sir Launcelot lay for the entire day. But toward the sloping of the afternoon the sick man opened his eyes and he aroused and sat up and gazed about him, and he said, "Where am I?" The hermit said, "Thou art with me," and he further said, "What aileth thee, Sir Launcelot?" But to this Sir Launcelot answered naught but ever looked about him as though not knowing who he was or where he was; for he was like to one who is bedazed by a heavy blow he hath received. Then by and by Sir Launcelot said, "I know not what it is that hath happened." Thus he spake because his brains were bewildered by the passion through which he had passed, for even at that time the madness which afterward gat hold of him had begun to ferment in his brains so that he wist not very well what he said or did. Then the hermit knew that some great trouble had befallen Sir Launcelot, and he thought that maybe if Sir Launcelot would eat he would perhaps be refreshed and might maybe recover his mind once more. So the good man said, "Messire, will you not eat?" and Sir Launcelot said, "Yea, give me to eat." [Sidenote: _The hermit cherisheth Sir Launcelot._] So the hermit brought bread and milk and honey and fruit and he set those things before Sir Launcelot. And Sir Launcelot fell upon those things and ate of them very fiercely and voraciously, devouring them more like a savage than a worshipful and worthy knight. Then after Sir Launcelot had thus eaten he said, "I am aweary," and therewith he arose and ungirded his armor, and laid it aside, piece by piece, even to the very last piece thereof. Then when he was thus eased of his armor, he flung himself down in his jerkin and hose upon the hermit's pallet and therewith in a moment had fallen into a slumber so deep that it was like the sleep of death. And as he slept thus the hermit sat beside the pallet whereon Sir Launcelot lay. And he gazed very steadfastly upon Sir Launcelot, and was greatly grieved to see him in that condition. Now it happened that about the middle of the night the hermit fell asleep where he sat and shortly after that Sir Launcelot awoke and was aware how the old man slept. And Sir Launcelot took of a sudden a great fear of the hermit he wist not wherefore, so that the only thought in his mind was to escape from the hermit. Wherefore he arose and went very softly and in his bare feet out from that place, doing this so silently that he did not awaken the hermit from his sleep. [Sidenote: _Sir Launcelot escapeth from the hermitage._] Thus Sir Launcelot came outside the hermit's hut, and after he had thus escaped therefrom, he took of a sudden great fear lest the hermit should awake and pursue him for to bring him back to the hut again. So straightway he turned him and sped away into the forest with great speed, like as though he were a wild animal pursued by the hunter. And he fled away for all the rest of that night. And when the dawn had come he ceased to fly and he crouched down and hid himself in the thickets of the forest. For in his madness he was ever pursued by the fear that the hermit would follow him and that he was even then hunting for him for to bring him back to the hut again. Thus it was that Sir Launcelot escaped from the hut of the hermit, and after that he abided in the forest for a long while. What time he gathered the wild fruit of the forest for his food. And he drank of the forest fountains and that was all the food and drink that he had. And after a while the clothes of Sir Launcelot were all torn into shreds by the thorns and briars, and his hair grew down into his eyes and his beard grew down upon his breast so that he became in all appearance a wild man of the forest, all naked, and shaggy, and gaunt like to a hungry wolf. [Sidenote: _Sir Launcelot becometh the forest madman._] And now and again it chanced that some one who travelled in the forest would see him as he ran through the thickets of the woodland like to a wild creature, and hence it was that much talk of that wild man of the forest went about the countryside, and folk were afraid of all that part of the woodlands because of him. Now one pleasant morning in the autumn season when the early frosts were come, and when all the trees had taken on their clothing of crimson and russet and gold, Sir Launcelot, in his mad wanderings, came to the edge of the woodland and there before him he beheld a little open plain all yellow and bright in the broad beams of the shining sunlight. And Sir Launcelot beheld that in the midst of that small plain was a fair pavilion of blue silk. And he beheld that near by the pavilion there were three horses tethered browsing upon the autumn grass. And he beheld that a bright shield hung to a tree that grew near the pavilion, and that a fair sword hung nigh the shield, and that a spear leaned against the tree beside the shield and sword. Then Sir Launcelot was pleased with the bright color of the pavilion and something of knighthood awoke within him at the sight of the shield and the sword and the spear, wherefore he desired to handle the sword and the spear and to touch the shield. [Sidenote: _Sir Launcelot beateth upon the shield of Sir Blyant._] So Sir Launcelot went forward into that plain and he came to the tree where were the sword and the shield and the spear. And he took the pommel of the sword into his hand. Thereupon a great desire for battle came upon him, and he straightway catched the pommel of the sword in both his hands and he drew the blade forth from the sheath. And he whirled the sword about his head and he smote the shield; and he smote it again and again, striking great dents into it with the blade of the sword; and the sound of those blows made such a din and uproar that it was as though ten men were fighting in that place. Therewith, at all that sudden din and uproar, there came running out of that pavilion a misshapen dwarf very broad of shoulder and strong of limb. And when that dwarf beheld a madman smiting the shield in that wise, he ran at him with intent to take the sword away from him. But Sir Launcelot beheld the dwarf coming in that wise, and straightway he dropped the sword which he held, and he catched the dwarf by the shoulders and he flung him so violently down upon the earth that the neck of the dwarf was wellnigh broken by that fall. Then the dwarf was overwhelmed with the terror of Sir Launcelot, wherefore he did not dare to arise from the ground whereon he had fallen, but lay there calling out for help in a loud voice of outcry. Thereupon, there immediately came forth from out of the pavilion a noble knight clad all in scarlet and wrapped in a scarlet cloak trimmed with miniver. And that knight was Sir Blyant whose castle stood not more than four or five leagues from that place. For at such pleasant season of the year, Sir Blyant was wont to ride forth with his lady, and ever when he chose he would have a pavilion set up in some such pleasant place as this little glade. And sometimes Sir Blyant and his lady would lodge in that pavilion over-night, as was the case at this time. [Sidenote: _Sir Blyant pitieth the madman._] So Sir Blyant came forth out of the pavilion as aforesaid, and he beheld the dwarf lying upon the ground. And he beheld that Sir Launcelot had catched up the sword again, and that he stood above the dwarf, making play with his sword as though there were many enemies thereabouts; and Sir Blyant wist that he whom he beheld must be the Madman of the Forest of whom folk talked so much. Then Sir Blyant pitied that madman a very great deal, and he spake very mildly to him, saying: "Good man, put down that sword, for meseems thou art in greater need of food and of warm clothes and of nourishing and comforting than of playing with a sharp sword in that wise." But ever Sir Launcelot waved the sword this way and that, crying out in a great loud voice, "Keep thou away or I will slay thee." Then Sir Blyant perceived that there was great danger in having to do unarmed with that madman, wherefore he called upon his dwarf to arise and come to him, and therewith he withdrew into the pavilion with intent to arm himself and so to take away that sword from Sir Launcelot by force. [Sidenote: _Sir Blyant armeth himself._] So the dwarf, who by that time had arisen from where he lay, went into the pavilion to where Sir Blyant was, and he aided Sir Blyant to don his armor, and so Sir Blyant armed himself from head to foot. When he was thus armed he took sword in hand and went forth from out of the pavilion prepared to deal with the madman in such wise as was necessary to take that dangerous sword from him. For even if it must be that he had to slay that madman, Sir Blyant wist that he must not leave him thus with a sharp sword in his hand. So Sir Blyant came out of the pavilion armed at all points. But when Sir Launcelot beheld him coming forth thus armed as for battle, the love of battle awoke to full life in his heart, wherefore he shouted aloud. And he rushed at Sir Blyant and he struck Sir Blyant upon the helm so fierce and terrible a buffet that nor guard nor armor could withstand that stroke. And had the sword not turned a little in the hands of Sir Launcelot that had been Sir Blyant's last day upon earth. [Sidenote: _The madman overthroweth Sir Blyant._] Natheless, the sword, though turned, fell with full force upon the crest of Sir Blyant, and at that dreadful, terrible stroke the brains of Sir Blyant flashed fire into his eyeballs. Then blackness came roaring upon him and therewith he fell down in a deathly swoon, the blood running out from his nose and ears from the force of that woeful stroke he had suffered. So when Sir Launcelot beheld Sir Blyant fall thus beneath the blow, he shouted aloud for joy. And straightway with the naked sword in his hand he ran into the pavilion with intent to find what other enemies there might be in that place. Now the lady of Sir Blyant was alone in that pavilion, so when she beheld that half-naked madman rush therein with the shining sword in his hand, and a terrible fierce look of madness upon his face, she shrieked with terror and straightway ran forth from the tent upon the other side thereof. So Sir Launcelot stood and gazed all about him, waving his sword from side to side, but could behold no enemies such as he might assault. And then he saw where there was a fine soft couch spread with a covering of flame-colored linen in that place, and therewith he ran to that bed and leaped into it and straightway covered himself all over with the coverlet. [Sidenote: _The Lady is adread._] When the lady of Sir Blyant ran in that wise out of the pavilion as aforesaid, she beheld where her lord, Sir Blyant, lay stretched out upon the ground, and she beheld the dwarf bending over him, removing the helm from his head. And beholding that sight she shrieked more than ever and ran frantically to where that stricken knight lay. Therewith, beholding his face all white as milk and streaked with blood, she thought that he had certes been killed by that madman, whereupon she flung herself down upon his body, crying aloud in a most piercing voice, "My lord! My lord! Assuredly thou art dead!" "Not so, lady," said the dwarf, "he is not dead, but aswoon." And even as the dwarf spoke, Sir Blyant sighed very deeply and opened his eyes. And he said: "Where is that madman who struck me anon? Never in all my life felt I such a buffet as that which he gave me." The dwarf said, "Lord, that madman ran but now into the pavilion and drove your lady out thence." "Go, Sirrah," said Sir Blyant, "and see what he is at in the pavilion." So the dwarf went very fearfully to the door of the pavilion and peeped within, and he beheld where Sir Launcelot lay sleeping upon the couch. Thereupon the dwarf returned to Sir Blyant and he said: "Sir, that madman hath taken to your bed, and he lyeth there now very soundly asleep as he were in a swoon." And then the dwarf said: "Give me leave to take this sword and go thither and I will slay him where he lieth. For only so may we hope to save ourselves from the madness of his phrenzy when he shall awake." [Sidenote: _Sir Blyant looketh upon the madman._] But Sir Blyant pitied the madman and he said: "Let be and harm him not, for I misdoubt this madman is not what he seemeth to be." And he said, "Help me to arise, for my head swimmeth." So the lady and the dwarf helped Sir Blyant to his feet and in a little while he was able to stand and to walk. And anon Sir Blyant went into the pavilion, and he went to where Sir Launcelot lay and he stood and looked down upon him. And he beheld that Sir Launcelot wore a rich ring upon his finger (and that was the ring of magic which the Lady of the Lake had given him) and he beheld that Sir Launcelot's body was covered with many scars of wounds such as a knight might receive in battle. So seeing these things, Sir Blyant said: "This is no common madman, but some great champion who has fallen into misfortune, for I behold that he weareth a ring such as only a knight of great credit might wear, and I behold that he beareth many honorable scars of battle." And Sir Blyant said to the dwarf: "Take thou thy horse and ride with all speed to my castle. When thou art come there, bid my brother Sir Selivant to make haste hither with several men. And bid him to fetch a horse litter with him so that we may be able to bring this mad knight to where he may have succor and where he may haply be cured of his infirmities." So the dwarf did as Sir Blyant commanded him; he took horse and rode with all speed to the castle of Sir Blyant, and there he gave Sir Blyant's word to Sir Selivant. And straightway Sir Selivant came to that place with those men and a horse litter for to bring Sir Launcelot away; and he reached that place within three hours after the messenger had been sent to him. [Sidenote: _They bear the madman thence._] So Sir Selivant and Sir Blyant and those men lifted Sir Launcelot as he lay in his bed, and they laid him on the litter and Sir Launcelot did not awake. And they took him away from that place and still he did not awake; for all that while he lay in a deep slumber that was like to a swoon. Thus they brought him to the castle of Sir Blyant without his ever arousing from that swoonlike sleep. After that they fetched the barber of the castle and the barber trimmed the hair and the beard of Sir Launcelot and they put fresh decent clothes upon him, and all that time Sir Launcelot did not awake but lay ever in that swoonlike sleep. Now when they of that castle beheld Sir Launcelot as he lay after he had been thus clothed and clipped; and when they beheld how noble and comely was his appearance, they said, "Certes, this is indeed some noble and haughty champion of high estate, though who he may be we know not." So they all took great pity for Sir Launcelot, but yet they feared his phrenzy when he should awake. So they sent for the smith of the castle, and the smith fastened light strong chains of steel to the wrists of Sir Launcelot and to his ankles; so that he might do no harm to any one. [Sidenote: _The madman is made prisoner._] So when Sir Launcelot awoke he was a prisoner in chains in the castle of Sir Blyant. And Sir Launcelot remained dwelling in the castle of Sir Blyant for a year and a half, and ever he remained bound with those light strong chains of steel. For still his wits flitted and he wist not where he was or who he was, wherefore they feared he might at any moment break forth into a phrenzy. But ever the folk of the castle treated Sir Launcelot with great kindness and gentleness. And especially Sir Blyant was kind to him, wherefore Sir Launcelot loved Sir Blyant as some dumb creature loveth its master, and he would follow Sir Blyant about whithersoever he went. Thus it was that Sir Launcelot went mad and thus he came to be chained in the castle of Sir Blyant. And now remaineth other adventures to be told that befell at this time. [Illustration] [Illustration: The Forest Madman saveth ye Life of King Arthur:] [Illustration] Chapter Second _How Sir Launcelot saved the life of Sir Blyant. How he escaped from the castle of Sir Blyant, and how he slew the great wild boar of Lystenesse and saved the life of King Arthur, his liege lord._ [Sidenote: _Sir Blyant rideth in the woodland._] Now it happened upon a day that Sir Blyant rode in a little wood nigh to his castle, and whilst he was thus alone he beheld two knights riding side by side all in the clear bright springtime. As these drew nigh to him Sir Blyant was aware from the devices upon their shields that one of them was Sir Breuce sans Pitie and that the other was Sir Bertolet his brother, which same, you are to know, were Sir Blyant's bitter enemies. For in the tournament at Astolat Sir Blyant had very grievously hurt a young knight who was their brother, and afterward that knight (whose name was Sir Gelotius) had died of those hurts. Yet though Sir Blyant wist that this meeting boded ill for him yet would he not withdraw therefrom but went forward. So it came about that when he was pretty close to those two knights, the foremost of them (who was Sir Breuce sans Pitie) rode forth and bespoke him, saying, "Sir Knight, who are you and whither go you?" Sir Blyant said: "Messires, I am a knight of these marches, riding errant in search of adventure." Sir Breuce said, "Art thou not Sir Blyant of the White Castle?" Sir Blyant said, "Thou sayest it and I am he." Then Sir Breuce sans Pitie spoke very savagely, saying: "Sir Knight, this is well that we meet you here who are the slayer of our brother Sir Gelotius at the tournament of Astolat." To this Sir Blyant said: "Messires, what do you have against me for that? Certes, it is that I overthrew Sir Gelotius and that he died thereafter, yet it was by chance of battle that this happened and with no evil intent of mine. Moreover, your brother, Sir Gelotius, took his chances of battle as did all those who entered that tournament." "Say no more!" said Sir Breuce. "Say no more! but prepare you straight for battle with us who have every day sought you from that time till now, and so have found you here to our hand." "Messires," cried Sir Blyant, "would you fall upon me thus, two against one?" They say, "Aye," and thereupon they drew sword and prepared themselves for battle. [Sidenote: _Sir Blyant is assailed in the woodland._] Then Sir Blyant perceiving how it was, and that there was no other way for him to do than to fight this battle against odds, straightway drew his sword and put himself into posture of defence. Then in a moment they three came to battle together in the woods, two of them against the one. Yet, for a while, although he stood one to two, Sir Blyant defended himself with great courage and address, striking now upon this side and now upon that, anon wheeling his horse away from a stroke, anon lashing a stroke at his enemies. And so great was the defence he made that it was a long time ere that those two knights had their will of him. But one knight could not hope to fight thus a continued battle against two who were his equals, wherefore it befell that in a little while Sir Blyant was wounded here and there, and in another place; and then, in a little while longer it came about that, what with weariness and what from the loss of blood, he was aware that he must die in that battle alone in the woodlands unless he saved himself from his enemies. [Sidenote: _Sir Blyant fleeth._] Therewith a great despair fell upon him and with that he put his horse straight at Sir Breuce as though to strike him a buffet. Then as Sir Breuce drew aside to avoid that stroke, Sir Blyant drave his horse very fiercely against Sir Breuce's horse, so that Sir Breuce's horse wellnigh fell to the ground with his rider upon his back. Therewith Sir Blyant thrust past his enemy and quickly fled away toward his castle with all the speed that he could drive his horse to make. Now at first those two knights were astonished at the sudden escape of their enemy. But immediately they awoke to his going and so set spurs to horse upon their part and chased after Sir Blyant; and if he sped fast, they sped as fast after him. And ever and anon they lashed furiously at him, yet because of his speed they could do him no great harm. So Sir Blyant raced for his castle and he rushed forward beneath the walls of the castle with those two knights thundering after him amain. And because they were so close upon him, Sir Blyant could not draw rein to turn his steed into the drawbridge of the castle, but must needs rush past the drawbridge, calling for aid to those who were within the walls. [Sidenote: _The madman beholdeth Sir Blyant's danger._] Now at that time Sir Launcelot lay (chained as was aforetold) in a certain window of the castle where the sun shone down strong and warm upon him, and Sir Launcelot slumbered there in the sunlight. And as Sir Launcelot so slumbered he was aroused by the sound of galloping horses and a loud noise of shouting and the din of lashing of blows. So, looking forth from that window, he beheld the three knights as they came thundering past the walls of the castle. And Sir Launcelot beheld that the one knight who was pursued by the two knights was his master, Sir Blyant; and he beheld that Sir Blyant was much put to it to save his life; for he was all covered over with blood and, whilst anon he would wheel his horse and strike right and left, yet anon he would wheel again and flee for his life; and Sir Launcelot beheld that Sir Blyant reeled in his saddle under every blow that his enemies lashed at him. Meanwhile, in the castle was a great shouting and calling to arms, wherefore it came to Sir Launcelot to know that Sir Blyant was being slain. [Sidenote: _The madman breaketh his bonds._] Then a great rage of battle awoke in Sir Launcelot's heart against those who pressed his beloved master, Sir Blyant, in that wise, wherefore he would have hastened to the aid of Sir Blyant, but could not because of the chains that bound him. Then, in his madness, and being driven furious at being thus bound, Sir Launcelot catched those strong steel chains in his hands and wrestled with them. And the chains bit deep into his flesh in his wrestlings so that he was sore wounded by the iron. But in spite of that Sir Launcelot put forth his entire strength, and even though the blood flowed from his arms and hands yet he snapped the chains that bound his arms. After that he catched up a great stone in his hands and he beat upon the chains that bound his legs and brake those also, and so he was free again. Then Sir Launcelot leaped upon the window-ledge, and he leaped out of the window of the castle and into the moat below and he swam the moat and so came out upon the other side thereof. Right there came Sir Blyant striving to defend himself against those who followed him, and at that time he was very nigh falling from his horse at every blow he received. This Sir Launcelot beheld and when he saw how those two knights ever smote Sir Blyant and how that Sir Blyant reeled in his saddle beneath those blows, he roared aloud in pity and in rage. [Sidenote: _The madman doeth battle for Sir Blyant._] Therewith, thus roaring, he straightway rushed upon Sir Bertolet, who was nighest to him, and he leaped up and catched that knight about the body and dragged him down upon the pommel of his saddle with great force of strength, and Sir Launcelot catched the sword of Sir Bertolet and he wrestled with Sir Bertolet and so plucked the sword out of Sir Bertolet's hand. Then Sir Bertolet cried out to Sir Breuce: "Help! Help! my brother! For this madman slayeth me." Therewith Sir Breuce turned from Sir Blyant for to succor his brother, and upon that Sir Launcelot quitted Sir Bertolet and rushed at Sir Breuce. And Sir Launcelot gave Sir Breuce such a buffet upon the helm with the sword of Sir Bertolet that he smote Sir Breuce with that one blow clean over the crupper of his horse. Then Sir Bertolet took his spear in hand and therewith rushed his horse upon Sir Launcelot with intent to pierce him through the body. But from that assault Sir Launcelot leaped nimbly aside. Thereupon he rushed in and catched the spear of Sir Bertolet in his hand; and he ran up the length of the spear, and reached forward, and smote Sir Bertolet such a blow that he cut through the epaulier of the shoulder and deep into the shoulder to the very bone thereof, so that the arm of Sir Bertolet was half cut away from the body at that blow. Then Sir Launcelot would have struck again only that Sir Bertolet let go his spear from his hand, shrieking aloud, and wheeled his horse to escape. Now by that time Sir Breuce sans Pitie had got him to horse again wherefore, beholding that terrible blow and beholding how his brother Sir Bertolet fled away from that madman, he also drove spurs to flank and fled away with might and main. So it was that Sir Launcelot, unarmed, save for the sword in his naked hand, defeated two strong and doughty knights and so saved his master's life. [Sidenote: _Sir Blyant cherisheth the madman._] But by now the castle folk had come running to where were Sir Blyant and him whom they called the mad fool of the castle, and they beheld them both panting and bleeding. And Sir Blyant looked upon Sir Launcelot and beheld how his arms and hands were torn and bleeding from breaking those chains, and he said, "Poor fool! and hast thou suffered all that for my sake?" And at that Sir Launcelot laughed and nodded. Then Sir Blyant said to the folk of the castle: "Never let those chains be put upon his body again, for he is gentle and kind, and meaneth harm to no one." So they did not chain Sir Launcelot again, but suffered him to go free, and after that he wandered whithersoever he willed to go, and no one stayed him in his going or his coming. And ever he was kind and gentle to all so that no one in all that place had any fear of him but all were pleased and merry with him. Yet ever there lay within the heart of Sir Launcelot some remembrance that told him that he was too worthy to content himself with being a mad fool in a lord's castle, wherefore it was always in his will to escape from the castle of Sir Blyant if he was able to do so. [Sidenote: _The madman escapeth from the castle of Sir Blyant._] So now, being unchained, it happened one night when none observed him, that he dropped privily from the wall of the castle into the moat thereof, and swam the moat to the other side. And after he had thus escaped into the night he ran on without stopping until he had reached the forest, and there he roamed once more altogether wild as he had been aforetime. For the remnant of his knighthood said to him that it would be better for him to die alone there in the woodlands than to dwell in shame in a lord's castle. * * * * * Now at that time there was a great wild boar in those parts that was the terror of all men, and this boar was called the boar of Lystenesse--taking its name from that part of the forest which was called the Forest of Lystenesse. [Sidenote: _King Arthur hunts the boar of Lystenesse._] So word of this great wild boar, and news of its ravages came to the ears of King Arthur, whereupon the King ordained that a day should be set apart for a hunt in which the beast should be slain and the countryside set free from the ravages thereof. [Sidenote: _The madman chases the boar._] Thus it befell that upon a time Sir Launcelot, where he lived in his madness alone in the forest, was aware of the baying of hounds and the shouting of voices sounding ever nearer and nearer to where he was. Anon the baying of the hounds approached him very near indeed, and presently there came a great cracking and rending of the bushes and the small trees. Thereupon as he gazed, there burst out of the forest that great savage wild boar of Lystenesse. And lo! the jowl of that boar was all white with the foam that was churned by his tusks, and the huge tusks of the boar gleamed white in the midst of the foam. And the bristles of that great beast were like sharp wires of steel, and they too were all flecked with the foam that had fallen from the jowl of the beast. And the eyes of the wild boar gleamed like to two coals of fire, and it roared like to a devil as it fled, rending, through the forest. And ever the hounds pursued the boar, hanging upon its flanks but not daring to grapple with it in its flight, because of the terror that surrounded it. Then when Sir Launcelot beheld that sight the love of the chase flamed up within his heart and thereupon he shouted aloud and fell to running beside the dogs after the boar, tearing his way through the briars and thorns and thickets, even as the boar and the hounds burst through them. And so Sir Launcelot and the dogs chased the boar for a great while, until at last the beast came to bay, with his back set against a great crag of stone, and there the dogs surrounded it, yelling and baying. And ever Sir Launcelot shouted them on to the assault, yet not one of the hounds dared to grapple with the wild beast because of the terror of its appearance. So as Sir Launcelot and the dogs joined in assault about the boar, there came the sound of a horseman riding with speed and winding his horn. Then in a moment there came King Arthur himself, bursting out of the forest alone; for he had outridden all his court and was the first of all upon the field. Then King Arthur, beholding the boar where he stood at bay, set his lance in rest with intent to charge the beast and to pierce him through the body. But the boar, all fierce and mad with the chase it had suffered, did not wait that charge of the King but himself charged the horseman. And at that charge King Arthur's horse was affrighted, with the terror of the beast and flung suddenly aside so that the lance of King Arthur failed of its aim. [Sidenote: _The boar overthroweth King Arthur._] Therewith the boar ran up under the point of the lance and he catched the horse of the King with his tusks and ripped the horse so that both horse and rider fell to the ground; King Arthur beneath the wounded animal, so that he could not free his leg to rise from his fall. Then it would have been ill indeed with King Arthur but for that forest madman. For beholding the fall of the King, Sir Launcelot ran straightway to him. And he seized the sword of the King and plucked it forth from its sheath. Therewith he leaped at the boar and lashed at it a mighty buffet, and as he did so his foot slipped in the blood of the horse which there lay upon the ground, and he fell flat with the force of that blow which he purposed should destroy the boar. Thereupon the boar, finding himself thus attacked by another, turned upon that other and ere Sir Launcelot could arise from his fall it was upon him. And the boar ripped Sir Launcelot with its tusks through the flesh of the thigh, even to the hip bone. [Sidenote: _The madman slayeth the boar._] Now, when Sir Launcelot felt the pang of that dreadful wound which the boar gave him he yelled aloud. At the same time his soul was filled with a great passion of rage and madness so that, ere the boar could charge him again, he leaped to his feet and rushed upon the boar. And Sir Launcelot smote the boar such a terrible dreadful stroke that he cut through the bristles of the neck and through the spine of the neck and half-way through the neck itself, so that the head of the boar was wellnigh cut away from its body. Therewith the boar fell down dead and Sir Launcelot staggered and stood leaning upon the sword, groaning amain with the bitter pangs of pain that racked him. Right so, as Sir Launcelot stood thus, the other huntsmen of the King's party came bursting out of the forest with the sound of horses and of shouting voices. Then when Sir Launcelot beheld them he thought, because of his madness and the raging of his torments, that these were they who had hurt him. So therewith he roared like to a wild beast and he ran at those newcomers, whirling the sword of King Arthur like lightning around his head. Then several of those set their lances in rest with intent to run the madman through the body ere he could do a harm to any one, but King Arthur cried out: "Beware what you do! Do him no harm, for he hath saved my life." So those who would else have charged Sir Launcelot held their hands and drew away in retreat before him. But already Sir Launcelot's strength was failing him, for his brains were even then swimming with faintness. So in a little he sank down in a swoon and lay all of a heap upon the ground. Then the King, and the others who were there came to where he lay bleeding and swooning, and all looked down upon him, and because he was all naked and unkempt they knew him not. But nevertheless, they beheld that he was of great girth and that he was covered over with a great many scars of battle, and they all felt deep pity for him as he lay there. Then King Arthur said: "This is the framework of a mighty champion. Pity indeed that he should have come to this as we behold him." And he said: "Lift him up tenderly and bear him hence to where he may have comfort and nourishment." So they lifted Sir Launcelot with great gentleness, and they bare him away from that place, and they brought him to the hut of that hermit where he had been healed aforetime when he had received that grievous wound in the tournament at Astolat. * * * * * So the hermit received Sir Launcelot and wist not who he was. For though he beheld that here was a man of mighty girth and stature, yet was the great champion so changed by his madness and by his continued fasting in the forest that even his nearest friends might not know him. Nevertheless, though the hermit knew him not, yet he had them lay that forest madman upon a cot in his cell, and he searched that wound in the madman's thigh and bathed it with tepid water, and anointed it with balm and bound it up with bands of smooth white linen, so that that wound was in all ways well searched and dressed. [Sidenote: _The madman lyeth in the hermit's cell._] And the hermit looked upon Sir Launcelot and beheld that he was all gaunt and hollow with hunger and he said: "If this poor mad creature is not fed, he will die in a little while." So when Sir Launcelot had revived him from that swoon, the good old man fetched milk and white bread and offered them to the sick man. But he would not touch that food. For, though he was dying of hunger, yet he loathed that food because of his madness. So Sir Launcelot lay there wounded and famishing and the hermit wist not what to do to make him eat. And he lay in that wise for three days and ever the hermit watched him and tried to make him partake of food, and ever the madman would fling away from the food that was offered him. [Sidenote: _The madman escapeth from the cell of the hermit._] Now upon the fourth day, the hermit being at his orisons in the chapel, Sir Launcelot made assay to rise, and in spite of his weakness, he did arise. And having thus arisen, he found strength in some wise for to crawl out of the hut of the hermit, and the hermit at his prayers wist not that the wounded man was gone. And after that Sir Launcelot crept away into the forest and so hid himself, very cunningly, like to a wild creature, so that, though the hermit searched for him ever so closely, yet he was not able to find him. And the hermit said: "Alas for this! For certes this poor madman will die of his wound and of starvation all alone here in the forest, and no one can bring him succor." * * * * * So it was that Sir Launcelot escaped from the cell of the hermit a second time. And now it remaineth to be told how he returned to Corbin and to the Lady Elaine the Fair, and how the Lady Elaine cherished him and brought him back to health and strength and comeliness again. So I pray you to read that which followeth if you would fain learn concerning those things. [Illustration] [Illustration: The Lady Elaine the Fair knoweth Sir Launcelot:] [Illustration] Chapter Third _How Sir Launcelot returned to Corbin again and how the Lady Elaine the Fair cherished him and brought him back to health. Also how Sir Launcelot with the Lady Elaine withdrew to Joyous Isle._ So Sir Launcelot escaped from the cell of the hermit as aforetold. And he lay hidden in the thickets all that day till the night had come. And when the night had come he arose and turned his face toward the eastward and thitherward he made his way. [Sidenote: _How Sir Launcelot returneth to Corbin._] For death was very close to Sir Launcelot and there was but one thought in his mind and that thought was to return to Corbin. For even through his clouds of madness, Sir Launcelot wist that there at Corbin a great love awaited him and that if he might reach that place he might there have rest and peace; wherefore in this time of weakness and of pain, he willed to return to that place once more. So Sir Launcelot made his way toward Corbin, and he travelled thitherward several days and God alone knows how he did so. And one morning at the breaking of the day he came to the town of Corbin, and he entered the town by a postern gate he knew of old. And after he had entered the town he made his way slowly and with great pain up through the streets of the town and the town was still asleep. So he came unseen to the market-place of Corbin where he had aforetime slain the Worm of Corbin as aforetold, and there sat him down upon that slab of stone beneath which the Worm had made its habitation. And why he came there who shall say except that maybe there lay very dimly within his mind some remembrance that here he had one time had great honor and glory of knighthood. [Sidenote: _The people behold the madman._] So there he sat, and when the people of the town awoke they beheld sitting there in the midst of that market-place one all naked and famished who gazed about him with wild and terrified looks like to a starving wolf who had come out of the forest driven by hunger. And many gathered and stared at Sir Launcelot from a distance, and these laughed and jeered at him as he sat there in his nakedness, and not one of those wist that this was he who had aforetime slain the Worm of Corbin and so saved them in a time of their direst need. So they laughed and mocked him and anon some of those who were there began to cast stones at him with intent to drive him away from that place. So, at last, one of those stones struck Sir Launcelot where he sat, and at that his rage flamed up and took possession of him, whereupon he leaped up and ran at those who were tormenting him. And he catched a young man of the town and heaved him up and cast him down so violently upon the earth that he broke the bone of his thigh. [Sidenote: _The people assail the madman._] Upon that all those who were there shouted and screamed and fled away. And anon they returned and began stoning Sir Launcelot where he stood glaring and gnashing his teeth with the man whom he had hurt lying upon the ground at his feet. And many stones struck Sir Launcelot, some wounding him upon the head and some upon the body. And now and then Sir Launcelot would charge the mob in his rage, and the mob would scatter before him like chaff before a gust of wind; but ever they would return and begin stoning him again. So stoning Sir Launcelot and so Sir Launcelot charging the mob, the people drove him out of the market-place. And they drave him through the town and Sir Launcelot retreated before them toward the castle; for he wist even in his madness that there were friends there who should help him. So he ever retreated until he had come to a postern gate of the castle, and there he took stand with his back set against a wall. So at that place he maintained his stand, facing the mob and glaring upon them, until at last a stone smote him upon the head and he fell to the earth. [Sidenote: _They of the castle save Sir Launcelot._] Then it would have fared very hard with Sir Launcelot, even to his death, had not they within the castle, hearing the uproar of the multitude, flung open the postern gate of a sudden and so come charging out upon the mob. Thereupon the multitude, being thus charged by the armed folk of the castle, scattered upon all sides and ran away, leaving Sir Launcelot lying where he was. Then they of the castle came and gazed upon Sir Launcelot where he lay, and they beheld what a great and noble frame of man it was that lay there, and thereupon they took great pity that such a man should be in that condition. So the captain of the guard said: "Alas, that such a man as this has been should come to such a pass. Now let us lift him up and bear him away into the castle where he may have care and nourishment." So they did as that captain said, and they brought Sir Launcelot into the castle of Corbin and to safety. [Sidenote: _The Lady Elaine knoweth Sir Launcelot._] Now it chanced that the Lady Elaine the Fair happened to be at her window, and looking down therefrom and into the courtyard she beheld where several men at arms bore a wounded man into the castle from that postern gate. As they passed beneath where she was, the Lady Elaine looked down upon the countenance of the wounded man. Then she beheld his face with the sun shining bright upon it, and at that a thought struck through her like to the stroke of a keen, sharp knife, whereat the Lady Elaine clasped her hands and cried out aloud: "My soul! My soul! What is this? Can it be he?" Now there was in attendance upon the Lady Elaine at that time a certain very old and sedate lady of the court who had been her nurse and caretaker ever since her mother had died, leaving her a little helpless babe cast adrift upon the world. And the name of that lady was Dame Brysen. So Elaine ran to where Dame Brysen was and she cast herself upon her knees before Dame Brysen and buried her face in Dame Brysen's lap even as though it were her mother who sat there. And she cried out from where she lay with her face in that lady's lap, "Alas! Alas! Alas! Methinks I have beheld a most terrible sight!" Dame Brysen, speaking as in affright, said, "What hast thou seen, my child?" The Lady Elaine said: "Methinks I have beheld Sir Launcelot all starved with famine, and bruised and bleeding, and lying so nigh to death that I know not whether he is dead or not." Dame Brysen said: "What is this thou sayst, my child? Where sawst thou such a sight as that? Hast thou been dreaming?" The Lady Elaine said: "Nay, I have not been dreaming, for, certes, as I stood at the window a little while ago I saw Sir Launcelot, and several men bore him into the castle courtyard through the postern gate, and he was all naked and starved and wounded and bruised." The Dame Brysen said: "Nay, child, calm thyself; what ails thee to think so strange a thing as that? That man whom thou didst see was not Sir Launcelot, but was a poor madman whom the townsfolk were stoning at the postern gate." But the Lady Elaine cried out all the more vehemently: "I fear! I fear! Certes that was Sir Launcelot! Now take me to him so that I may be assured whether it was he or not, for otherwise meseems I shall go mad!" Then Dame Brysen perceived how it was with the Lady Elaine and that she was like one gone distracted, and she wist that there was naught to do but to let her have her will of this matter. Wherefore she said, "It shall be as thou wilt have it." [Sidenote: _The Lady Elaine cometh to Sir Launcelot._] So Dame Brysen arose and she took the Lady Elaine by the hand and she led her to that place where the madman lay, and they beheld that he lay in a little cell of stone, very gloomy and dark. For the only light that came into that place was through a small window, barred with iron, and the window was not more than two hands' breadth in width. Yet by the dim light of this small window they beheld the wounded man where he lay upon a hard pallet of straw. And they beheld that he was in a sleep as though it were a swoon of death and they beheld that his face was like death for whiteness. Then in that gloomy light the Lady Elaine came and kneeled down beside the couch whereon he lay and looked down into Sir Launcelot's face and she studied his face as though it were a book written very fine and small; and ever her breath came more and more quickly as it would suffocate her, for she felt assured that this was indeed Sir Launcelot. And anon she took Sir Launcelot's hand, all thin with famine and as cold as ice, and she looked at it and she beheld a ring upon the finger and the ring was set with a clear blue stone, and thereupon the Lady Elaine knew that this was the ring which the Lady of the Lake had given Sir Launcelot aforetime. [Sidenote: _The Lady Elaine weepeth._] Thereupon she knew that this was indeed Sir Launcelot and she cried out in a very loud and piercing voice, "It is he! It is he!" and so crying she fell to weeping with great passion. And she kissed Sir Launcelot's hand and pressed it to her throat and kissed it again and yet again. Then Dame Brysen leaned over the Lady Elaine and catched her beneath the arm and said: "Lady, Lady! restrain your passion! remember yourself, and that people are here who will see you." Therewith Dame Brysen lifted the Lady Elaine up from where she kneeled, and she brought her out of that gloomy place, still weeping with a great passion of love and pity. But yet the Lady Elaine had so much thought for herself that she drew her veil across her face so that none might behold her passion, and she said to Dame Brysen, "Take me to my father," and so, Dame Brysen, embracing her with one arm, led her to where King Pelles was. [Sidenote: _The Lady Elaine telleth her father of Sir Launcelot._] Then, when the Lady Elaine beheld her father standing before her, she flung herself upon her knees and embraced him about the thighs, crying: "Father! Father! I have seen him and he is in this castle!" At this passion of sorrow King Pelles was much amazed and he said, "Whom hast thou seen, my daughter?" She said: "I have seen Sir Launcelot, and it was he whom they fetched into the castle but now to save him from the townsfolk who were stoning him to death at the postern gate." Then King Pelles was amazed beyond measure and he said: "Can such a thing be true? How knowest thou it was he?" She said: "I know him by many signs, for I knew him by my love for him and I knew him by his face, and I knew him by the ring set with a blue stone which he weareth upon his finger." Then King Pelles lifted up the Lady Elaine where she kneeled at his feet and he said: "Daughter, stay thy weeping and I will go and examine into this." So he did as he said and he went to the cell and he looked long upon Sir Launcelot as he lay there. And he looked at the ring which the wounded man wore upon his finger. So after a while King Pelles knew that that was indeed Sir Launcelot who lay there, albeit he would not have known him, had not the Lady Elaine first declared that it was he. So immediately King Pelles bade those who were in attendance to lift Sir Launcelot up and to bear him very tenderly away from that place and to bring him to a fair large room. So they did as King Pelles commanded and they laid Sir Launcelot upon a couch of down spread with a coverlet of wadded satin. And King Pelles sent for a skilful leech to come and to search Sir Launcelot's hurts and he bade the physician for to take all heed to save his life. And all that while Sir Launcelot lay in that deep swoon like to death and awoke not. And Sir Launcelot slept in that wise for three full days and when he awoke the Lady Elaine and her father and Dame Brysen and the leech alone were present. And lo! when Sir Launcelot awoke his brain was clear of madness and he was himself again, though weak, like to a little child who hath been ill abed. [Sidenote: _How Sir Launcelot awoke from his madness._] That time the Lady Elaine was kneeling beside Sir Launcelot's couch and hers was the face he first beheld. Then Sir Launcelot said, speaking very faint and weak, "Where am I?" and the Lady Elaine wept and said, "Lord, you are safe with those who hold you very dear." Sir Launcelot said, "What has befallen me?" She said: "Lord, thou hast been bedazed in thy mind and hast been sorely hurt with grievous wounds, wherefore thou hast been upon the very edge of death. But now thou art safe with those who love thee." He said, "Have I then been mad?" And to that they who were there said naught. Then Sir Launcelot said again, "Have I been mad?" and thereupon King Pelles said, "Yea, Messire." Then Sir Launcelot groaned as from his soul, and he covered his face with one hand (for the Lady Elaine held the other hand in hers) and he said, "What shame! What shame!" And therewith he groaned again. [Sidenote: _How Sir Launcelot was cherished._] Then, ever weeping, the Lady Elaine said, "No shame, Lord, but only very great pity!" and she kissed his hand and washed it with her tears. And Sir Launcelot wept also because of his great weakness, and by and by he said, "Elaine, meseems I have no hope or honor save in thee," and she said, "Take peace, Sir, for in my heart there is indeed both honor for you and hope for your great happiness." And so Sir Launcelot did take peace. Then after a while Sir Launcelot said, "Who here knoweth of my madness?" and King Pelles said, "Only a very few in this castle, Messire." Then Sir Launcelot said: "I pray you that this be all as secret as possible, and that no word concerning me goes beyond these walls." And King Pelles said, "It shall be as you would have it, Messire." So it was that the news of Sir Launcelot's madness and of his recovery was not carried beyond those walls. [Sidenote: _Sir Launcelot and Elaine commune together._] Now after a fortnight had passed, Sir Launcelot was fast becoming cured in body and mind. And one day he and the Lady Elaine were alone in that room where he lay and he said, "Lady, meseems you have had great cause to hate me." At this she looked upon him and smiled, and she said, "How could I hate thee, Launcelot?" Sir Launcelot said, "Elaine, I have done thee great and grievous wrong in times gone by." She said, "Say naught of that." "Yea," he said, "I must say much of that, for I have this to say of it, that I would that I could undo that wrong which I did thee by my neglect. But what have I aught to offer thee in compensation? Naught but mine own broken and beggared life. Yet that poor life and all that it holds dearest I would fain offer thee if only it might be a compensation to thee." Then the Lady Elaine looked very long and intently at Sir Launcelot and she said: "Sir Launcelot, thy lips speak of duty, but that which boots is that thy heart should speak of duty. For if so be that thou hast ever done me wrong, thou canst not hope to remove that wrong by the words of thy mouth. But if from thy heart thou sayst, 'I have wronged this one and I would fain make amends,' then indeed may that wrong be very quickly amended." Then Sir Launcelot smiled and he said: "And so I have looked well into my heart ere I spake to thee, and so it is my heart that speaks and not my lips. For in my heart meseems I find great love for thee and certes I find all honor and reverence for thee lying therein, and moving me to everything that I now hope to do or to perform. Now tell me, Lady, what can any heart hold more than that?" And Elaine said, "Meseems it can hold no more." Then Sir Launcelot took her by the hand and drew her to him and she went to him, and he kissed her upon the lips and she forbade him not. So they two were reconciled in peace and happiness. [Sidenote: _Sir Launcelot and the Lady Elaine are wedded._] So when Sir Launcelot was altogether healed of his sickness, they two were married. And after they were married, King Pelles gave to them a very noble castle for to be their dwelling-place and that castle was called the Castle of Blayne. That castle stood upon a very beautiful island in the midst of a lake of pure water as clear as crystal. And the island was covered over with many plantations and orchards of beautiful trees of various foliages. And there were gardens and meadows upon that island and there was a town about the castle so fair that when one stood upon the margin of that lake and gazed across the lake to the town and the castle he beheld such a place as one may see in a shining dream. So Sir Launcelot, because of the great peace of that island and because of the peace which he hoped to find there, called it the Joyous Isle, and so it was known of all men from that time forth. * * * * * So endeth this part of the history of Sir Launcelot with only this to say. That he dwelt there in Joyous Isle in seeming peace and contentment. [Sidenote: _How Sir Launcelot dwelt in Joyous Isle._] Yet was it indeed peace and contentment that he felt? Alas, that it should be so, but so it was that ever and anon he would remember him of other days of doughty deeds of glory and renown, and ever and anon he would bethink him of that beautiful queen to whom he had one time uplifted his eyes, and of whom he had now no right to think of in that wise. Then his soul would up in arms and would cry out aloud: "Let us go hence and seek that glory and that other's love once more! Are not all thy comrades waiting for thee to return, and doth not she also look for thee?" Then Sir Launcelot would ever say to his soul, "Down, proud spirit, and think not of these things, but of duty." But ever and anon that spirit would arise again within him and would struggle with the bonds of honor that held it in check. And ever Sir Launcelot would say, "That which remaineth for me is my duty and my peace of soul." For indeed it is so that the will of a man is but a poor weak defence against the thoughts that arise within a stubborn heart. For, though a man may will to do that which is right, yet may his thoughts ever turn to that which is wrong; and though he may refrain from doing wrong, yet it is in spite of his desirings that he thus refraineth. Yea; there is no help for a man to contain himself within the bounds of duty, save only that he hath the love of God within his heart. For only when his feet are planted upon that rock may he hope to withstand the powerful thoughts that urge him to do that which is wrong. So it was with Sir Launcelot at that time; for though he ever willed to do that which was right, yet his desires ever called to him to depart from the paths of honor and truth in which he walked, and so he was oftentimes much troubled in his spirit. [Illustration] PART V The Story of Sir Ewaine and the Lady of the Fountain _Here beginneth the story of Sir Ewaine; of how he went forth to search for Sir Launcelot in company with Sir Percival of Gales; of how they two met Sir Sagramore in a condition of great disrepute; and of how Sir Ewaine undertook a very strange adventure, in which he succeeded, after great danger to his life, in winning the most fair Lady of the Fountain for his wife._ [Illustration: Sir Gawaine, Knight of the Fountain:] [Illustration] Chapter First _How Sir Ewaine and Sir Percival departed together in quest of Sir Launcelot, and how they met Sir Sagramore, who had failed in a certain adventure. Also how Sir Sagramore told his story concerning that adventure._ It hath already been told in this book how certain knights of King Arthur's court--to wit, Sir Ector de Maris, Sir Lionel, Sir Bors de Ganis, Sir Gawaine, Sir Ewaine, Sir Percival, Sir Sagramore the Desirous and Sir Agravaine went forth upon Queen Guinevere's command to search for Sir Launcelot and to bring him back to the court of the King. [Sidenote: _Sir Percival and Sir Ewaine ride forth together._] Upon that quest, Sir Percival and Sir Ewaine rode together for the sake of companionship. And they made agreement to travel together in that wise until the fortunes of adventure should separate them. So they rode side by side in very pleasant companionship, taking the way that chance led them, yet everywhere seeking for news of Sir Launcelot, of whom they could find no word of any sort. In those days the world was very fresh and young, so that it was great pleasure to journey in that wise, for anon they two rode beneath blue skies and anon through gentle showers, anon up hill and anon down dale, anon through countryside, anon through town, anon through forest and anon through wold. Yea; in those days, when the world was young, all things of life were so gay and joyous that it was little wonder that good knights like those twain took delight in being abroad in that wise, for so they might breathe more freely, out in the wider expanses of God's world, and so the spirit within them might expand to a greater joy of life than would be possible in court or in lady's bower. So those two worthy gentlemen travelled as aforesaid in good-fellowship together, journeying hither or yon for a fortnight, neither hearing aught of Sir Launcelot, or meeting with any adventure whatsoever, and lodging them at night at what place chance might happen to bring them. [Sidenote: _They perceive a castle in a valley._] At the end of that time--to wit, a fortnight--they came to a certain high hill and from the summit thereof they beheld a valley that lay stretched out beneath them. And they beheld a fair tall castle that stood in the midst of that valley, and the castle was surrounded by a little town and the town was surrounded by many fair fields and plantations and orchards of fruit-trees. And at that time evening was coming on apace, and all the golden sky was fading into a pale silver, wonderfully clear and fine, with a single star, like a jewel, shining in the midst of the bright yet fading firmament. Then Sir Ewaine said: "Sir, let us go down to yonder place and seek lodging at that fair castle, for meseems that must be a very pleasant place to abide for the coming night." To the which Sir Percival replied, "Let it be so, brother," and therewith they rode down into that valley and to that castle. And when they had reached the castle, Sir Percival blew his bugle horn very loud and clear, and straightway there came several of the attendants of the castle who bade them welcome and led them within the gateway thereof. There, when they had arrived, came the major of the castle, and requested them that they would tell what was their name and their degree, and when the two knights had announced these there was great rejoicing that two such famous champions had come thitherward. So several ran and took their horses in charge and others came and assisted them to dismount and others again led them into the castle and thence brought them each to a fair chamber, well bedight and with a very cheerful outlook. Then came other attendants and assisted each knight to disarm and to disrobe, and after that they brought each to a bath of tepid water. Thereafter, when they had bathed and dried themselves with fair linen towels, very soft and fragrant with lavender, these same attendants brought them rich robes of silk and garments of silk, and they dressed them and were at great ease and comfort. For thus it was that good knights of old were received in such castles and halls wheresoever they chose to abide in that adventurous wise. [Sidenote: _Sir Percival and Sir Ewaine refresh themselves at the castle._] Now after Sir Ewaine and Sir Percival had refreshed themselves and bathed themselves and had clad themselves as aforetold, there came to them a certain dignitary of the castle, who brought them word that the lord of the castle desired to have speech with them. So they two went down with that attendant, and he brought them to the great hall of the castle where was the lord thereof, standing to give them welcome. He was a haughty and noble worthy with a long gray beard and he was clad in a dark purple robe embroidered with silver. When he beheld Sir Ewaine and Sir Percival coming into that place, he hastened to meet them and give them greeting and welcome beyond stint. And he said: "Welcome, welcome, fair lords! Thrice welcome to this castle! For certes it is a great glory to us all to have you with us. Moreover, I may tell you that already there is one of your fellows here at this place, and I believe you will be very glad to see him." Quoth Sir Ewaine, "Sir, who is it that is here?" [Sidenote: _They hear news of Sir Sagramore._] "It is Sir Sagramore who hath come hither," said the lord of the castle, and at that Sir Ewaine and Sir Percival cried out with amazement. And Sir Ewaine said, "How came Sir Sagramore hither, fair lord?" "I will tell you," said the lord of the castle. "A little before you came hitherward, there arrived at this place a knight riding without a shield and seated upon a white mule. This knight requested rest and refreshment for the night, and upon our asking him his name and degree, he at first refused to tell, for shame of his condition; yet afterward he declared that he was Sir Sagramore of King Arthur's court, and a knight of the Round Table. He also declared that he had met with a sad mischance and had lost his shield and his war-horse, wherefore he was travelling in that wise as I have told you." "Sir," quoth Sir Ewaine, "this is a very strange thing I hear, that Sir Sagramore should be travelling in that unknightly wise. Wit you that as Sir Sagramore is a knight of the Round Table, this matter concerns both Sir Percival and myself very closely. Now I pray you for to let me have speech with him, so that I may know why it is that he hath travelled in that wise and without his knightly shield." "It shall be as you command, Messire," said the lord of the castle, "and so I will straightway send a messenger to Sir Sagramore with word that you would have speech with him." [Sidenote: _Sir Sagramore appeareth._] So the lord of the castle sent the messenger as he said, and anon there came Sir Sagramore to where they were. But when Sir Sagramore stood before Sir Ewaine and Sir Percival, he hung his head full low, as though not wishing to look those knights in the face because of shame that they should find him there in such a condition. Then Sir Ewaine said to him: "Sir, I pray you tell me how you came by such a mischance as this, so that you ride without your shield and upon a white mule like to a strolling demoiselle?" "Messire," said Sir Sagramore, "I will tell you the whole story, for I would have you know that it was through no disgrace but by mishap of battle that I am come to this pass." Quoth Sir Ewaine, "I may well believe that." Then the lord of the castle said: "Messires, ere you talk of these things I pray you to come to table and eat and drink and refresh yourselves. After that we may listen with a better spirit to what this knight has to tell us." [Sidenote: _They all sit at feast together._] So that which the lord of the castle said seemed very good to those knights, wherefore they straightway went in to table in the hall and sat down thereat. And the table was spread with all manner of meats, and there was wine of divers sorts, both red and white, and they ate and drank with much appetite and great good-will. Then when they were satisfied as to their hunger, Sir Ewaine said to Sir Sagramore: "Now, Messire, I pray you to tell us concerning that adventure which hath befallen you." Sir Sagramore said, "I will do so." Then he said: [Sidenote: _Sir Sagramore telleth of his adventures._] [Sidenote: _How Sir Sagramore came to a wonderful valley of enchantment._] "You must know that when I travelled forth errant in search of Sir Launcelot, as several of my fellows did, I went forward upon my way, making diligent inquiries concerning him, but still could get no news of him. So I travelled onward in that wise, ever making inquiries as aforesaid, until two days ago, what time in the evening I came to a certain place a considerable distance to the east of this. There I found myself in a valley that I verily believe must be the fairest valley in the world. For in that valley I beheld a very pleasant expanse of meadow-lands all abloom with flowers, and I beheld many glades of trees of an even size, some abloom with blossoms and some full of fruit. And there was a river of very clear water that flowed down through the centre of the valley, and everywhere there were birds of curious plumage that sang very bewitchingly, so from these things I wist that this valley was very likely a place of enchantment. In the midst of that valley I beheld a very noble castle that was of as wonderful an appearance as the valley itself, so I rode forward into the valley and approached the castle. "As I drew near thereunto I beheld two youths clad in flame-colored satin who shot at a mark with bows and arrows. And the hair of the youths was yellow and curling, and each bore a frontlet of gold upon his head, and they wore upon their feet shoes of embossed leather with latchets of gold upon the insteps. "These two youths, as I drew near, gave me very courteous greeting, and besought me that I would declare to them my name and degree, and I did so. Then they besought me that I would come with them to the castle, and I went with them with great content of spirit; for it seemed to me that this was likely to be a very fair and cheerful place to lodge over-night. So I entered with those two youths into the castle, and there came attendants and took my horse and there came others who unarmed me and led me to a bath of tepid water. After that I descended to the hall of that castle, and there I beheld that it was all hung with tapestries and fabrics of divers sorts and of very rich and beautiful designs. [Sidenote: _Sir Sagramore meets the Lady Vivien._] "In that hall there were twelve ladies who sat embroidering cloth of satin at a window, and I think I have hardly ever seen any ladies who were so beautiful as they. Immediately I entered that room these twelve ladies arose, and she who was the fairest amongst them came forward and gave me greeting. And immediately I knew that lady that she was the Lady Vivien who beguiled the Enchanter Merlin to his undoing and his ruin. Yet in this time, I do assure you, she has grown more beautiful than ever she was before; for her hair, which was ruddy, is now like to pure gold for brightness, and it was enmeshed in a golden net, and yet one could not tell whether the net or the hair shone the more brightly. And her eyes, which are perfectly black are as bright as jewels, and her lips are like red corals and very fragrant, and her teeth are like to rich pearls. Moreover, she was clad in garments of flame-colored satin, and her neck and arms were adorned with ornaments of gold set with jewels of a great many kinds and colors. And well ye wist, Messires, that it was very difficult not to be altogether enchanted by her beauty of face and appearance. [Sidenote: _Sir Sagramore feasteth with the Lady Vivien._] "Yet well knowing how this lady loved mischief, I was for a time very ill at ease, not knowing whether or not she might be minded to cast some evil spell upon me. Yet she made no sign of such intent, but spake me very fair and gave me courteous greeting. And she took my hand and led me into an adjoining apartment where there was a feast set with all sorts of meats and wines, and we two took our places at the board side by side. And as we feasted so together, there came some who sang and others who made sweet music and I felt such great pleasure as I have hardly ever felt in all of my life before. Meanwhile, as we sat at the table, the Lady Vivien conversed with me upon such matters as she deemed would be of entertainment to me. And she inquired of many lords and ladies at the court of the King and spake well of them all. Then after a considerable while she inquired of me whether it would be pleasant to me to tell her upon what errand I was bound, and so I told her I was errant in search of Sir Launcelot. "'Ha!' quoth she, 'if thou wert in search of adventure, I could bring you to one that would be well worth undertaking.' "I said to her: 'Lady, though I am errant upon a certain business, yet I am very ready to stay my affairs for a while if so be I may meet with an adventure that may bring me any credit.' [Sidenote: _The Lady Vivien telleth Sir Sagramore of an adventure._] "At that the Lady Vivien laughed, and she said: 'Sir Sagramore, I know not what credit you may obtain in this adventure, but I will tell you what you are to do to enter into it. To-morrow I will ordain that one of the youths who brought you hither shall conduct you to a certain path that leads through the forest that lies beyond this valley. If you will follow that path, you will by and by come to a mound of earth, and on that mound you will very likely behold a man of gigantic stature who is herdsman to a herd of cattle thereabouts. Ask him where is the enchanted fountain, and he will direct you still farther upon the way.' "I said to her: 'Lady, I am very much beholden to you for the information you give me, and I will very gladly take up with this adventure.' Upon this she laughed a very great deal and said: 'Sir Knight, it may be that after you have passed through this adventure, you will not be so pleased either with me or with yourself. Now I have this to ask of you in return for my entertainment of to-night. My request is that you will return hitherward to me after you have finished this adventure so that I may see how it hath happened with you.' I said to the lady, 'It shall be as you ask.' [Sidenote: _Sir Sagramore departs upon the adventure._] "So when the next morning had come I arose very early and donned mine armor. And there came to me one of those youths aforetold of, and he aided me to my horse and afterward guided me through that valley. So he brought me to the borders of a woodland that lay beyond the valley and there he showed me a path and bade me take that path and it would bring me to that adventure I sought. "Thereafter I followed that path, and after I had gone upon the way a considerable distance I came, some time before midday, to that mound whereof the lady had spoken. "On the top of the mound there sat a man of gigantic size and so hideously ugly that I never beheld his like in all of my life before that time. This being called to me in a voice exceedingly loud and rough, demanding of me whither I went and upon what business. Thereupon I told him that I sought a certain magic fountain and that I would be much beholden to him if he would direct me upon my way. Upon this he laughed very boisterously, and after a while he said: 'Take that path yonder through the glade. Follow that path until you come to a hill. From the hilltop you will find before you a valley, and you will see in the valley a fountain of water that flows into a small lake with many lilies about the margin. At the fountain is a tall tree with wide-spreading branches, and beneath the tree is a marble slab, and upon the slab is a silver bowl attached to it by a chain of silver. Take some of the water of that fountain into the silver bowl and fling it upon the marble slab, and I believe you will find an adventure that will satisfy your desires for a very long time to come.' [Sidenote: _Sir Sagramore cometh to the valley of the fountain._] [Sidenote: _Sir Sagramore poureth water upon the slab._] "So spake that gigantic oaf. I took the path to which he directed me, and I followed the path until I came to the hill, and I climbed the hill and there I beheld the valley of which he spake. And I beheld the lake of lilies of which he spake and I beheld the fountain that flowed into the lake and I beheld the tree that overshadowed the fountain, so I straightway rode down into the valley thereunto. And when I had come to the tree I beheld the slab of stone and the bowl of silver just as that gigantic herdsman had said that I would find them. Then I dipped the silver bowl into the water as he had told me to do and I flung the water of the fountain upon the marble slab. "Then immediately a very singular thing happened, for lo! the earth began to tremble and to shake, and the skies began, as it were, to thunder, and all over the sky there spread a cloud of very great blackness and density so that whilst it was still midday, it began to grow dark like night-time. Then there came a great wind of such strength that I thought it would blow me away, and after that there fell a rain in such quantities and with such deluge that methought I would be drowned by that rain. And the rain roared down in torrents everywhere through that valley as it were a deluge. And, as the rain fell and the thunder burst forth from the sky and the lightning flamed like living fire, I heard, as from a very great distance, the sound of many voices raised in lamentation. "Then, by and by, the storm passed and the clouds disappeared and the sun came forth with extraordinary brightness. Then lo! there happened another singular thing, for presently there came a great multitude of birds flying through the air, and they lodged in that tree above the fountain, and they sang with such exquisite melody that methought that my heart would break with the joy of their singing. "Now whilst I sat there listening to those birds, I beheld where, a great way off, there came a horseman riding with extraordinary rapidity across the plain, and as he drew nigh I beheld that he was a knight seated upon a black horse and clad all in black armor. This knight came riding very violently toward where I was, and he called out in a very fierce loud voice: 'Sir Knight, wherefore did you meddle with my fountain. Know that you have brought a great deluge upon this land, and for that I am come hither to punish you. Now defend yourself from my anger, for it is very great.' [Sidenote: _Sir Sagramore is overthrown by the Knight of the Fountain._] "Therewith he made ready to assail me, and I upon my part immediately put myself into a posture of defence, and dressed my shield and my spear, and took post upon the meadow close to the fountain. After that I ran a tilt against that knight and he ran against me, and he cast me out of my saddle with such violence that methinks I have never before felt a buffet like to that which I then received. "Having thus cast me down, he paid no more heed to me than if I had been a billet of wood, but he took from me my shield and he laid it upon the saddle of my horse and he took my horse by the rein and rode away from that place, leaving me still lying upon the ground. And in departing he said not one single word to me. And indeed I do think, Messires, that I was never so abashed in all my life before. [Sidenote: _The Lady Vivien mocketh Sir Sagramore._] "Then I remembered how that I had pledged myself to return to the Lady Vivien, and at that I was more ashamed than ever. So, in obedience to that promise, I had to make my way back whence I came on foot. When I passed by where was that mound, the gigantic creature who sat thereon made great mock of me. And when I reached the castle, the Lady Vivien looked at me out of a window and laughed at me beyond measure. And when I requested admission to the castle, she denied me entrance thereunto, and when I besought her for to lend me a horse to ride upon my way, she gave me instead a white mule for to bear me thence. So I returned hitherward upon a white mule without any shield, and thus I have confessed everything to you to the last word." Such was the story of Sir Sagramore, and thereunto all those who were there listened with great attention and with much amazement. Then Sir Ewaine spake, saying: "That was a very great shame that was put upon you, Messire; and I take it so greatly to heart that had I suffered it in my own person methinks I could not feel much greater shame than I do. For that which hath befallen you is, as it were, a despite put upon all of us who are knights of the Round Table. Wherefore, being a fellow of that company, your despite is my despite also. As for that mischievous Lady Vivien, methinks that she is at the bottom of all this coil, and I am much misled if this hath not all been devised by her to bring shame upon you who are a knight of King Arthur's court and of the Round Table." Quoth Sir Percival, "That may very well be so, Messire." Then Sir Ewaine said: "Well, Messires, as for me, I am of no mind to sit down quietly under this affront." "Sir," said Sir Sagramore, "what would you do?" "I would do this," said Sir Ewaine. "I would go upon that same quest in which you have failed, and if I succeed therein, then will the shame of your mischance be wiped away from us all." Thus spake Sir Ewaine with great feeling; for you are to know that those noble knights of the Round Table were so closely knit into brotherly fellowship that whatsoever ill thing befell to the injury of one was in that same measure an injury to all, and that whatsoever quarrel was taken up by one of that company, was a quarrel appertaining to all. Wherefore it was the injury that had been done to Sir Sagramore was also an injury done to Sir Ewaine, and so it was that Sir Ewaine felt himself called upon to undertake that adventure in which Sir Sagramore had failed as aforesaid. Then Sir Ewaine said: "Now I prithee tell me where that path is that may bring me to this adventure and to-morrow I will part from you and will myself enter upon it. Meantime, do you both resume your quest of Sir Launcelot, and if I should not prosper in this undertaking, I will return hither and leave report of my happenings. Wherefore at this place you may, at any time, easily hear what hath befallen me if you will come hither." [Sidenote: _Sir Ewaine departeth upon the Adventure of the Fountain._] So Sir Sagramore gave Sir Ewaine such directions for that adventure as were necessary and after that they all went to bed to rest them after their travails of the day. And when the next morning had come and while the dew still lay upon the grass, shining like to a thin veil of fine, bright silver spread over the level meadow-lands, Sir Ewaine arose all in the freshness of the early daytime and busked him whilst the rest of the castle still lay fast asleep. And he donned his armor and went down and aroused the sleeping groom and gave command that his horse should be brought to him; and after the groom had apparelled his horse he mounted and rode forth upon that way which Sir Sagramore had advised him would lead him toward the castle of the Lady Vivien. * * * * * And now if you would know how Sir Ewaine prospered in that undertaking which he had assumed, I pray you to read further in this history and you shall hear how it befell with him. [Illustration: Sir Ewaine poureth water on the slab:] [Illustration] Chapter Second _How Sir Ewaine undertook that adventure in which Sir Sagramore had failed, and how it sped with him thereafter._ Thus it was that Sir Ewaine departed upon that adventure whilst Sir Percival and Sir Sagramore were still asleep, and no one wist of his going saving only the groom. After he wended his way from that place until he had come to the woodlands, and he entered the woodlands and travelled therein for a long while, breaking his fast with the charcoal burners whom he found there at a curious place. About the middle of the morning he came to a high hill, and when he had climbed this hill he beheld before him a very strangely beautiful valley, and he beheld that in the midst of the valley there stood a wonderful castle, and he wist that this must be the castle of the Lady Vivien of which Sir Sagramore had aforetold of. [Sidenote: _Sir Ewaine cometh to the castle of the Lady Vivien._] And Sir Ewaine was astonished at the wonderful appearance of that castle and the valley in which it stood. For this castle was bright and shining as though of polished stone, and the roofs thereof were of bright red tile variegated with dark green tiles and black tiles, laid in sundry figures and patterns very strange to behold. And the valley in which the castle stood was spread out with fair lawns and gardens and meadow-lands and plantations of comely trees. And everywhere there were flowers abloom in incredible quantities, and there were thousands of birds of bright plumage that sang in the trees throughout the valley, so that the multitudinous sounds of their singing came even to Sir Ewaine where he sat so far distant. And ever those birds flitted like bright sparks of color hither and thither through the foliage of the trees, and Sir Ewaine had never beheld their like before in all of his life. So because of the wonderfulness of all that he beheld, Sir Ewaine wist that this must be a land of faery and enchantment with which the Lady Vivien had surrounded her castle and herself and her court. So for a while Sir Ewaine sat there observing all these things, and after a while he set spurs to horse and rode down into that valley and toward the castle. Now when Sir Ewaine had come pretty near to the castle, he beheld two youths with golden hair, clad in garments of flame-colored satin, and he knew that these must be the two fair youths of whom Sir Sagramore had spoken. And he saw that those two youths were playing at ball under the walls of the castle just as Sir Sagramore had beheld them when he had visited that place. These, when Sir Ewaine drew nigh, ceased their play, and he who was the chief of the twain came forward and greeted that noble knight with great courtesy, saying: "Sir Knight, you are very welcome to these parts where not many ever come. For she who is the lady of this castle ever takes pleasure in giving welcome to such as you who come thitherward. Now I pray you of your courtesy to tell me who you are and upon what quest you are bound and what is your degree, for I would fain announce you with all dignity to the lady of the castle." Quoth Sir Ewaine: "Fair youth, you are to know that I am a knight of King Arthur's court, and that I am a fellow of the Round Table. My name is Sir Ewaine, and I am King Uriens' son of Gore, my mother being Queen Morgana le Fay. As for your lady, I know very well who she is, and that she is none other than the Enchantress Vivien. Moreover, I know that she is not at all above devising mischief against me because I am a knight of King Arthur and of his Round Table. Yet I will that you bring me before this lady, for I would fain have speech with her." Upon this, so boldly said by Sir Ewaine, those two fair youths were adoubt, wherefore they withdrew a little to one side and held consultation together. Then he who had before spoken to Sir Ewaine spake again, saying: "Messire, I trust you have it not in your mind to do any ill to the lady of this castle, for unless we are well assured upon that point we will not bring you to her." "Rest ye easy," quoth Sir Ewaine; "I am a true knight, and mean no ill to any lady, be she evil or good. Only I would have speech with her as presently as may be." Then the youth who was the speaker for the two said, "Sir, I will take you to her." [Sidenote: _Sir Ewaine cometh to the Lady Vivien._] So forthwith that youth led the way into the enchanted castle and Sir Ewaine followed closely after him. And after they had come unto the castle and after Sir Ewaine had dismounted from his horse and after they had traversed various spaces, the youth brought Sir Ewaine to where the Lady Vivien was. And she was in her own fair bower with her eleven damsels gathered about her. [Sidenote: _The Lady Vivien giveth welcome to Sir Ewaine._] Now the news of the coming of Sir Ewaine had gone before him, so that when he came to the Lady Vivien she arose from her seat and went forward to meet him and received him with her face all wreathed with smiles. And she said: "Welcome! Welcome! Thrice welcome, Sir Ewaine! Now I pray you to let my attendants conduct you to a fair room where you may bathe and refresh yourself, for we would fain have you stay with us at this place for a day or two or three if so be you will favor us so greatly." But Sir Ewaine neither smiled nor made acknowledgment of any sort; otherwise he spake with great sternness, saying: "Fair Lady, I know you well, and I know that you have no very good will toward us who are of King Arthur's court. I know that you continually devise mischief and enchantments against all who come near you, and I well believe that could you do so without danger to yourself, you would this moment practise mischiefs against me. Nevertheless, I am not come hither to chide you because of your shortcomings, for though all those things are well known to me and to others, yet I leave it to God to judge you in His own wisdom and am not come hither to be myself your judge. What I have come for is this: not long since you sent my fellow, Sir Sagramore, upon an adventure that brought great shame upon him. Now I pray you that you will direct me to that same adventure so that I may undertake it, for, if so be I have that good fortune, I would fain punish that discourteous knight who so shamed my companion at arms." Then the Lady Vivien laughed very high and shrill. "Sir," quoth she, "you are very brave for to undertake that adventure wherein so good a knight as Sir Sagramore failed so signally. Gladly will I direct you upon your way, and all that I ask in return is that when you have sped in that adventure, you will also return hither as did Sir Sagramore, so that I may bestow a white mule upon you as I bestowed one to him." To this Sir Ewaine bowed his head very gravely and said: "Be it so. Show me the way to that adventure, and if I fail therein, then I will submit myself to you so that you may humiliate me as you humiliated Sir Sagramore." [Sidenote: _Sir Ewaine entereth into the Adventure of the Fountain._] Then the Lady Vivien called to her that youth who had afore spoken to Sir Ewaine, and she bade him set Sir Ewaine upon the path that should lead him to that adventure he sought. And after that Sir Ewaine left the Lady Vivien without any further word and he took horse and departed thence. And that fair youth with the golden hair went before Sir Ewaine to the skirts of the forest that lay upon the other side of the valley from that side upon which Sir Ewaine had entered it. Then the youth showed Sir Ewaine a certain path that led into the forest and he said: "Take that path, fair lord, and it will bring you to your adventure." So Sir Ewaine took the path as the youth directed and he travelled upon it for an hour or two and by and by he came to an open place in the woodland. And in the midst of that open place there was a high mound of earth covered with fair green grass and many sheep browsed upon the slopes of the mound and coadjacent thereunto. And on the mound there sat the being of whom Sir Sagramore had spoken, and Sir Ewaine was amazed at his hideous aspect. For he was of giant stature and swarthy black, and his hair was red as brick. His mouth gaped wide like a cavern and the teeth within were sharp like the teeth of a wild beast. To this creature Sir Ewaine spake, saying, "Sirrah, whither shall I go to find that Adventure of the Fountain?" Upon this that giant being laughed like the pealing of thunder and he said: "Ho! little man, have you come also to that adventure? The day before yesterday one came hither and sped but ill, and so also, I doubt not, it will fare with you. Take you yonder path, and I believe you will come to that adventure all too soon for your own good." [Sidenote: _Sir Ewaine cometh to the valley of the fountain._] So Sir Ewaine took the path that that being directed, and so entering the woodlands again he rode for a long while through the thick forests. Then after a while he came to a hill and he ascended the hill, and when he had reached the top thereof he found that the forest ceased and that the open country lay spread out before him and he beheld a fair and level valley lying beneath the hill. And he beheld that the valley was very fertile with many fields and plantations of fair trees. And Sir Ewaine beheld in that valley a lake and a fountain that flowed into the lake and a tree that overshadowed the fountain, and he wist that this was the place where Sir Sagramore had met with that adventure aforetold of. So straightway he rode down into that valley and toward that place where was the enchanted fountain overshadowed by the tree. And when he reached that place he beheld the slab of stone and the silver bowl chained to the slab by a silver chain just as Sir Sagramore had beheld those things. [Sidenote: _Sir Ewaine casteth water upon the slab._] Then Sir Ewaine took the silver bowl into his hand and he dipped up water therein from the fountain, and he flung the water upon the marble slab as Sir Sagramore had done. Then straightway it befell as it had with Sir Sagramore, for first the earth began to tremble and to quake and then the sky began to thunder, and then there arose a great cloud that overspread the sky, so that it became all black like unto night time, although it was still the middle of the day. Then there came the great wind, the like of which Sir Ewaine had never before known in all his life, for it blew with such strength of fury that he was afraid it would blow him away from that place. Then there fell such a deluge of rain that he feared he would be drowned therewith. And whilst the rain fell in that wise he heard a multitude of voices in lamentation as though a great way off, just as Sir Sagramore had heard these voices. Anon the rain ceased and the clouds passed away, and the sun came forth and shone with wonderful warmth and brightness, and thereupon a great flock of small birds came flying to that tree and perched in the branches thereof so that the tree was entirely filled with the multitude of feathered creatures gathered there. And that multitude of birds began to sing in such a wise, that when Sir Ewaine listened to that singing he wist not whether he were in paradise or upon earth, so sweet and piercing was the melody of their singing. And all these things befell with Sir Ewaine as they had befallen aforetime with Sir Sagramore. Now, whilst Sir Ewaine stood listening in that wise, all bewitched by the singing of those birds, he was aware of one who came riding very rapidly toward him across the plain. And as that rider drew nigh unto Sir Ewaine, he beheld that he was a knight clad all in black armor and seated upon a great charger which was entirely black and which was hung with trappings as black as any raven. And the knight bore a shield which was altogether black and without any device whatsoever. And he was of a very terrible appearance, being huge of form and violent and fierce in his advance. This black knight, when he had come close to that place where Sir Ewaine awaited him, cried out in a great voice: "Sir Knight, why didst thou come hither to meddle with my fountain? Know thou that thou hast brought a great deluge upon all this land so that thou hast wrought great damage to us who are the people thereof. But now thou shalt pay very dearly for the injury thou hast done. Prepare thyself straightway for battle!" Unto this Sir Ewaine made reply: "Sir Knight, I wist not that in throwing water upon yonder slab I was doing injury to thee or to any one. Nevertheless, I am ready to meet thee in battle as thou dost make demand." Therewith Sir Ewaine dressed his shield and his spear and took his station in the meadow near the fountain and beside the lake, and put himself in such array for defence as he was able. [Sidenote: _Sir Ewaine doeth battle with the Knight of the Fountain._] So when they both had prepared themselves in all ways they let go their horses the one against the other, in very violent assault, rushing together like a whirlwind. And so they met together in the midst of the course with an uproar as of thunder; the one smiting against the other with such violence that the spear of each was burst all into pieces unto the very truncheon thereof. And in that assault both knights would assuredly have been overthrown excepting for the wonderful address of each. For each drave spur into steed and shouted aloud so that each charger recovered his feet and fell not. Then each knight threw away the truncheon of his spear and each drew his sword and straightway fell to battle with might and main. And in that combat each knight gave the other many sore buffets and, for a long while, no one could have told how that encounter was like to go. But at last Sir Ewaine waxed very furious with the opposition of that other knight, wherefore he arose in his stirrups and lashed at that black knight such a buffet that nor guard nor shield nor helm could withstand the stroke. For under that blow the black Knight of the Fountain reeled in his saddle as though he would fall from his horse. Then he drooped his shield and hung his head full low and catched at the horn of his saddle as though to stay himself from falling. Herewith Sir Ewaine lashed another buffet at him, and with that blow the sword of Sir Ewaine pierced through the helmet of the black knight and deep into his brain pan and with that stroke the black knight received his mortal hurt. Then Sir Ewaine, perceiving that the black knight was so sorely hurt, repented him of what he had done in the heat of his battle and stayed his hand, though all too late. And he cried out: "Sir Knight, I fear me that I have given thee a very woeful hurt. I repent me of that, so yield thou thyself to me, and forthwith I will look to thy wound and will give thee such ease as I may." [Sidenote: _The Knight of the Fountain fleeth from Sir Ewaine._] But to this the black Knight of the Fountain made no reply. Otherwise he immediately wheeled his horse about, and set spurs to flank, and drove away with all speed from that place. And so rapidly did he race away from the field of battle that he appeared to fly, as it were, like to the shadow of a bird across the plain. [Sidenote: _Sir Ewaine pursueth the Black Knight._] At first Sir Ewaine was altogether amazed at the suddenness of the flight of the Black Knight, but presently he awoke and set spurs to his horse and sped away in pursuit as fast as he could race his horse forward. And ever Sir Ewaine pursued the Black Knight in that wise and called upon him to stay, and ever the Black Knight fled all the more rapidly away as though he heard not the voice of Sir Ewaine. And ever though he strove, Sir Ewaine could not reach the Black Knight in his flight. Thus they sped as swift as the wind across the plain, the Black Knight fleeing and Sir Ewaine pursuing, and by and by Sir Ewaine was aware that they were approaching a walled town and a very tall and noble castle with many high towers, and steep roofs that overlooked the houses of the town. And Sir Ewaine perceived that many people were running hither and thither about the castle as though in great disturbance, and that many people were upon the walls of the town, watching the Black Knight and him as they drew nigh. And ever the knight rode toward the gate of the town and of the castle, speeding like the wind, and ever Sir Ewaine pursued him without being able to overtake him. So, in a little while, the Black Knight reached the drawbridge of the gate and he thundered across the drawbridge and Sir Ewaine thundered after him. Now as the knight had approached the gateway of the town the portcullis had been lifted for to admit him, and so he rode through the gateway with all speed. But when Sir Ewaine would have followed, the portcullis was let fall for to keep him without. [Sidenote: _Sir Ewaine is caught within the portcullis of the town._] Yet so great was the fury of Sir Ewaine's chase and so closely did he follow the Black Knight in pursuit that he was within the portcullis as it fell. And the portcullis fell upon the horse of Sir Ewaine and smote him just behind the saddle and cut him in twain, so that the half of the horse fell within the portcullis and the other half of the horse fell without the castle. And so violent was the blow of the falling of the portcullis, and so sudden the fall of the horse, that Sir Ewaine was flung down to the ground with so dreadful and terrible a shock that he lay in a swoon as though he had been killed. So as Sir Ewaine lay there, there came a number of those who were in attendance at that part of the castle. These looked in through a wicket of iron and beheld Sir Ewaine where he lay in that swoon in the space between the portcullis and the inner gate. So when they beheld him lying thus with the half of his dead horse, they said: "Behold! yonder is the man who wounded our champion and who pursued him hither. Let him lie where he is until that our champion tells us what we shall do unto him. For lo! he is a prisoner here and cannot escape from our hands, and so we have it in our power to do with him whatsoever we please." Thus they said, not knowing that even at that time their champion was lying very nigh to death because of the wound he had received at the hands of Sir Ewaine. So these went away from that place, leaving Sir Ewaine lying as though dead in the swoon that his violent fall had caused him. But after a while life came back to him and he opened his eyes and gazed about him, and after that he made shift to arise, though with great pain. Then he beheld that he was a prisoner at that place, and that he lay with the half of his dead horse betwixt the portcullis and the inner gate of the castle so that he could neither get into the castle nor out but was there a prisoner like to a creature caught in a trap. Then Sir Ewaine went to the wicket of the inner gate and he looked forth through the iron bars of the wicket for to see what sort of a place it was into which he had come. And he beheld that within the gate was the street of the town. And he perceived that the street was very steep and that it was cobbled with stones. And he beheld that the houses of the town that stood upon either side of the street were built either of brick or else of stone, and that they were fair and tall with overhanging gables and with shining windows of glass and roofs of bright red tiles. And he beheld that there were many booths and stores with fair fabrics and merchandise displayed for sale. And he saw that there were many people in the street but that all they were moving in one direction as though in great agitation. And as he stood, so gazing, he was aware of a great sound of lamentation that arose from all parts of the town, wherefore he thought that maybe the knight whom he had chased thither must now be lying nigh to death. At that he was much grieved, for not only was that a very noble and valorous knight, but his death would certes put Sir Ewaine himself into great jeopardy as soon as the people of the castle should come to deal with him in that place where he was now a prisoner. * * * * * And now followeth the history of the further adventures of Sir Ewaine as it is told in the books of chivalry that relate to these happenings, so I pray you to read that which followeth if that other which hath gone before hath been pleasing to you. [Illustration] [Illustration: The Damsel Elose giveth a ring to Sir Ewaine:] [Illustration] Chapter Third _How a damsel, hight Elose, who was in service with the Lady Lesolie of the Fountain, brought succor to Sir Ewaine in his captivity._ So Sir Ewaine stood gazing out of the wicket of the gate as aforetold; and he wist not what to do to save his life; for he knew he could do naught but wait there until those who had to deal with him might come to slay him. Now, as he stood thuswise in great trouble of spirit, he was aware of a damsel who came thitherward. And as that damsel approached, Sir Ewaine perceived that she was very comely of appearance, and that she had yellow curling hair and it seemed to Sir Ewaine that he had hardly ever beheld a damsel more fair than she who approached his place of captivity. This damsel came close to the wicket where Sir Ewaine stood, and she gazed upon his face and her own face was pitiful and kind, and neither angry nor scornful. Then Sir Ewaine, beholding that her face was kind, said to her: "Damsel, why do you come to gaze thus upon a poor captive who is waiting for his death?" [Sidenote: _The Damsel of the Fountain pitieth Sir Ewaine._] To this the damsel made reply: "Alas, Sir Knight, I come hither because I take great pity that a noble champion such as you appear to be should be in so sad a case as this. For certes the people of this castle will come to slay you in a very little while." "Damsel," said Sir Ewaine, "thy pity is a great comfort to me, but it would be a still greater comfort if thou couldst help me to escape from this place." To this the damsel made no reply. But presently she said: "Tell me, Sir Knight, why did you do so grievous a hurt to our knight-champion who was the defender of this land against those who would meddle with the fountain to bring a deluge upon our land. Wit you that because of the woeful buffets you gave him he lieth so near to death that he is like to die in a few hours." "Damsel," said Sir Ewaine, "to tell you the very truth, I meant not to bring an injury upon this land, neither did I mean to visit so grievous a hurt as I did upon that good worthy knight your champion. But first I entered upon this adventure because a fellow of mine failed in it and because I deemed that it behooved me to redeem with mine own hand the honor he had lost to your champion. As for the hurts which he suffered at my hand--wit you that when a knight fights in battle with another knight, as I fought of late with your champion, that one knoweth not how hard he smites until the mischief is done. So it was with me, and when I smote I smote in the heat and the passion of battle. Then, when I perceived that I had hurt him so sorely I pursued your knight with intent to help him whom I had so sadly hurt. But ever your knight-champion fled away from me, so that at last I pursued him in anger; wherefore I rushed into this place without thinking, and so am caught here a helpless prisoner." Then the damsel said, "Sir Knight, I pray you tell me what is your name and your degree?" To the which Sir Ewaine made reply: "My name is Sir Ewaine and I am King Uriens' son of Gore, and my mother is Queen Morgana, surnamed Le Fay." Now when the damsel heard this announcement of the name and the degree of Sir Ewaine, she made great admiration, crying out: "Is it then possible that so famous a knight as thou art, and one so renowned in all the world both of chivalry and of common history, shouldst be caught a prisoner in this wise?" And she regarded Sir Ewaine through the aperture of the gate with very great wonder, and by and by she regarded him with still greater pity. Then after a little, she said: "Sir Knight Ewaine, I take great sorrow that so worthy a knight as thou art shouldst suffer harm. Now I am of a great mind for to help thee if thou wilt do my bidding in all things that I shall ordain for thee to do. For if I release thee from thy captivity, there are several things I would have thee do upon my commandment." "Lady," said Sir Ewaine, "I believe that you mean me well, and I believe that you would not lay any command upon me that would be contrary to my knightly honor or my integrity as a right knight of royal blood to fulfill." And the damsel said: "Take no thought that I intend ill faith against thee, Sir Ewaine, for instead I am of a mind to be thy friend in this affair if so be thou wilt put thy trust in me." Then Sir Ewaine said: "Lady, I yield myself to your will, and if you will set me free from this captivity I will do whatsoever you ordain for me to perform. But tell me, how mean ye for to bring me forth from this peril unless you may get the keys of this gate from the porter thereof?" [Sidenote: _The damsel giveth succor to Sir Ewaine._] "Sir," said the damsel, "I cannot get those keys but I have another way than that to set you free. For wit you that though locks and bars be strong, yet the power of enchantment is still stronger than they." With this the damsel drew from her bosom a locket that hung there by a chain of gold, and she opened the locket and she brought forth therefrom a ring set with a clear red stone like to a pure ruby--bright--shining and very brilliant. And she said, "See you this ring?" and Sir Ewaine said, "Yea." "Well, Messire," said she, "this is a very wonderful ring, for it hath had many potent spells set upon it by the magician Merlin, who gave it in days gone by to my father, King Magnus of Leograns. So my father gave it to me and it is the most precious thing of all my possessions. For the property of this ring is of such a sort that if you turn the stone inward upon your hand so as to hide it within your palm, then you shall become invisible; and if you turn the stone out upon your hand again, then you shall become visible as you were before. Take this ring, Sir Ewaine, and when you have made yourself invisible by means of it, then you shall escape from your enemies. After you have so escaped, come you to the garden of this castle and I will be there. Do you come and lay your hand upon my shoulder, and then I will know you are there. After that I will then conduct you to a certain apartment where you shall be privily lodged until this present danger hath passed." Therewith speaking, the damsel gave the ring to Sir Ewaine and he took it, giving her thanks beyond measure for her kindness to him. And immediately he set the ring upon his finger and turned the stone inward so as to hide it in his palm. Then lo! as soon as he had done that he became immediately invisible to the eyes. Then the damsel Elose fled away from that place, lest those who would come to slay Sir Ewaine should find her there talking to him. So, shortly after she had gone, there came a great party of armed men with intent to slay Sir Ewaine, and some of these were armed and all bore swords and guisarms. These came to the gate and flung it open, and rushed into the space between it and the portcullis with a great tumult, for they expected to find Sir Ewaine there and to slay him. But lo! he was gone and they beheld nothing there but the half of his dead horse and the saddle and the bridle and the trappings thereof. For there was neither sight nor sign of him anywhere to be seen. At that they were all amazed beyond measure to find their prisoner gone, for they wist not how he could have escaped from that place. So they raised a great tumult and some cried out to hurry hither and others to hurry thither, and in the tumult and confusion Sir Ewaine passed out from their midst and none of them were aware of his going. [Sidenote: _Sir Ewaine escapeth from the gateway._] After that Sir Ewaine went away from that place and into the town within the walls. And he came to the castle of the town and no one saw him in his going. And he entered the castle and the people of the castle saw him not. [Sidenote: _How Sir Ewaine entereth the garden of the castle._] So, invisible to all, Sir Ewaine went to the privy garden of the castle, and he perceived that that was a very pleasant place, with many shady trees and with plats of flowers and with fountains and long straight walks where the lady of the castle might take her pleasure when she chose to be out of doors. And Sir Ewaine entered that garden and he perceived that there were several damsels therein and that all they were very sorrowful and downcast because that the knight-champion of that place had been slain, and several of them wept. But amongst these damsels was the damsel Elose, and she alone of all who were there was cheerful and bore a smiling countenance. Then Sir Ewaine went to her and laid his hand upon her shoulder as she had bidden him to do, and thereupon she knew that he was there though she could not see him. So straightway she arose and went forth from out of the garden and Sir Ewaine followed her. After that the damsel led Sir Ewaine to a certain part of the castle and up a long flight of steps and so brought him to an apartment that was immediately beneath the eaves of a certain part of the tower of the castle. And Sir Ewaine beheld that here was a large and noble apartment hung with woven hangings representing pictures of battle and of court, and he beheld that the floor was spread with finely woven fabrics of divers sorts. And he saw that there were several large windows that overlooked the streets of the town and a fair prospect beyond. And the breeze blew into those windows very softly and pleasantly, and great flocks of pigeons flew about in the air with noisy and clapping flight, and numbers of other pigeons strutted on the tiles of the roof and bridled and cooed to each other in the red sunlight of the waning day. So this was a very pleasant place in which to dwell. And the damsel said to Sir Ewaine, "Here shall you abide until my further purpose is ripe." [Sidenote: _The damsel serveth Sir Ewaine._] Then the damsel Elose brought an ewer full of tepid water and she poured the water into a basin, and the ewer and the basin were both of them of silver. And the damsel held the basin and Sir Ewaine bathed his hands and his face, and after that she gave him a large napkin of fine white linen and he dried his hands and his face thereon. So, when he was thus refreshed she brought him food and drink, and Sir Ewaine ate and drank with much appetite and was greatly uplifted in spirit. And by that time the evening was come. Now all this while Sir Ewaine was greatly astonished that the damsel should be so kind to him, wherefore he said, "Damsel, why art thou so kind to me?" To this she made reply: "Messire, I have a purpose in all this, that by and by and in good season I will unfold to thee." Then Sir Ewaine said to her: "I pray you, fair damsel, tell me now the mystery of that fountain and of the knight who guarded it? For I am very curious to know why there came that quaking of the earth and that thundering and rain when I cast water upon the slab beside the fountain." "Sir," said Elose, "I will tell you that mystery." And so she did, as followeth: [Sidenote: _The damsel telleth Sir Ewaine of the enchantment of the fountain._] "You are to know," quoth she, "that somewhile ago there was appointed a joust at a place not very distant from this. And to that joust there went the lady of this castle who is hight the Lady Lesolie. Thither also went the Lady Vivien, of whom thou either knowest or hast heard tell, for she is one of the greatest and most mischievous enchantresses in all of the world. "At that jousting there was one knight who distinguished himself above all others, and he was Sir Sagron surnamed Coeur de Fer. For that noble knight won the battle of the joust, overthrowing all who came against him without once suffering defeat himself. So to him was awarded the prize of battle, which prize was a fillet of gold. This fillet the victor had the right to bestow upon the lady whom he deemed the fairest of all who were there. "Now the Lady Vivien thought that she would be chosen by whomsoever won that prize, for that day she had put on all the enchantments of beauty that she possessed. Nevertheless, and in spite of these charms, Sir Sagron bestowed the prize of beauty, not upon the Lady Vivien, but upon the Lady Lesolie, who is the countess of this castle where we are. "Now when the Lady Vivien saw that she was passed over by Sir Sagron, she took great affront with Lady Lesolie who had been chosen, and vowed vengeance upon her. "So afterward by her enchantments she had that slab of stone laid by the fountain and she ordained that whensoever any one should cast the water of the fountain upon the slab then there would come a great deluge to this land. Thereafter she established herself not very far distant from this valley of the fountain, and whenever a knight cometh by her castle, that knight she sets upon the adventure of the fountain. [Sidenote: _Of Sir Sagron of the Fountain._] "Meantime Sir Sagron had offered himself as champion of the fountain, undertaking to defend it if the Lady Lesolie would upon her part consent to wed him and make him lord of this domain. To this the lady was constrained to say yea. So it was ordained that if Sir Sagron would defend the fountain without fail or default for the space of a year and a day, after that time she would give herself and all her domain to him as the lord thereof. So Sir Sagron hath ever since defended the fountain with great honor until to-day, when you overcame him in battle, and pursued him hither wounded unto death. Had he defended a fortnight longer, he had won his suit with the Lady Lesolie and would have been lord of this land. But now he will to-morrow awake in Paradise. "This, Sir Ewaine, is the story of the mystery of the fountain, and now I tell thee I know not who will defend it unless haply it is thou who wilt do so." "Fair damsel," quoth Sir Ewaine, "how may I look to defend the fountain who will immediately be slain if it be known that I am here?" To this the damsel laughed and said: "Sir Ewaine, all that may come about if fortune be with me in these matters I am about to undertake." Now by this time the darkness being come, the damsel lit two tapers of perfumed wax, and thereafter she conducted Sir Ewaine into another apartment. There he beheld a couch, very soft and comfortable and spread with a coverlet of crimson satin. And the damsel Elose said: "Sir Ewaine, doubtless thou art aweary. If that be so, here thou mayst rest thyself and be at ease." And therewith she set down the candles of wax upon a table and quitted the room and Sir Ewaine was left alone. And Sir Ewaine was very weary, wherefore he laid aside his armor and disrobed himself and laid himself down upon that fair soft bed with great joy of comfort. And straightway thereafter he fell asleep as though he were a little weary child. Now about the twelfth hour of the night and whilst Sir Ewaine lay thus asleep, he became aware of a great disturbance--the sound of weeping and a great outcry of lamentation that filled the entire silence of the night. [Sidenote: _Sir Ewaine beholdeth the funeral at night._] Anon came the damsel Elose, and she said: "Sir Ewaine, the knight Sir Sagron is dead whom thou wounded yesterday, and now they are bearing him to the church. Come and see!" So Sir Ewaine arose quickly and covered himself with a cloak, and he went with the damsel to a certain window that overlooked a street of the town. From that window and beneath him he beheld a great concourse of people that filled the entire street. Many of those were clad in armor of proof and others bare torches so that the entire night was aflame with the light thereof. And there were many women who rode upon horseback beside the armed knights. And all of this great assembly of people were crying out in lamentation so that it was as though all the hollow beneath the space of heaven were full of the voice of their sorrow. With this lamentation of many voices were mingled the sound of trumpets and the chaunting of priests and acolytes who recited the services for the dead. In the midst of all the press there was a bier, and over the bier there had been spread a veil of white linen and upon the bier there lay stretched the knight-champion of that place with his hands crossed upon his sword. All about the bier were many people carrying long candles of wax, and these also added their lamentation to the voices of those others who lamented. Then when Sir Ewaine beheld this spectacle he said: "Woe is me, Elose, this is surely a very sorry sight to behold! Now I grieve me greatly that I am the cause of this, for I meant not to slay that knight. Yet in the heat of battle who may stay the hand for to measure the stroke that one giveth to his enemy?" [Sidenote: _Sir Ewaine beholdeth the Lady Lesolie of the Fountain._] Then anon as Sir Ewaine still gazed upon that scene, he beheld that a lady followed after the bier, and he saw that her hair was hanging loose and that she was in great disarray. But maugre that, it appeared to him that she was the most beautiful lady his eyes had ever looked upon. Then Sir Ewaine said to Elose, who was looking out of the window beside him, "What fair lady is that who followeth the bier of the dead knight?" To the which she made answer: "That is the lady of this castle, and she is making sorrow for the knight her champion who is slain." Then Sir Ewaine gazed and gazed at that lady for as long as he could see her, and when she had gone by, he said: "Elose, certes that lady is the most beautiful dame that ever mine eyes looked upon. Now I tell thee truly that I do not wonder that your knight-champion was willing for to serve her for a whole year with faithfulness; for I would willingly serve for even a longer time than that to win her good regard." At this Elose laughed with great good will. "Is it so with you, Sir Knight?" quoth she, "and do you then find that your heart is inclined toward this lady?" And Sir Ewaine said, "Yea, it is even so with me." Elose said: "And wouldst thou be pleased, Sir Ewaine, if I could devise it in such wise that the lady of this castle should look kindly upon thee?" And again Sir Ewaine said, "Yea." Then Elose smiled very cheerfully upon Sir Ewaine and she said: "Well, Messire, let be till to-morrow and then we shall see what that day shall bring forth." [Sidenote: _The damsel Elose serveth Sir Ewaine in the morning._] So when the next morning had come, Sir Ewaine arose greatly refreshed, and by and by Elose came to him with food with which to break his fast. And after he had broken his fast she brought a bowl of ivory with tepid water, and she brought a razor with a heft of ivory studded with gold, and she hung a fine linen towel upon her shoulder and she shaved Sir Ewaine so that his face was both fresh and clean. After that she brought him fine raiment--an undervest of soft cambric linen and a surcoat and hose of azure silk embroidered with silver, and a cloak with a clasp of gold, and with pears of silver hanging from the corners thereof. And she brought a circlet of gold for his head, such as became the son of a king. Then she looked upon Sir Ewaine and he was very comely. After all this had been done in that wise, Elose left Sir Ewaine and went to where was the Lady Lesolie, and the lady sat alone in her bower in great sorrow that her knight-champion was dead. But Elose entered that place with a very cheerful countenance, and she said, "Lady, what cheer?" [Sidenote: _The Lady Lesolie rebuketh the damsel._] Then the Lady Lesolie looked upon Elose with great indignation because of her cheerful aspect, and she said: "Damsel, I am much displeased that thou shouldst appear so cheerful and gay of spirit when thou beholdest me in such sorrow. And I think very ill of thee that thou who art the best beloved of all my damsels hast not come nigh me in all this time for to offer me cheer or comfort in mine affliction." Now Elose was greatly in favor with the Lady Lesolie so that she feared her not, wherefore she still bore a very cheerful aspect. And she said: "Lady, I know not wherefore I should take such sorrow as I see the sorrow to be that you assume for Sir Sagron. I did not love him so much that I should take more than reasonable grief when he suffered such misfortune of battle as may befall any knight." Then the Lady Lesolie's eyes sparkled very brightly with anger, and she said: "Ha! Damsel! Thou goest beyond all measure of the liberty of speech which I allow to thee. Mayhap I loved not Sir Sagron as he would have had me, yet I honored him a very great deal, and now that he is gone I know not who may defend the fountain in his stead. So, because thou dost smile and take cheer in this time of trouble, thy presence is displeasing to me, wherefore I would have thee gone from hence." Then Elose said: "Very well, Lady, I will go as thou hast bidden me, but I think thou wilt be sorry that thou didst not talk more with me and that thou dost not inquire of me why I appear so cheerful as I do." Therewith Elose turned as though to go forth from that place. But after she had gone a little distance, the Lady Lesolie arose and followed her to the door of the chamber and began coughing very softly. Then when Elose turned, the lady beckoned to her and said, "Come hither!" and Elose laughed and came. Then the lady said: "Thou art very saucy of disposition, but nevertheless I love thee more than thou deservest. Now tell me what it is that thou hast upon thy mind." Then Elose said, "I will tell thee, but it must be where none may hear." The lady said, "Come hither, then," and therewith she led Elose into a place where they were altogether by themselves, and when they were come there the Lady Lesolie said, "What is it, Elose?" [Sidenote: _The damsel bespeaketh the Lady Lesolie._] Then Elose said: "Lady, there is in this castle a knight who loveth thee a very great deal, and this knight is exceedingly noble and of very great skill at arms, and he is a king's son, and he is a knight of King Arthur's court, and he is a knight of the Round Table. So great is the love of this knight for thee that thou mightest demand anything of him. Now it appeareth to me that since thou hast lost the knight who was our champion, thou wouldst do well to call upon this knight to defend thee. And if in good time thou shouldest choose him for thy lord, then it would be much to thy pride and greatly to the joy of this land." Now all this while the lady had been regarding Elose very steadfastly, and when the maiden ended she said: "Who is this knight, and what is his name and his degree?" Elose said: "Lady, thou hast heard of him a great many times, for he is Sir Ewaine, the son of King Uriens of Gore and of Queen Morgana le Fay." Then the lady said in a very strange voice: "Elose, it is wonderful that a knight so famous as this should have been in our castle and yet we knew nothing thereof. Now tell me, when was it he came hither?" Then Elose was confused and said: "Lady, he hath only been here a little while, for he did but come this morning." Then the Lady Lesolie smiled very curiously, and she said: "Bring that knight hither, that I may see him and speak with him." Then straightway Elose went to where Sir Ewaine was. And Elose said: "Sir Ewaine, arise and come with me, for my lady would have speech with thee." So Sir Ewaine arose and went forth with Elose, and Elose brought him to where the Lady Lesolie was. And Elose introduced Sir Ewaine to the Lady Lesolie, and Sir Ewaine paid great homage to her for he beheld that she was very wonderfully beautiful. The lady looked at Sir Ewaine very steadily, and by and by she said, "Elose, this knight hath not the appearance of one who is a traveller new arrived from a journey; rather he appeareth like one who is fresh and well-bedight." Then at first Elose was confused and wist not where to look. Then presently the lady said: "Elose, I believe this was the knight who slew Sir Sagron." Then Elose looked very steadily into the lady's face, and anon she spake boldly and without fear, and she said: "Well, lady, what then? So much the better for thee if this knight overcame Sir Sagron, who was the best knight in all this land. For if this knight overcame Sir Sagron, then is he better than Sir Sagron, and so he is better to be the defender of the Fountain." Then the lady said: "Say no more, but go ye both away until I meditate upon this for a while." And thereupon Elose and Sir Ewaine quitted the apartment of the lady and went away to another part of the castle. [Sidenote: _The damsel bringeth Sir Ewaine to the Lady of the Fountain._] After that they waited for word to come to them from the lady of the castle, yet no word came for a long while. But when the evening had come, the chatelaine sent a very courteous message to Sir Ewaine that it would pleasure her to have him sup with her. So Sir Ewaine went upon that command, and the lady received him very graciously and made place for him beside her at the table, and they sat and ate and drank together and talked of many things of court and field. And ever as they talked together the Lady Lesolie regarded Sir Ewaine very closely, and she perceived that he was very noble and haughty of appearance, and she wist that he was greater champion than she had ever beheld before. Then, by and by, she said of a sudden to Sir Ewaine: "Messire, dost thou not think thou didst very ill to come hitherward to the destruction of our peace?" [Sidenote: _Sir Ewaine promiseth to defend the Fountain._] Then Sir Ewaine spake very boldly, saying: "Lady, I am very sorry to have caused thee grief, but I did only as any knight-adventurer would do, taking my chance of battle and of death with him as he took his chance with me. Yet now that the chance of war hath brought me hither, I cannot repent me of anything that hath befallen me. For that chance hath brought me into thy presence and hath made me acquainted with thee." Then the lady said: "Well, Messire, what am I to do now that thou hast slain the knight-champion of this place?" To the which Sir Ewaine made reply: "Lady, if thou wilt take me for thy champion, I will serve thee very faithfully and will ask no guerdon from thee. For I know of no greater joy that could befall me than to be thy chosen champion." Then the Lady Lesolie smiled and said: "Sir Ewaine, thou speakest very well, and I believe that thy deeds are every whit as trustworthy as thy words. So I will accept thee as my champion to do combat in my behalf and to protect my fountain and myself for a year and a day. If by the end of that time thou hast proved thyself to be entirely faithful, then I will consider anything else that thou mayst have to say to me." * * * * * So Sir Ewaine abided at that place and he defended the Fountain so well that no one came thither to assail it who was not overthrown, and from all whom he thus overthrew, Sir Ewaine took horse and shield and sent them away from that place afoot. And Sir Ewaine dwelt in the Valley of the Fountain for nigh a year, and in that time he and the Lady Lesolie of the Fountain were betrothed to one another with intent to be wedded when the year was ended. And ever Sir Ewaine loved the Lady of the Fountain more and more, and ever she loved him more and more. Yet oftentimes Sir Ewaine bethought him of the King's court and of his friends thereat and at those times he would long for them with a very great passion of desire. So it befell upon a day that Sir Ewaine and the Lady Lesolie were in the garden of the castle and Sir Ewaine sat sunk in deep and silent thought concerning those friends and that court. And meanwhile the lady watched him askance. Then by and by she said: "What is it that lieth upon thy mind, Messire, that causeth thee to take so much thought to thyself?" [Sidenote: _Sir Ewaine longeth for the court of the King._] Then Sir Ewaine aroused himself and said: "Lady, it is that I think much of my friends and companions of the court of King Arthur. For now nigh to a year hath passed and in all of that time I have heard no single word of any of them." Then the Lady Lesolie said, "Ewaine, art thou discontent with us at this place?" He said: "Nay, lady, thou knowest I am very well content and more than well content to be thus forever with thee. Yet ne'theless I would that I might have word of my companions, for I know not how it fareth with them. And furthermore, I would fain know whether they who went in quest of Sir Launcelot with me have yet heard anything of that noble and worthy champion." Then the Lady Lesolie said: "Ah, Ewaine, I fear me that thou thinkest so much of thy friends that thou wilt, in a little while, be discontent to remain with us any longer." To which Sir Ewaine said: "Lady, thou knowest very well that that could never be." And she said, "Art thou sure of that?" "Yea," quoth Sir Ewaine, "I am well assured of it." Then the Lady of the Fountain said: "Ewaine, I have it in my mind that thou shalt go and visit thy friends at the court of the great king. For after thou hast seen them and hast satisfied thyself, I believe that thou wilt be better content to be here. So I lay it as my command upon thee that thou shalt go to Camelot, and have converse once again with thy friends and companions. Yet I would not have thee remain too long away from us, wherefore I lay it as a further injunction upon thee that thou shalt return hither as soon as possible, for we can ill spare our champion who is so dear to us." [Illustration] [Illustration: The Lady of the Fountain:] [Illustration] Chapter Fourth _How Sir Ewaine returned to the court of King Arthur, and how he forgot the Lady Lesolie and his duty to the Fountain._ So it came about that the day after that day, Sir Ewaine took horse and departed from the Valley of the Fountain as the Lady Lesolie had commanded him to do; and he travelled alone, going from that place in the same manner that he had come thither. Now as he went upon his way in return to Camelot he must needs travel upon that same road by which he came thitherward. So by and by he again beheld that huge herdsman oaf who sat upon the mound as aforetold of, guarding his cattle. When this being beheld Sir Ewaine he shouted to him aloud in a great voice, "Hello, little man! Whither goest thou?" But to him Sir Ewaine made no reply, but rode steadfastly upon his way. Anon, and about the hour of noon, he came to within sight of that wonderful valley wherein stood the enchanted castle of the Lady Vivien. And Sir Ewaine rode down into the valley and toward the castle, and as he drew nigh they of the castle were aware of his coming from afar. So it was that as Sir Ewaine came nigh to the castle there issued forth a multitude of people, who approached him singing and making joy and giving him great voice of welcome. For ever they cried aloud: "Welcome, O noble champion! Welcome! And welcome still again!" [Sidenote: _Sir Ewaine cometh to the castle of Vivien._] So they met him and brought him as it were in triumph to the castle, and when he had come nigh thereunto the Lady Vivien herself came forth to add her welcome to his coming. And she wore a very smiling and cheerful countenance, and she also cried, as did the others, "Welcome, Sir Ewaine! Welcome! Thrice welcome!" and she said: "Messire, I well know that thou didst come forth victorious from that adventure which thou didst undertake against the Knight of the Fountain, wherefore it is that I am rejoiced to see thee. For, as thou already must know, I bore no very high regard for that knight whom thou didst overthrow." Now Sir Ewaine was very well pleased with the welcome he found at that place, for he did not suspect that the Lady Vivien, who smiled so kindly upon him, nourished any thought of mischief against him. Wherefore he suffered them all to bear him into the castle in triumph and to relieve him of his armor and to bring him to a bath and to fit him with fine soft raiment wherewith he might with a good appearance come before the Lady Vivien in her bower. After that Sir Ewaine went to where that lady was, and he sat with her and talked in great amity with her. Yet he knew not that all that while he talked with her she was planning mischief against him. So by and by, still in great amity, they went to a place where a noble feast was prepared, and there Sir Ewaine sat beside the Lady Vivien with great pleasure in being thus near to her. Then, after a while, having in mind those several mischiefs she had planned against the knights of King Arthur and of the Round Table, he said to her: "Lady, you who are so kind and fair to me, I know not why you do mischief against those others, my companions, who are of King Arthur's court; and I know not why you do mischief against the Lady Lesolie of the Fountain so as to bring trouble upon that land. She hath done you no ill that you should so practise evil against her." Then the Lady Vivien assumed an appearance of great meekness and contrition, and she said: "Messire, what you say is true, and I repent me of all those evil things which I have done." And she said: "Would it pleasure you if all enchantment should be removed from that fountain, and if the land of the fountain should be left at peace?" Sir Ewaine said, "Lady, it would pleasure me beyond measure." Then the Lady Vivien said: "So it shall be, and I promise you very faithfully that that enchantment shall be entirely removed from that land this very day forward unto all time." Then she looked upon Sir Ewaine and smiled upon him in such wise that he was bewitched with her smiling, and she said, "Sir Ewaine, let there be peace betwixt us from this time forth for aye!" and he said, "Lady, God knows I bear you no ill will and so there is peace betwixt us." Then the Lady Vivien said, "Sir, I would that thou wouldst accept a pledge of peace from me." And he said, "What is that pledge?" Quoth she, "I will show thee." [Sidenote: _The Lady Vivien giveth Sir Ewaine the ring of forgetfulness._] Thereupon saying, she smote her hands together, and in answer there came a fair young page clad in cloth of gold and with long, curling ringlets of golden hair hanging down upon his shoulders. To this youth the lady gave sundry commands, and he departed, returning anon bearing in his hands a patten of gold and upon the patten was a fair white napkin of fine linen, and upon the napkin a ring of gold very cunningly wrought, and inset with a bright shining yellow stone. These the fair young page brought to the Lady Vivien, kneeling upon one knee, and she took the ring from the patten and gave it to Sir Ewaine, saying: "Sir, behold this ring! This I give to thee to wear as a pledge of the amity that lieth betwixt us." Therewith Sir Ewaine took the ring and set it upon his finger. Now that ring was enchanted with very potent spells. For it was a ring of forgetfulness, so that whosoever wore it, that person would forget whatever the Lady Vivien would have him disremember. [Sidenote: _Sir Ewaine forgetteth the Lady Lesolie._] So when Sir Ewaine set the ring upon his finger, that moment he forgot all about the Lady of the Fountain. And he forgot all the pledges that had passed betwixt himself and that lady, and he forgot all the other things that belonged to that part of his life. But all else he remembered: to wit, how he had undertaken that Adventure of the Fountain, and how he had overthrown the knight-champion of the Fountain and all other parts of his life. Then Sir Ewaine looked at the Lady Vivien very strangely, like to one who is newly awakened from a sleep, and he said, "What is it we were speaking of anon?" And at that the Lady Vivien laughed and said, "Sir, it matters not." Sir Ewaine said, "Meseems I have had a dream, but I cannot remember what it was"; and then the Lady Vivien laughed again and said, "Neither does it matter what was thy dream." And she said: "It only matters that we are friends, and that thou wearest my pledge of amity upon thy hand. Now I prithee never remove that ring from thy finger, for from that moment the friendship that now exists shall cease betwixt us." Sir Ewaine said: "This ring shall remain upon my finger for aye, and I shall never take it from my finger even for a single moment." So Sir Ewaine rested with great pleasure for that night at the castle of the Lady Vivien, and, when the next morning was come, he departed from the castle, betaking his way to the court of King Arthur. For he said to himself: "Haply by this time they have some news of Sir Launcelot. So I will straightway return to the court of the King and learn if that be so." [Sidenote: _Sir Ewaine returneth to the court of the King._] Now Sir Ewaine, because he had forgotten all about his life at the Valley of the Fountain, had no thought that he had been gone from that court for a longer time than a fortnight, wherefore when he was come amongst his friends again and when he found that wellnigh a year had passed, he knew not what to think. "How is this," he said, "and what hath befallen me? Surely there was something that was like to a dream that I cannot remember. What is it that hath happened to me? I know not what it is." So Sir Ewaine was ashamed that he should not be able to remember what had happened to him for the year that had passed, wherefore he held his peace and said nothing concerning the matter. But ever Sir Ewaine feared lest he should betray to his friends that he had forgotten a whole year of his life. So it was he said to himself: "After that I have rested a little here at the court of the King I will set forth again in quest of news of Sir Launcelot. For maybe by and by I may be able to remember what I have forgotten of this year that hath passed." [Sidenote: _King Arthur rideth afield._] But Sir Ewaine did not immediately depart from the court, and so it chanced upon a certain day, the weather being very pleasant, King Arthur went afield with certain of his court and Sir Ewaine was one of those. That time it was early summer weather, and the breezes were soft and balmy, and full of the odor of growing things. So when the heat of the day was come the King ordained that a pavilion should be erected at a certain spot that pleased him very well, and he and the Queen and their courts sat in that pavilion at a fair feast which the attendants of the court had prepared for them. [Sidenote: _There cometh a damsel to the King's pavilion._] Now whilst they so sat, there came of a sudden a bustle and a sound of several voices talking without, and anon there came into the pavilion a damsel very fair of face and with curling yellow hair. And the damsel was clad in garments of yellow silk and she wore a frontlet of gold upon her head, and she wore shoes of variegated leather with latchets of gold upon her feet. And she was further adorned with necklaces of gold and with armlets of gold, wherefore they who sat there were astonished at the beauty of the damsel and at the suddenness of her coming. (Now you are to know that maiden was the damsel Elose, and yet Sir Ewaine knew her not because of the ring of forgetfulness which he wore.) Then King Arthur arose where he sat, and he said: "Fair demoiselle, whence come you and what would you here? Tell us, I pray, who are you who cometh hither like to a fair vision from a dream." Yet ever the damsel stood within the door of the pavilion, and because of the dazzling brightness of the sunlight whence she had come she could not at first see very well within the shadow of the tent. So she said, "I pray you tell me, is Sir Ewaine at this place?" To that King Arthur, much wondering, said, "Yea, lady, yonder he sits," and thereupon the damsel Elose beheld Sir Ewaine where he was. [Sidenote: _The damsel Elose accuseth Sir Ewaine of treason._] Then Elose entered farther into the pavilion and came to where Sir Ewaine sat. Her eyes shone very bright with anger, and she said: "Sir Ewaine, I denounce thee as a false knight and a traitor!" Then Sir Ewaine looked upon the damsel with great astonishment, and said, "Who art thou, lady, who dost accuse me of being false?" Upon that the damsel cried out in a very shrill voice, "Thou knowest very well who I am!" But ever Sir Ewaine looked very steadily at her and almost he remembered her, but he could not quite remember her because of that ring which he wore. Wherefore he said, "Nay, I know thee not." Then Elose smiled upon Sir Ewaine very bitterly, and she said: "Thou didst not forget me when thou didst lay in peril of thy life in the Castle of the Fountain; but now that thou art enjoying thyself with thy fellows, it pleases thee to forget so poor an one as I, who preserved thy life for thee. But that I could forgive thee if the need were to forgive it; yet I cannot forgive thee that thou hast also forgotten that dear lady, my mistress, unto whom thou didst pledge thy faith, and unto whom thou art bound in fealty. Messire, thou hast a very short memory." Then Sir Ewaine cried out in an exceedingly bitter voice like one in great pain: "Lady, why say ye these things to me? I know you not." Then Elose came very close to Sir Ewaine and she took his hand, and she said, "Do you not know me now?" He said, "Nay, I know thee not." Upon that the damsel raised her right hand with her glove in it, and she smote Sir Ewaine upon the face with the glove so that the mark of her glove lay upon his cheek. And Sir Ewaine made no defence against her assault, but ever he gazed very steadfastly at her, and he said very bitterly: "Lady, if thou wert a knight, thou wouldst not dare to do that to me, for either thou wouldst pay for that blow with thy life, or else I would wipe out the disgrace thereof with mine own blood." But Elose laughed, and she went out from that pavilion and mounted her horse and rode away, leaving Sir Ewaine with his head bowed full low upon his breast as though he had been struck a mortal blow. Then after the damsel had gone, King Arthur said, "Ewaine, who was that lady?" And at that Sir Ewaine lifted his head and cried out with great vehemence: "Sire, I know her not; nor can I remember that I have ever seen her before." At that King Arthur was silent and all those who were there looked askance at Sir Ewaine and whispered together concerning those things that had happened. And Sir Ewaine was aware of how they regarded him and how they whispered together, yet he heeded them not, but ever sat with his head bowed low with shame and humiliation. And ever he strove to remember who that damsel was, but could not remember. [Sidenote: _The King's court is adoubt concerning Sir Ewaine._] So after that time there was much talk amongst those at the court concerning that which had befallen in the King's pavilion. And many of them said to one another: "How is it possible for a knight of honor and of repute thus to forget one who had saved his life? And if he did indeed remember her, what of honor hath he who would deny her before those who know him?" So those of the court spake together, and Sir Ewaine was aware that they regarded him with disfavor and he was hurt to the quick by that knowledge. So one day he came to King Arthur where he was, and he said: "Lord, I am aware that I am held in disrepute in this court. Now I crave thy leave to depart from hence at least for a season." And King Arthur said: "Messire, I will not deny that many things displeasing to me are said concerning thee. So if it be that thou art of a mind to quit us for a while until thou art able to approve thy truth and thy honor, and until thou hast disproved these things which thy calumniators say against thee, thou hast my fair leave to depart according to thy request." [Sidenote: _Sir Ewaine departeth from the court._] So Sir Ewaine took his departure from court, and his heart was filled with bitterness and anger toward those who were one time his friends. For he ever said to himself: "Why is it that they should contemn me because I cannot remember that which I have forgot? For I cannot remember me of that damsel." Thus he rode upon his way in great bitterness of spirit and with anger toward all the world, because that all the world appeared to be set against him. * * * * * Now Sir Ewaine journeyed for a long time he knew not whither, for he travelled somewhiles like to one in a dream. [Sidenote: _Sir Ewaine cometh to a lonely hut._] So it befell one day that he came to a thick woodland of great extent, and there night overtook him and he wist not where he was nor how he should be able to come out of that wilderness. And whilst he was travelling thus in darkness and perplexity, he was suddenly aware of a light shining at a distance, and he followed that light until he came to a rude hut of the forest, which same stood in an open glade of no very great extent. To this forest habitation came Sir Ewaine, and he smote upon the door thereof with the butt of his spear and anon came one and opened the door, and that one was an ancient and grisly beldame of a most repulsive and forbidding appearance. When she beheld Sir Ewaine before her at the door of the hut she would have shut the door again, but he would not let her do so, but thrust his spear into the opening of the door so that she could not close it. Then that beldame, finding that he would not be denied, spake to him very harshly, saying, "What would you here, Sir Knight?" Sir Ewaine said, "I would have lodging for the night." Then the hag laughed very loud and shrill, and she said: "Well, since thou wilt not be denied, thou shalt have thy desire. Enter, and may thy lodging be for long." So Sir Ewaine dismounted from his horse, and turned it loose to graze upon the grass by night. Meantime he himself entered the hut. Here he beheld a great fire burning, with loud roaring in the chimney, and over the fire he beheld a great cauldron, in which was seething a stew of venison, the flavor of which filled the hut with a very savory odor. And Sir Ewaine beheld a great table, whereon were many platters of wood, and beholding these things spread as for a feast, he said, "Good dame, I pray thee tell me who dwells here in this hut with thee?" The beldame said, "My husband and my sons dwell here with me." Sir Ewaine said, "Certes, thou hast a great family." And at that the beldame laughed very violently and said, "Yea, that is true." After that the hag ladled forth a mess of the stew into a wooden bowl, and she poured forth a great flagon of strong ale and she set these things upon the board with a hunch of black bread, and Sir Ewaine sat him down and ate and drank with great appetite. Then, after he had thus satisfied his hunger and his thirst he was very drowsy, wherefore he laid aside his armor and stretched himself upon a wooden bench that stood to one side and placed his helmet beneath his head and presently was enwrapped in a sound sleep. [Sidenote: _The thieves return to the hut._] Now that hut was a den of thieves and that old hag was their housekeeper and there were twenty and seven in all of those thieves. So about the middle watch of the night that band of robbers returned with a considerable booty which they had seized from a party of townsfolk who were traversing a part of the forest that was not very far distant from that place. These beholding Sir Ewaine where he was sleeping, withdrew a little to one side and whispered together. And they whispered to the old beldame, saying, "Who is yonder man, and what doth he here?" She said: "He is an errant knight, who demanded housing awhile since. So here he lieth now asleep and at your mercy to dispose of as you see fit." Then the captain of the thieves came softly to where Sir Ewaine lay, and he looked closely at him and he beheld the rich chain of gold about his neck and he beheld the ring upon his finger that the Lady Vivien had given him. After that he withdrew a little and whispered to his fellow: "Here is a rich booty upon this sleeping knight. Now fetch hither cords and let us bind him. After that we may rob him at our ease, and after that again we may either slay him or else keep him here for a great ransom." [Sidenote: _The thieves bind Sir Ewaine._] So some of the thieves brought a strong cord and they made a noose thereof, and first they privily took away all Sir Ewaine's weapons from him, and then they slipped the noose over his arms and in a trice and ere he was fully awake they had bound him several times about the body so that as to his hands and arms he was altogether helpless. Thus Sir Ewaine was rudely awakened to find himself a captive in that place. But when he saw who it was had made him captive, he assumed all the majesty of his high estate and he said: "Know ye what ye do? Wit ye that he whom you have thus bound is a king's son and a knight of the Round Table so that you have through me committed a very grievous offence." Then several of those thieves were abashed at his words and at the great nobility of his bearing, but the captain of the band who was a hardened wretch, spake very boldly, saying: "It matters not who you are, only if you be truly a king's son and a knight of such worship, then will your ransom be all the greater." And he said: "First of all we will take this rich golden bawble from about your neck, and then we will take the fair golden ring from off your finger." [Sidenote: _The thieves rob Sir Ewaine of the ring of forgetfulness._] So the chief robber first took the chain from about Sir Ewaine's neck, as he said, and then he drew the ring from his finger, and because Sir Ewaine was bound he could in no wise prevent the robber chief from taking those jewels from him in that way. [Sidenote: _Sir Ewaine remembereth all._] But lo! when the robber had plucked the ring from the finger of Sir Ewaine, then in an instant the magic of forgetfulness departed from him, and he remembered upon that instant all that had befallen him in the Valley of the Fountain. And he remembered the Lady Lesolie of the Fountain, and he remembered him of all the vows of faith he had plighted to her. And he knew now of why Elose had come to him at the King's court and had struck him in the face before them all; for he wist that the damsel had come because she thought he had proved himself unfaithful and false to her lady. So it was as though a sword of remembrance had been struck through the heart of Sir Ewaine, wherefore he cried out in a loud and piercing voice, "Betrayed! Betrayed! Betrayed!" saying that word three times over. And the thieves wist not what he meant by those words, but thought that he meant that he had been betrayed by the beldame, not knowing that he meant that he had been betrayed by the Lady Vivien. Then of a sudden in the fury of that remembrance of his own dishonor, it was as though the strength of ten descended upon Sir Ewaine. Wherefore, putting forth all his strength, he strained at his bonds so that they cut into his flesh. And he strained even more and more violently at his bonds until, of a sudden, they were burst and immediately he was free. [Sidenote: _Sir Ewaine doeth battle with the thieves._] After that Sir Ewaine looked about him, but could find no weapon to his hand, wherefore he catched up the solid wooden bench whereon he had been lying awhile since. And he whirled that bench about his head and he smote with it upon the right hand and the left and he smote the thieves down upon the one side and the other. And so great was his fury that they bore back from before him in terror of his madness. [Sidenote: _Sir Ewaine is wounded._] So Sir Ewaine might have slain all those thieves (though there were a score and seven of them in all) only for the captain of the band. He, beholding the fury of Sir Ewaine, ran to where there was a javelin that stood in a corner of that place. And he catched up the javelin and threw it at Sir Ewaine; and the javelin pierced through the shoulder of Sir Ewaine and pinned him fast to the wall of the hut. Then Sir Ewaine wist that he was very sorely wounded, wherefore he roared aloud. And he strove with the javelin and anon he wrenched himself loose from the wall to which he had been pinned. Then he rushed at the thieves with the javelin still pinned through his shoulder and they made way before the terror of his onset. Now as the robbers parted from before his onset, Sir Ewaine perceived that there was a way for him to the door. Thereupon he cast himself upon the door and he burst it open and fled away into the forest with the javelin still transfixed in his shoulder. [Sidenote: _Sir Ewaine escapeth._] Therewith, perceiving that their captive was escaping from them, the thieves rushed after Sir Ewaine and pursued him with great outcry. But ever they were afraid of the violence of his anger (for he had slain or broken the bones of eleven of them) wherefore they followed him not with as good a will as they would else have done. Hence it befell that Sir Ewaine made his escape from them and so got safe away into the cover of the night and of the forest, though sorely and woefully wounded. After he had thus escaped from that danger, Sir Ewaine knew not what to do. For he was faint and bedizzied because of his wound and the agony thereof. But he wist that he must free himself from that javelin, wherefore he catched the haft of the weapon and he broke it in twain. After that he plucked out the javelin by the point which had transfixed his shoulder and with that a great issue of blood burst forth from the wound so that Sir Ewaine was nigh to swooning therewith. But he did not swoon, but bare up under the passion of pain that lay upon him and from the issue of blood that followed what he had done. Wherefore, after he had rested him for a while, he went forward through the forest, tottering like a drunken man, now and then falling, and ever anon arising again and betaking his way he knew not whither. [Illustration] [Illustration: A Damsel bringeth aid unto Sir Ewaine:] [Illustration] Chapter Fifth _How Sir Ewaine was succored and brought back to life by a certain noble lady, how he brought aid to that lady in a time of great trouble, and how he returned once again to the Lady Lesolie of the Fountain._ Thus Sir Ewaine wandered for all that night he knew not whither, and sometimes he fell and anon he would arise and go onward again. So against the dawn of day, he began to approach the outskirts of the forest and there, as he wandered painfully onward, he met a fagot-maker who had a cart and who was coming, all early in the morning, into the forest to chop fagots. This fellow, beholding that figure of misery with a face like to wax and a body all covered with blood, wist not whether it was ghost or mortal man whom he beheld, wherefore he fell to crossing himself and pattering prayers for fear. But Sir Ewaine spake, though in a very weak and plaintive voice, saying: "Alas, good fellow! I pray you, for the sake of God's mercy to take pity upon me and to bear me hence in your cart to where I may secure aid and succor, else I must assuredly die all alone in the forest." Then the woodchopper was aware that Sir Ewaine was no ghost or spirit left behind by the night, but that he was mortal man, and when he looked upon that sad woeful figure, he was moved to great pity, and said: "Alas, poor mortal, thou art in a sad plight indeed and so I will be glad to aid thee as thou desirest." [Sidenote: _The woodchopper giveth aid to Sir Ewaine._] So after that the fagot-maker spread a soft thick bed of leaves in his cart and laid the wounded knight thereon. And so he bore Sir Ewaine out of the forest, with intent to take him to some place where he might be cherished with care and attention. Thus it was that a poor woodchopper of the forest lent aid and assistance to one of the most noble knights of the Round Table and nephew to King Arthur. As for that fellow, he wist not who it was to whom he was giving aid, but only thought that it was some poor wretch who had fallen amongst thieves, for Sir Ewaine had neither armor nor weapons of any sort that might indicate how exalted was his estate, and even his golden chain of knighthood had been stolen from him by those thieves of the forest. Wherefore it was not possible for any one to know that he was other than a poor wayfarer of the forest. So the fagot-maker, unknowing who he was, bare that good knight out of the forest, and Sir Ewaine lay fainting, and all covered with blood and nigh to death, upon a bed of leaves in a poor woodchopper's cart. Now when the fagot-maker had brought the wounded knight out of the woodlands and into the open country, he turned to find how it fared with him, for it seemed to the honest fellow that his burden was lying wonderful still and quiet. So the fagot-maker called out, "Friend, what cheer have you?" To this Sir Ewaine answered him not, for in the meantime as they travelled onward he had fallen into a swoon and now he lay like one who was dying or was dead. Then the woodchopper came and looked upon the face of Sir Ewaine, and he beheld that it was white like to death. And he could not see that Sir Ewaine breathed, wherefore he thought that the wounded man was dead. Thereat the poor knave was filled with great fear, for he said to himself: "Of a surety if they find me thus with a dead man lying in my cart, they will believe that I have committed a murder and they will hale me before the judge and they will hang me." Wherefore, reasoning in that wise, he began to cast about him how he might rid himself of that which was within his cart so that he should not thus be found in company with a dead man. [Sidenote: _The woodchopper layeth Sir Ewaine beside a lake._] Now at that time the cart chanced to be passing through a park coadjacent to a castle, the towers and the roofs and the chimneys of which might be seen through the leaves of the intervening trees. And at that place there was a little lake of water with many flags and sweet rushes growing around about the margin thereof, and this was a very secret, quiet place, for no one was nigh at that still early hour of day. So here perceiving that no one could see what he would do, the fagot-maker stopped his cart and lifted Sir Ewaine out thereof and still he thought that the wounded man was dead. After that the woodchopper laid Sir Ewaine down very gently upon a soft bed of moss under the shadow of an oak tree and beside the margin of the lake. Having thus got rid of his burden in that wise he then went away and left the wounded knight lying alone in that place. [Sidenote: _The lady of the castle perceiveth Sir Ewaine._] Now that part of the park where Sir Ewaine lay was a very favorite spot of the lady of the castle, who was wont to take the air and to walk with her court of damsels beside the lake. So it befell that morning, it being a very pleasant and cheerful day, that she walked thither with those maidens in attendance upon her. So coming to that place, she perceived from afar where Sir Ewaine lay beneath the oak tree in the centre of the park. And when she saw him she said, "Who is yonder man and what does he do here?" Then one of the damsels went more near to where Sir Ewaine lay, and she looked closely upon him and anon she said: "Lady, I believe this man is dead, for he is all covered with blood, and I do not see him move or breathe." The lady said, "See if that be so," and therewith the damsel went closer to Sir Ewaine and reached forth and she laid her hand upon his bosom. Then she was aware that his heart beat, but only a little, and she knew that there was life in him. So she said: "Nay, he is not dead, but in a swoon that is like to death." Then the lady came and also looked upon Sir Ewaine, and she was moved with pity to behold that great and noble frame of a man lying there in that way. Wherefore she said, "I am of a mind to save this man." So after that she and her court retired to her castle, and when she was come there she took a very precious casket of ointment from a cabinet and gave it to that damsel who had touched Sir Ewaine. To her she said: "Take this ointment, damsel, to where that man lieth in a swoon. For wit you, this is a very potent oil to heal all manner of sickness and weakness even if one be upon the edge of death. Pour a little of this ointment upon the bosom of that man above his heart. Then rub it well with thy hand, and by and by he will revive. Take thou also yonder horse and some decent raiment fit for such a well-appearing man to wear, and let the horse be nigh to him when he awakens. Then do thou observe him from secret place, and bring me word of what he doeth." [Sidenote: _A damsel of the castle bringeth succor to Sir Ewaine._] So the damsel did all as the lady had commanded her to do; she took the horse, and the raiment and the precious balm and went to where Sir Ewaine lay in that deathly swoon. But when she came to anoint him with the ointment, she poured not a little upon him, nor did she rub with her hand the bosom of him who lay there; otherwise she poured the whole of the balm upon Sir Ewaine's bosom, and then she went away to a little distance and hid herself to observe what he would do. So in a little she saw that the wounded man began to bestir himself and move his arms this way and that. Anon he uplifted himself from where he lay and gazed all about him, and so, being revived, remembered all that he had aforetime forgotten. Then he groaned with great travail of soul, for the memory of his dishonor came upon him and he still suffered a grievous pain from that sore wound in his shoulder. Then anon he beheld the horse near by and the garments that were beside the horse, and he thought that maybe those things had been placed there for his use, though who had been so kind to him he knew not. So he arose with great pain and he took the clothes from the horse and he went to the lake and bathed himself. After that he put on the clothes and mounted upon the horse with intent to depart from that place. Then the maiden, who had beheld all that he did, came forth from the thicket where she had been hidden and whence she had observed him, and when Sir Ewaine saw her he said, "Maiden, was it thou who purveyed me with this horse and with these garments?" She said, "Nay, it was the lady to whom this place belongs." Sir Ewaine said, "Who is that lady?" And the maiden replied: "She is the widow of a very powerful lord, and she hath saved thy life this day. For she sent me with an ointment with which I bathed thee, and which gave thee strength to arise again. And she sent thee that horse and those clothes which thou hast put on." Sir Ewaine said: "Certes, she is most kind and charitable in her heart. Perhaps some time I may do her a service that will be equal to this service which she hath rendered to me." Now the maiden did not suspect who it was with whom she spake, for his face was white like milk, and very haggard and wild with pain and weakness, so that his countenance showed none of that nobility that belonged to him. And, as aforesaid, he had no armor, for the thieves had taken away his armor and he had left it behind him in the hut whence he had escaped. So the maiden had no cause to think that he was one of great worship whom she beheld, so she said: "Good fellow, my lady hath need enough of aid, but I do not believe that thou art one who may help her in her trouble." "Why dost thou think that?" quoth Sir Ewaine. "Thou shouldst not judge of my ability from what thou seest, for I may be other than what I appear to be." [Sidenote: _Sir Ewaine declareth himself to the maiden._] Then the damsel was greatly astonished at the dignity of manner with which he spoke, for he spoke as one having authority and very calmly and haughtily. So she began to misdoubt that this was some one else than she had first thought him to be, wherefore she said, "I pray you, Sir, tell me who you are?" To the which he replied: "I am Sir Ewaine of King Arthur's court and of his Round Table, son to King Uriens of Gore and of the Lady Queen Morgana surnamed le Fay." At this proclamation the damsel was greatly astonished, wherefore she cried out aloud: "Is it indeed possible that this is so, and that so famous and so remarkable a knight should have come to such a pass as that in which you were found?" and the damsel said: "Now the lady of this castle will be very highly honored when she comes to know that she hath lent succor to so noble and haughty a champion as you proclaim yourself to be. Let us go to her so that you may tell her the story of your misfortunes." And Sir Ewaine said: "So be it, and let us go." So they both departed from that place and as they wended their way thence Sir Ewaine said: "Now tell me, damsel, what is the need of help that thy lady hath and concerning which thou didst speak to me anon?" [Sidenote: _The damsel telleth Sir Ewaine concerning the lady of the castle._] The damsel said: "I will tell thee. The lady of this castle is a widow, and at the death of her husband she had two very noble castles and two great estates belonging to those castles. Those castles and that land her lord bequeathed to her to have and to hold for her own. Now after she was thus left a widow, it befell that a certain very proud and haughty lord who was her neighbor, desired to make her his wife; but she would not listen to his suit, having great love for that worthy knight her husband who was dead. So she refused the knight who desired to wed her and at that he was very angry. After that he came with a great array of armed men, and he despoiled her of one of her estates by force. And now, unless she should yield to him, he threatens to take away this other estate whereon she dwelleth and which is all that she hath in the world. "So my lady is in a great pass and knoweth not what to do, having no knight for to defend her; for all those who should defend her, fall away from her in this time of trouble for fear of the anger of that lord who seeks her hand." "Certes, this is a sad story which thou tellest me," said Sir Ewaine, "and indeed I will do what I may to help thy lady, who hath been so kind to me." Thus talking together, they two approached the castle, and the lady of the castle, beholding them coming from a distance, was greatly surprised to see the damsel conversing in that wise with the wounded man whom she had been sent to succor. Then when they were come to her the lady said to the damsel, "Didst thou use that balm as I told thee to do?" And the damsel said, "Yea." The lady said, "How much didst thou use thereof?" And the damsel said, "I used it all." [Sidenote: _The lady of the castle is affronted at the maiden._] Then the lady when she heard how that the damsel had poured all of that balm at one time upon Sir Ewaine, was much affronted and very angry with her, and she said: "What is this that thou hast done? I cannot easily forgive thee this, for thou hast wasted several score pounds worth of the precious ointment upon a stranger whom we know not and who hath no appearance of worship." Unto her the maiden made reply: "Lady, be not offended at this, for wit you that this stranger is of far greater worth than all the balm you could pour upon him." At these words the lady was much surprised, wherefore she said, "Who is he that is of such great worth as thou sayst?" and the damsel replied: "Lady, this is none other than Sir Ewaine, Knight of the Round Table and nephew of King Arthur." [Sidenote: _The lady giveth welcome to Sir Ewaine._] Then the lady of the castle cried out with astonishment and said, "Is this true that I hear?" And Sir Ewaine said, "Yea, Lady." Then the lady of the castle came to Sir Ewaine and took him by the hand, and said: "Welcome, welcome, Sir Ewaine! Now this is a great honor that hath befallen us at this place to have given aid and succor to a knight so famous in chivalry as thou art." "Lady," quoth Sir Ewaine, "you do me honor beyond my worth, and so you put me under still greater obligations than I rested under afore this. Now I am most desirous of repaying you in some measure for all the kindness that you have visited upon me, wherefore, if it be sooth as I have been informed by this maiden that you have need of such a knight-champion at this place, then do I offer myself as such a champion, trusting that I may be of aid to you and so repay to you in some measure those favors which you have bestowed upon me." At this the lady was rejoiced beyond all measure, and she said: "Messire, I accept thy offer of championship with all gratitude and with much pride, for indeed I believe it would not be possible to find in all of the world a champion as haughty and as puissant as thou art." So it came about that Sir Ewaine abided at the castle of that widowed chatelaine for a long time, and until he was altogether healed of his wound. And every day he grew more strong and sturdy of body and more noble of appearance, so that all they of the castle took great pride in having him there as their champion. Now it befell upon a day that there came to this castle that evil-minded lord of whom the damsel had spoken to Sir Ewaine, and this lord brought with him six other knights, and all these seven knights pitched their pavilions before the castle gates. And they mocked at those in the castle and dared any one to come forth therefrom, for they knew not, as you may believe, that Sir Ewaine was there as the champion of the castle. So when Sir Ewaine heard how that knight mocked at the people of the castle, he was very wroth, wherefore he quickly made him ready, and donned a suit of rich armor that the lady had provided for him. And he mounted upon his horse, and so being in all wise prepared, he gave command to uplift the portcullis and to let fall the drawbridge. Then he rode forth from the castle, his horse's hoofs smiting the planks of the drawbridge with a noise like to thunder as he rode. And all of the people of the castle crowded out upon the walls, and when they beheld him ride past in that wise, they shouted with a loud voice because that such a champion was to defend the rights of their lady chatelaine. [Sidenote: _Sir Ewaine doeth battle for the lady of the castle._] But when the knight and his companions who had come against the lady of the castle beheld that one champion ride forth in defence thereof, he was greatly surprised, and wist not what to think. So presently he rode forward to meet Sir Ewaine, and he said to him, "Sir, what knight art thou?" Sir Ewaine said: "I am the champion of the lady of this castle, and I come forth with intent to do battle in her behalf." Then that lord said, "What is thy estate?" To the which, Sir Ewaine, speaking with great pride and haughtiness, made reply: "It matters not that I tell thee at this present, but I may assure thee of this, that mine is a higher estate and a greater credit than thine own." Then the knight said, "Wouldst thou fight against us who are seven?" And Sir Ewaine said, "Yea, verily." And the knight said, "Thou art very foolish, but be it so." So Sir Ewaine withdrew himself a little, and made himself ready in all wise for battle. Meantime that knight who had bespoken him withdrew to his party and he said to a knight who was the champion of his party, "Go thou forth against yon fellow." And the champion of that party did so. Now that knight was the greatest and most powerful knight in all the country in which he dwelt. And he was very huge of girth and thick of limb, and so great had been his success at arms that he made sure that he could easily be able to overthrow his opponent. Wherefore he made him ready very proudly and took his station with great confidence. And when he was in all wise prepared, he shouted aloud and launched his horse against the horse of Sir Ewaine with full expectation that he would overthrow his enemy. So they two rushed together like thunder and so met in the very middle of the course with such a crash of encounter that those who heard it stood appalled at the sound. But in that encounter the spear of the champion of that wicked lord's party broke all into splinters, but the spear of Sir Ewaine held so that the other was cast to earth with such force that he lay stunned and altogether devoid of life and motion. [Sidenote: _How Sir Ewaine overthrew the enemies of the lady._] Then when the other knights of that party beheld how their champion had been overthrown so violently to earth, all they were greatly amazed at the result of that encounter; for as was said, there was no knight in all of that region who was so strong as that champion. Then they were filled with rage, and dropping their lances in rest, they all rushed upon Sir Ewaine together, with intent to overthrow him by force of numbers and might of metal, and afterward to slay him when he was unhorsed. But Sir Ewaine did not give them their will, but wheeled his horse with great address and dexterity and in such a wise as to separate those who thus came upon him in a body. Then suddenly he wheeled about again, and ere they were prepared for attack, he smote down one knight and then another and another, so that only three of those who assailed him were left. With that the others were filled with a great terror of the woeful buffets that Sir Ewaine struck, wherefore, without further combat, they all three turned and fled. But ever Sir Ewaine pursued them with great fury and he came nigh to one who was fleeing and smote him down from his horse. And he came nigh to another and smote him down also. Then last of all he overtook that lord who was the enemy of that lady, and he smote him so sorely with his sword that he would have fallen from his horse had not Sir Ewaine catched him ere he fell. Then Sir Ewaine plucked that knight out of his saddle and he laid him across the bow of his own saddle. So after having overthrown all those seven knights in that wise, he rode back again into the castle bearing that wicked lord lying across his saddle bow. Now when those who stood upon the castle walls beheld what wonderful battle their champion did, they were amazed beyond measure at his prowess and they shouted aloud for joy at the victory of their champion over their enemies. So Sir Ewaine rode into the castle, in the midst of all that shouting and loud acclaim. And he came to where the lady was standing in a balcony that overlooked the courtyard of the castle, and he looked up to where she stood and he said: "Lady, lo! I have brought you back your enemy in payment for that blessed balm with which you brought me back to life." [Sidenote: _The lady of the castle giveth praise to Sir Ewaine._] Then the lady of the castle knew not what to do for joy. Wherefore she came down from where she was and catched Sir Ewaine by the hand and kissed it repeatedly. And she called upon Sir Ewaine as her savior, but Sir Ewaine withdrew his hand in great confusion, and said: "Lady, do not do so, for wit you I am a man who hath done a dishonorable thing. And though I did that ill thing unwittingly, yet I am attainted because of that which I did." Then the lady said: "Sir, I will not believe that you were ever dishonorable, and I would that you would remain always in this castle." Then Sir Ewaine smiled and said: "I thank you for that wish. But it may not be, for now that I have done my service in your behalf and have brought your enemy to you to deal with at your pleasure, to-morrow I must depart upon my way once more." Then Sir Ewaine delivered the captive knight from the pommel of his saddle into the hands of the lady, and afterward that wicked knight was bound with many securities and hostages to good behavior, and so he tormented that lady no more from that time forth unto the end of her life. * * * * * [Sidenote: _Sir Ewaine departeth from the castle as a pilgrim._] Now when the next day was come Sir Ewaine appeared before the lady of the castle and besought her that she would take back the armor she had given him and that in place of that armor she would purvey him the dress of a pilgrim. So that lady did as she was asked, and when she had done so Sir Ewaine clad himself as a pilgrim and departed from the castle of that chatelaine. And Sir Ewaine wandered hither and thither as a pilgrim for several weeks; and after much journeying he came at last to that valley where dwelt the Lady of the Fountain. For ever his will led him thitherward, and so it came about that at last he beheld that town and castle once more. And when he beheld that place and when he brought to mind all that had befallen him of good and of ill thereat the tears arose into his eyes so that all things that he beheld swam as in a flood of water. [Sidenote: _Sir Ewaine returneth to the Castle of the Fountain._] Then by and by he went toward that Castle of the Fountain and when he had come thereunto, he knocked upon the postern door and besought those who opened to him that he might have speech with the lady of the castle. So anon he was shown into the apartment where the lady was, and Elose was with her, and several others of the damsels of her court. Now the hood of the cloak that Sir Ewaine wore, and the pilgrim's hat, so concealed his face that no one who was there knew who he was. Wherefore the Lady Lesolie, speaking as to a stranger, said, "Sir, what wouldst thou have of me?" And Sir Ewaine answered saying: "Lady, I come hither to bear to you a message from one who has unwittingly done you a great injury." Upon this the lady cried out very vehemently: "Sir, if you come from that recreant knight, Sir Ewaine, then you may return unto him again who hath sent you hither." To which Sir Ewaine said, "Lady, I cannot return unto him, for it would be impossible." At these words the Lady Lesolie's countenance fell, and for a while she spake not. Then after a while she said, "Dost thou bring ill news of him?" And Sir Ewaine said: "I know not whether the news be ill unto thee or not, but some while ago I beheld that unfortunate knight where he lay dying in a park beside a lake of water." Then the Lady of the Fountain pressed her handkerchief to her lips as though to check an outcry, and after a little while she said, "Good Sir, tell me what you know." Sir Ewaine said, "I will do so." And he said: "You are to know that when Sir Ewaine left this court to return to the court of King Arthur, he fell in with the Enchantress Vivien, who gave him a ring of forgetfulness so that he disremembered all that had happened to him at your court. Afterward there came a young damsel from this place who put him to shame before all those who were his companions at the court of King Arthur. This that damsel did because she thought that Sir Ewaine was unfaithful to you. But he was not unfaithful and so he was shamed for no good reason. Now after being thus shamed before all the court of King Arthur in that wise, this woeful knight departed from his friends because he could not bear to dwell in his humiliation before them. So he left all those his friends and journeyed afar, and in his journeyings he fell among thieves, and these finding him unarmed, bound him whilst he slept, and robbed him and wounded him to death. So it was that I beheld him lying by the wayside, pierced through with a javelin and dying of that wound, and so have I come thither to tell you of this story." Now when the Lady of the Fountain heard what that pilgrim had to say, she shrieked with great violence and immediately swooned away and fell upon the ground. Then several of her maidens ran to her and these served her until by and by she revived from her swoon. Yet when she was thus recovered she straightway fell to smiting her hands together and crying aloud in a very bitter agony of spirit: "Woe is me that I should have disbelieved in the honor of that noble and worthy knight, for now because of my disbelief in him I perceive that I have lost him forever. For so hath died the best and truest knight that ever lived in all of the world." Saying this, she fell to weeping in great measure, and Elose strove to comfort her, also weeping, but the lady would not be comforted. Then Sir Ewaine said, "Lady, hast thou yet such a kind regard for the knight as this?" And the Lady Lesolie said with great passion: "Yea, truly, and so I always shall have, for methinks that never such another knight as he lived in this world." [Sidenote: _Sir Ewaine declareth himself to the Lady of the Fountain._] Then Sir Ewaine said: "Lady, you understood not my words. Sir Ewaine is not dead, and if you will you may easily have him here again." She said, "How know you that?" Then Sir Ewaine cast off his hood and laid aside his hat and said: "Lady, I am that man; and if I have deceived thee in this, it is that I may again behold thy face that is so dear to me--yea, that is dearer than all the world besides." So saying, Sir Ewaine kneeled before the lady and embraced her about the knees, and she stooped and embraced his head and both of them wept with a great passion of love and joy. And so they were reconciled to one another. And in that reconciliation there was much rejoicing, for all the town was bedraped with silken scarves and banners by day and illuminated by night because of joy for the return of the champion-defender of the Fountain. And there was feasting and drinking at the castle of the Fountain, and there was jousting from day to day for seven days, and in those joustings the knights of the court of the Fountain under the lead of Sir Ewaine defended their chivalry with such skill and valor that none of those that came against them were able to withstand them, but all those companies of knights-contestant were defeated, to the great glory of the Lady Lesolie of the Fountain. Then after seven days of this rejoicing, Sir Ewaine was wedded with great pomp of circumstance to the Lady of the Fountain. And of that wedding it is to be recorded in the history of these things that Sir Ewaine and the Lady Lesolie rode to the minster upon milk-white horses, and that they were all clad in white samite embroidered with silver and inset with so many precious stones of all sorts and kinds that they glistened in the sunlight as though they were two figures of living fire. And it is recorded that tenscore damsels of wonderful beauty, clad all in white, preceded them upon the way, and spread the way with flowers, chaunting the while in voices of great rejoicing. Thus Sir Ewaine was wedded at the castle of the Fountain, and after that he dwelt in the land of the Fountain with great peace and good content. And Sir Ewaine ever defended the Fountain as he had aforetime, so that the fame of the Knight of the Fountain was known throughout the length and breadth of the land and in every court of chivalry. And many knights undertook the Adventure of the Fountain but in every case such errant knights were overthrown by the valor and the skill of the Knight of the Fountain. And in every case where that knight adventurer was thus overthrown, the Knight of the Fountain would take from him his horse and his shield and would send him away upon foot, disarmed and ashamed. So, because of the valor of the Knight of the Fountain, it came about in course of time that a very noble and worthy court of chivalry became established at the castle of the city of the Fountain, insomuch that the renown of that court of the Fountain hath been handed down in the histories of chivalry even to this day, when knighthood no longer dwelleth upon the earth. * * * * * Such is the history of Sir Ewaine when he undertook the Adventure of the Fountain whilst upon the quest of Sir Launcelot. And now if you choose to read further you shall hear how Sir Percival and Sir Sagramore found Sir Launcelot in the Island of Joy and of how Sir Launcelot returned to his friends once more. [Illustration] PART VI The Return of Sir Launcelot _Here followeth the further history of Sir Launcelot of the Lake; of how Sir Percival and Sir Ector de Maris found Sir Launcelot where he was dwelling very peacefully and happily (albeit not with perfect content) in the Island of Joy, of which you have heard mention in that which hath gone before; of the notable affair-at-arms betwixt Sir Launcelot and Sir Percival, and of how Sir Launcelot, with Elaine the Fair, returned with Sir Percival and Sir Ector de Maris to the court of King Arthur. Likewise you shall there read of what befell that noble company in the Valley of the Fountain aforetold of. All this history is of such a sort that it hath given me great pleasure to write it; wherefore if so be it may give you a like sort of pleasure to read it, then shall I be very well content with that which I have done in my endeavor to set forth these several events aforesaid._ [Illustration: Sir Lamorack and Sir Percival receive their Mother's Blessing:] [Illustration] Chapter First _How Sir Percival met his brother, and how they two journeyed to the priory where their mother dwelt and what befell them thereafter._ Now return we to Sir Percival and Sir Sagramore whom Sir Ewaine left (as aforetold of) still sleeping in that castle whence we departed so early in the morning--even before the break of day--to undertake the Adventure of the Fountain. [Sidenote: _Sir Percival and Sir Sagramore depart together._] When those two good knights awoke and founds that Sir Ewaine had departed, they communed together in the bedchamber of Sir Percival. And they agreed that thereafter they two should join company and that in their further search for Sir Launcelot they should travel together as companions. So when they had broken their fast, they bade farewell to the lord of the castle, and departed upon their way, travelling very cheerfully together, side by side, and taking great joy in the gay and jocund weather, and in all the sweet freshness and the warmth of the springtide that embalmed them around about. So they travelled as companions in arms for more than a year, and in that time they met with several bel-adventures, some of which are told of in books of chivalry and some of which are not told of. And I would that I could recount those adventures that befell them, but I cannot, for it would take another book as great as this to tell all of the things that happened to them in their journeyings. Yet it shall here be said that in those adventurings they fell in with a great many sorts of folk of different condition, both gentle and simple, and that several times they met certain knights-companion of the Round Table. And it shall here be said that they met in that wise with Sir Gawaine and Sir Bors de Ganis, concerning which meeting there shall be more said anon. [Sidenote: _Of the manner in which they journey._] And if you would ask how they lodged them during their travels I would say that they lodged them in divers sorts and ways. For if it happened that at one time they would lodge them in such a noble castle as that where Sir Gawaine and Sir Percival met Sir Sagramore, then it would happen at another time that they would find shelter in the hut of some lonely shepherd upon the moorlands, and then it would happen at still another time that they would even have no shelter at all, but would maybe wrap themselves each in his cloak with nothing beneath him for a bed but the cold honest earth, and nothing above him for a coverlet but the silent company of God's own sky, all sprinkled over with a countless multitude of brightly shining stars. For so those good knights of old travelled errant in those days, taking whatever befell them in good part, and accepting all that came to them with a cheerful spirit. If you would ask me in what sort of weather they travelled, I would tell you that they were content with whatsoever weather God sent to them; for if the weather were pleasant, as upon that first day of their journey, then they would travel very cheerfully up hill and down dale, in sunshine or shadow as the case might be; and if the weather were foul, then they would abide wheresoever heaven sent them shelter wherein to stay until the storm would pass by and be gone. For this is true, that even wintry weather cannot chill a cheerful heart; wherefore, when the north wind would bluster loud and boisterously, and when the falling snow would be covering all the earth with frozen white, then those two worthy champions would be well content to lodge them at some wayside inn. For there they might warm them beside the roaring fire, whereof the blaze would shine in red sparks of light at several places upon the polished plates of their armor, and whilst they took cheer in the heat of the fire, and whilst they listened to the storm, how it beat and drummed upon the windows, and whilst they harkened at the wind, how it roared and thundered about the gables of the house, that while they would take great pleasure in the company of the good folk of the neighborhood, who would be gathered around a merry bowl of hot mulled ale, with roasted crab-apples bobbing afloat in it, singing merry songs the while and telling jolly contes, and laughing and making rude and homely sport in several ways that afforded good entertainment to those two belted knights who listened thereunto. Thus you may know how in several ways it was that those two good worthy knights travelled during that considerable time when they were journeying together as companions in arms, for in this wise I have taken great pleasure in telling you thereof. * * * * * [Sidenote: _Sir Percival and Sir Sagramore come to a fair valley._] Now after those two had thus been companions in amity together for the space of a year or a little more than a year, it chanced upon a certain day that they found themselves at a place where a woodland ceased and where there began a very fair valley with a smooth shining river winding like a ribbon down the length thereof. And they sat at the head of that valley and they gazed down for some while thereinto, and they beheld that valley with great joy because it was so fair and fruitful. For in it were several meadow-lands, all smiling with verdure, and there were many fields of growing corn, and these fields and meadows rose ever upward until they cut against the sky, as smooth with fertility as though carved out with the edge of a sharp keen knife. And beside the river were banks of reeds and rushes and pollard willows and thickets of alder and aspen. And the broad highroad followed the course of the stream and there were several mills in the valley and broad ponds of water with bosky trees and with houses clustered upon the banks thereof. And ever the breeze blew mild and steady, and very balmy and warm, and great round white clouds moved slowly across the high arch of the bright blue sky. All this Sir Percival and Sir Sagramore beheld and they took such joy in it that so I cannot forbear to tell you of it as I have done because of the joy that I also take in what they beheld. Wherefore I pray you to forgive me if I have recounted more of those things than need be, who am writing a history of chivalry and of knightly daring. So those two worthies sat there where were the highlands at the edge of the forest, and gazed their fill down upon that valley, all spread out, as it were, upon a table beneath them, and when they had thus gazed their fill they aroused themselves from their pleasant contemplations and descended down into that valley, riding along beside the shining river. So they followed the highway, and by and by came to where the road crossed the river by a high-arched bridge of stone. At that place were several houses of stone with white walls that stood sheltered with great, umbrageous trees and the walls of the houses touched the edge of the smooth and gently flowing river. Coadjacent to this place was a mill and a sheet of wide-spreading bright water where were so many swifts, flitting hither and thither above the smooth surface, that they resembled bees flying about a hive upon a warm day in June. [Sidenote: _Sir Percival and Sir Sagramore meet a knight at the bridge._] Now as Sir Sagramore and Sir Percival approached that bridge aforesaid with intent to cross it, they were presently aware of another knight who came toward them from the other end thereof. And as they went forward he also came forward so that it was likely that they three would meet in the midst of the bridge. And they beheld that the knight rode upon a great Flemish charger as black as a coal, and that he was of a very noble, haughty appearance, showing no fear at their advance, though they were two and he was but one. For ever he rode forward very boldly, and with great spirit, even though it would bring him to meet them in the middle of the way. There was no device of any sort upon the shield or the armor of that knight, for it appeared that he was minded to travel unknown; so they wist not who he was, but in his appearance they beheld that he was strong and big and very lusty. [Sidenote: _Sir Sagramore exchanges words with the knight on the bridge._] Then as they approached one another Sir Sagramore bespake that knight, saying: "Sir, what mean you, coming so boldly thus against us? Would you who are one against two dispute the passage of this bridge with us?" To this the other said: "Messire, I have no mind to assume any dispute with you; yet you must be aware that it would ill beseem any one of true knightly courage to draw aside and to give you way. For, as you say, you are two and I am but one; wherefore, if I should withdraw me from this meeting it might be that you would impute a lack of courage to me. So, meseems, it would be better for you to give way for me, for you could do so without any impeachment of fear, whilst I would do an injury to the pure nobility of my knighthood if I should give way to you." Then Sir Sagramore said: "Sir Knight, it need not be that there should be two of us against one. Let my companion withdraw to the farther side of the bridge and let us two try a fall together. So it shall be decided which of us shall of a verity have the right first to cross this bridge." "Well," said the stranger knight, "that falleth in with my will in the matter; therefore let it be as you say." So, it being thus decided, Sir Percival drew away from the bridge upon his side, and those two knights-contestant made each himself ready for combat. Each chose his station, and when they were in all wise prepared, each set spur to horse and shouted to the assault and so dashed together across the space of bridge, each in a cloud of dust and with a noise like to thunder of horses' hoof beats upon the roadway of the bridge. [Sidenote: _The strange knight overthrows Sir Sagramore._] So they met in the very centre of the bridge with a crash one might have heard a furlong or more away. In that encounter the spear of Sir Sagramore broke into many pieces but the spear of the other knight held so that Sir Sagramore was hurtled with great violence over the crupper of his horse, and, striking the ground with a roar of falling armor, he lay there like one who had been struck dead. Now Sir Percival was greatly astonished to see so potent a knight as Sir Sagramore thus overthrown, wherefore he hurried forward with all speed to where his companion lay upon the ground. And Sir Percival leaped from his horse and went to his friend and found that he was not dead but only stunned by the violence of the fall he had suffered. For anon Sir Sagramore began to move and to bestir himself and so, after another while, Sir Percival was able to raise him up and set him upon his feet again, albeit Sir Sagramore's head was as light as a feather and swam like to running water. Now all this while that other knight had been sitting very steadfastly observing Sir Percival what he was about. So when he beheld that no great harm had befallen that knight whom he had overthrown, he spake to Sir Percival, saying: "Sir Knight, are you satisfied upon your part, or will you also have to do with me in disputing the pass of this bridge?" "Sir," quoth Sir Percival, "I would fain have had you go in peace, but since you have thus offered me the chance of battle or no battle, lo! I have no such choice, but must needs take this knight's quarrel upon myself. So make you ready that I may avenge his fall upon you." Therewith Sir Percival gat Sir Sagramore to horse and cleared the bridge of him. Then he mounted upon his own horse and made him ready for that assault which he had undertaken. So when he was in all wise prepared and perceiving that his enemy was also ready, he shouted to the charge and therewith drave forward in the assault. [Sidenote: _Sir Percival and the strange knight do battle together._] Then again those two knights-contestant met in the centre of the bridge with such a violence of meeting that the spear of each was broken into splinters to the very truncheon thereof. And each would have fallen before the assault of the other except that, with spur and bridle-rein, each uplifted his charger to foot again. Thereupon, having no spear wherewith to do further battle, each knight voided his saddle and each drew his sword and made him ready for further battle. So they came together to assault afoot, and presently each fell to lashing at the other such violent buffets that the sound thereof could be heard in echo both far and near. So they fought for a long time and in that while neither gained any advantage whatsoever over the other. But ever Sir Percival was more and more astonished at the valor and the prowess of his enemy, for, unless it were Sir Launcelot of the Lake, he knew not of any one in that land who might withstand his assault unless it were his own brother, Sir Lamorack. So by and by Sir Percival stinted his battle, and he cried out, "Hold, Sir Knight!" and therewith upon that demand the other also stayed his assault, and stood leaning upon his sword, panting from the violence of the battle he had done. Then Sir Percival said: "Sir, you assuredly fight a very wonderful battle, for I knew not there was any knight in this realm could withstand my assault, unless it were Sir Launcelot of the Lake or mine own brother who is Sir Lamorack of Gales. Wherefore I much marvel who you can be. Now I pray you tell me, are you Sir Launcelot, or are you my brother, Sir Lamorack?" [Sidenote: _Sir Lamorack and Sir Percival declare themselves._] So spake Sir Percival, and at those words that other knight cried out in a loud voice: "What say you! What say you! Who are you who layeth claim to be brother to Sir Lamorack of Gales? Know I myself am Sir Lamorack of Gales, so that if you are my brother, then you can be none other than that good worthy knight Sir Percival." Then Sir Percival cried out in a loud voice, "I am indeed Sir Percival!" and with that he uplifted the umbril of his helmet and showed his face. So also Sir Lamorack (for that other knight was indeed he) uplifted the umbril of his helmet and showed his face. Then when Sir Percival beheld his brother's face and wist that it was indeed he against whom he had been doing battle, he cried out aloud: "My brother! My brother! Is it indeed thou with whom I have fought!" And Sir Lamorack also cried out, "My brother! My brother!" and thereupon each ran to the other and embraced him in his arms. And each kissed the other upon his cheek in great affection of spirit. Then Sir Lamorack said: "My brother, I prithee tell me who was that knight whom I chanced to overthrow but now?" and Sir Percival said, "That was Sir Sagramore." Sir Lamorack said: "That is a great pity that I should have assaulted him and done him a hurt. Let us now go see how he doeth." [Sidenote: _Sir Lamorack knoweth Sir Sagramore._] So they two went together to where Sir Sagramore was, and they found that he was now altogether recovered from his fall. And when Sir Sagramore heard that it was Sir Lamorack against whom he had run atilt, he made great exclamation of astonishment and he said: "Hah! I am not at all surprised that I should have met with such a mishap as that fall which I suffered, seeing that it was thou, Sir Lamorack, against whom I ran atilt." After that there was much amicable talk betwixt the three. And after they had so talked for a considerable while, Sir Percival said to Sir Lamorack, "My brother, whither goest thou?" To this Sir Lamorack said: "I go to visit our mother at the Priory of Saint Bridget's. For wit you it hath now been three years since either of us hath seen her." Quoth Sir Percival: "Brother, what thou sayst is true, and I am greatly ashamed that it should be so long a time since I have beheld our mother. Now I am of a mind to go with thee upon this errand, and I will do so if my companion, Sir Sagramore, is willing to part company with me." And Sir Lamorack said, "I pray you do so." Then Sir Sagramore said to Sir Percival: "Sir, I would not stay you from your duty. Go you with your brother in God's name and think naught of me." And Sir Percival said, "I will do so." [Sidenote: _Sir Percival and Sir Lamorack depart together._] So after a little while longer of friendly talk, Sir Percival and Sir Lamorack bade adieu to Sir Sagramore, and after that the two brothers betook their way toward the Priory of St. Bridget's as aforesaid and Sir Sagramore went his way alone. [Sidenote: _Sir Percival and Sir Lamorack behold their mother._] So Sir Percival and Sir Lamorack travelled upon their way for all that day, and upon the afternoon of the second day they came to that place where was the Priory of St. Bridget. Then you may suppose what joy that noble lady prioress, their mother, had in beholding her two knightly sons side by side before her once more. For it is recorded that when she beheld those two noble lords kneeling upon the ground so that she might bestow her blessing upon them, she wept very tenderly and said: "Ah, my dear sons! When your father was slain he left me four sons, of whom twain were slain by treachery so that now but you two are alive." And she said: "I pray God He may take you into His keeping and cherish you in all ways that be for your good, so that you may be spared your lives and not perish by violence as did your father and your two brothers." After that they three sat together talking very tenderly to one another; and they sat together far into the night, so that it was past midnight when they parted company to seek their repose. And as they said good night to their mother, Sir Percival said: "Before the dawn of day cometh, dear mother, I must depart upon my journey once more." And Sir Lamorack said: "Is it so? Then I must depart with thee, my brother, for to keep thee company." At that the lady prioress fell to weeping, and still weeping she kissed them both and prayed that God might shield them both from sin and sorrow; and so they parted for the night. So it befell that upon the first breaking of the morn, they two took horse and departed from that place. And when the lady prioress awoke, they were far upon their way. Then when the lady, their mother, found them gone, she cried out, "Alas! who would be a mother to suffer such partings as these!" [Sidenote: _Sir Percival and Sir Lamorack depart from the Priory._] Now after Sir Lamorack and Sir Percival had left the Priory of St. Bridget's in that wise, they rode side by side through the dawning of the day, what time a thin, cool mist like to a veil of silver lay all about the meadow-lands; what time everywhere the birds were singing their pretty matins with great joy; what time the leaves of the trees rustled with the first breath of the coming day. Anon the sky grew bright like to shining silver, very clear and remote, and then anon uprose the glorious sun and sent his beams across the meadow-land and wold. Then Sir Percival and Sir Lamorack drew rein and dismounted each from his steed. Each turned his horse to grass and then each opened his wallet and broke his fast, quenching his thirst at a forest fountain that burst out of a cleft rock near by, as clear as crystal and as cold as ice. After that they had thus refreshed themselves they took horse again and once more travelled onward as before. [Sidenote: _Sir Percival and Sir Lamorack hear a voice lamenting._] Now about the middle of the day, they being then journeying in a leafy woodland, they became aware of a sound of lamentation in a part of the forest and they wist that there was in that place some one who was in distress. So with one accord they followed that sound of lamentation a little to one side, and away from the path, and so, by and by, they came to a certain open glade of the woodlands where they perceived the figure of a knight stretched out upon the ground. And that knight was covered with blood and his armor was cleft and broken as with battle. Beside the knight there knelt an esquire clad all in garments pied of red and white. And as the esquire thus kneeled beside the knight he wiped the face of the knight continually with a napkin, and ever made that outcry of sorrow which they two had heard from a distance. Then Sir Percival and Sir Lamorack rode forward into that glade and when the esquire perceived those two strange knights coming toward him, he arose and stood as though not rightly knowing whether to flee away or to remain where he was. This Sir Lamorack perceived and so called out: "Fair youth, be not afraid, but stay and tell us what is this sad sight which we behold, for we are knights errant and we mean ye well and not ill." So the esquire, perceiving their intention to be friendly, remained where he was, and thereupon they two rode up to him and to where that figure of misfortune lay stretched in his blood upon the ground. Then Sir Lamorack said: "Is this noble knight living, or is he dead?" And the esquire said, "Alas, Messire! He is not dead, but mefeareth he is dying." [Sidenote: _Sir Percival and Sir Lamorack succor a wounded knight._] Then Sir Lamorack and Sir Percival dismounted from their horses and they went to where lay the unfortunate knight aforesaid. And they examined him to see whether he were alive; and for a while they thought that he was dead, but after a while they perceived that he was not dead, but that he was grievously wounded and very nigh to death. Then Sir Lamorack lifted up his face and looked at that esquire, and he said, "Who is this knight, and how came he here?" "Messire," quoth the esquire, "I will tell you all. This is a very worthy knight hight Sir Tarn. He and his lady with only myself in attendance were riding this morning through this part of the forest with intent to go to the castle of a brother of Sir Tarn's. Right as we rode thus, there met us a very cruel and savage knight of these marches hight Sir Godwin. This Sir Godwin had with him several armed men and these fell upon my lord and his lady, and him they struck down with many dolorous blows and left for dead and her they have led captive away with them. As for me, I escaped from their hands into the thick woodlands and after they had gone I returned hither to lend such aid as I might to my sad, unfortunate lord." "Ha!" said Sir Lamorack, "this is a very sorry story and that is indeed a wicked and unkindly knight who treated thy lord in this wise. Well do I know this Sir Godwin, for I slew his brother, Sir Gaudelin, for such another piece of mischief as this of which thou complainest." And Sir Lamorack said to Sir Percival: "Brother, let us put this good knight to such ease and comfort as we may, and then let us go to the castle of Sir Godwin and succor that lady of Sir Tarn whom he hath taken away captive." And Sir Percival also said, "Let us do so." So they two dismounted from their horses and, with the help of that esquire they eased Sir Tarn of his armor. After that they searched his wounds and bathed them from the waters of a near-by fountain of the forest. And they bound up those wounds with such bandages as they had at hand and so brought all the ease and comfort they were able to the wounded man. So anon Sir Tarn opened his eyes and sighed, and anon he moved and upraised himself upon his elbow. Then Sir Lamorack said: "Lie still, Sir Tarn, and move not for this while and until thou art better than thou now art. And take comfort to thyself, for I am Sir Lamorack of Gales and this is my brother, Sir Percival of Gales, and presently we go to the castle of Sir Godwin for to succor thy lady and to bring her to thee again. For indeed I have great faith that God will be with us in that undertaking, and that we shall bring you peace of soul as we have brought you comfort of body." So Sir Lamorack comforted Sir Tarn, and after that they bade the wounded man adieu for the time and so left him and departed thence, betaking their way to the castle of Sir Godwin. [Sidenote: _Sir Percival and Sir Lamorack come to the castle of Sir Godwin._] So after a while they perceived the castle of Sir Godwin where it was in the midst of the woodland. And they came close to the castle and when they were very near they dismounted from their horses and tied the bridles each to a sapling. After that they two went up to the gate of the castle and demanded admission. Then presently the porter came to the gate and looked forth at them through the wicket, and he said: "Who are ye that demand admission, and what is your business?" Sir Lamorack said: "We be two knights who come to demand of Sir Godwin full satisfaction for the wounding of Sir Tarn and to demand that the lady of Sir Tarn be set free from durance." So spake Sir Lamorack, and thereat the porter laughed and said: "Certes, ye be mad, or else ye be two fearless men to come thus upon such an errand." Therewith he shut the wicket and went away. And he went to where Sir Godwin was and told him how those two knights had come thither and what was their business. When Sir Godwin heard that message he also laughed and he said to the porter: "Go thou and admit these two knights, and when they have entered the courtyard do thou shut to the gate after them. So we will have them catched as in a trap. After that we may deal with them as we please." [Sidenote: _Sir Percival and Sir Lamorack enter the castle of Sir Godwin._] So the porter did as Sir Godwin commanded; he went and opened the gates to Sir Lamorack and Sir Percival and he said, "Come in!" and when they were within the castle he shut to the gate again so that they might not go forth until they of the castle chose to let them out again. And at that time Sir Percival and Sir Lamorack were in a courtyard of the castle and there was no way whereby they might escape from that place upon any side, for all the doors and passes were closed against them. Anon came Sir Godwin, the lord of the castle, clad all in full armor. And he appeared at a balcony that overlooked the courtyard beneath, and he said: "Who are ye who come hither, meddling with that which concerns you not?" Him answered Sir Lamorack very boldly: "Thou wicked and unworthy knight! Know thou that I am Sir Lamorack of Gales, and that I am he who slew thy brother, Sir Gaudelin, for such an offence as this that thou hast this morning committed. I and my brother, Sir Percival, are come hither with intent to punish thee for the evil thing which thou hast done this morning, for we will not suffer that such things shall be done as thou doest. For those were like the deeds that thy brother did and for them he died. So repent thee or his fate shall presently be thy fate also unless thou dost presently repent and make amends for the injury thou hast done." So spake Sir Lamorack, and at that speech Sir Godwin was so filled with rage that it was as though all the light of heaven turned red before his eyes. For a while he could not speak because of that rage, and then by and by he cried out: "Hah! Hah! Art thou indeed Sir Lamorack who slew my brother? Now I am right glad of that. Make thine orisons, for this night thou shalt assuredly sup in Paradise with thy brother for company." [Sidenote: _Sir Godwin attacks Sir Percival and Sir Lamorack in force._] Therewith he departed and was gone, and Sir Percival and Sir Lamorack knew not what was to happen next. Then, after a while, a door of the castle was suddenly opened upon the courtyard and a score or more of full-armed men rushed very violently into the space where Sir Lamorack and Sir Percival were. At that same time another door was opened upon the other side of the courtyard and thereupon there rushed in Sir Godwin and other armed men. All of these ran forward and flung themselves upon Sir Lamorack and Sir Percival with intent to overthrow them by dint of numbers. But when Sir Percival and Sir Lamorack were aware of their coming, they straightway set themselves back to back and each whirled his bright shining sword about his head so that it flashed like lightning. Then there befell a great battle in that narrow courtyard, many against two. Yet ever those two bare themselves very valiantly so that in a little space of time there were six or ten men lying groaning upon the ground, and the pavement of the courtyard was become all slippery with blood. Yea; so great was the terror that those two spread about them that in a little while they who assaulted them drew away from the death that was measured out to those who were nearest to the two. [Sidenote: _Sir Lamorack slayeth Sir Godwin._] So, for a while, there came a pause in that battle, and in that pause Sir Lamorack perceived where Sir Godwin stood in the midst of the castle folk, urging them to the attack. Thereat of a sudden the madness of battle fell upon Sir Lamorack, so that he waited not for another assault, but, shouting aloud, he ran at his enemy, whirling his sword about his head. At that fierce attack the castle folk scattered from before him like to chaff before the wind, and so Sir Lamorack and Sir Godwin stood face to face with no one to stay Sir Lamorack in his assault. Then Sir Lamorack whirled his sword and smote such a buffet that though Sir Godwin took that buffet upon his shield, yet his wits melted away from him because of the blow he had received. Then his defences fell low before him, his head hung upon his breast, he staggered, and his thighs trembled with weakness. Then he cried out, "Mercy! Mercy!" saying those words twice over. But Sir Lamorack would not hear him, but lifting up his sword he smote Sir Godwin again, and with that second stroke Sir Godwin fell down upon his knees to the ground. Then Sir Lamorack rushed off the helmet of Sir Godwin and he catched Sir Godwin's head by the hair and drew his neck forward. And he whirled up his sword and he smote Sir Godwin's head from his body so that it rolled down upon the stones of the courtyard. Now when the followers of Sir Godwin beheld how their master was slain they were seized with a great terror of death insomuch that they crowded away to the extremities of the courtyard like to rats caught in a pit. And they held up their hands and cried aloud, "Mercy! Mercy!" Then Sir Lamorack, panting for breath from his fight and leaning upon his sword, said, "Take your mercy." And he said, "Where is the major of this castle?" They say, "We will get him for you, lord," and therewith several ran upon that errand. Anon they came bringing a fat old man all trembling and quaking with fear. This fat old man kneeled down before Sir Lamorack, and Sir Lamorack said, "Art thou the major of this place?" And he said, "Yea, Messire." Sir Lamorack said, "What captives have ye here?" to the which the major replied, "There be seven captives, and four of those seven are ladies." Sir Lamorack said, "Take us to them." So upon the command of Sir Lamorack the major arose from his knees, trembling with fear. And he conducted Sir Lamorack and Sir Percival to the keep of the castle and to the secret dungeons that were within the keep. There they found and liberated those seven poor and miserable creatures who were held prisoners in that place. [Sidenote: _Sir Lamorack liberates the castle captives._] Amongst those ladies who were captive was the lady of Sir Tarn, and amongst the knights who were captive was Sir Percevant of Hind. All these seven captives Sir Lamorack and Sir Percival liberated and they gave great praise and loud acclaim to those two most worthy champions who had set them free from their piteous and miserable durance. Then Sir Lamorack said, "Where is the treasure of this castle?" and in obedience to that command, the major conducted Sir Lamorack and Sir Percival to the treasure-house. There they found twelve great chests full of treasure, which same Sir Godwin had gathered by murder and robbery and rapine. Then Sir Lamorack said: "Let this treasure be divided equally amongst these captives so that they may be recompensed for all the misery they have suffered." So it was done as he commanded and thus it was that those who had been so sad in captivity were made glad in their liberation. Nor would Sir Lamorack take any of that treasure for himself; otherwise he gave it all to those who had suffered so much at the hands of Sir Godwin. Then after all this was accomplished, it being then come eventide, Sir Lamorack said: "Let every living soul quit this place, for it is a den of thieves, and shall no longer be permitted to stand stone upon stone." [Sidenote: _Sir Lamorack setteth fire to the castle._] So all they of the castle came and stood without the walls, both young and old, strong and weak, man and woman, the sick and the well. And when all had thus come forth, Sir Lamorack gave command that torches should be set here and there to the castle. So it was done according to that command, and in a little while all that castle was in a flame of fire, so that the falling night was made bright with the illumination thereof. In the light of that illumination Sir Lamorack and Sir Percival rode away with the lady of Sir Tarn. And they brought the lady to where the wounded man lay--and he had then recovered his strength in a great measure and was in a way of regaining his life and his health once more. So a pavilion was set up over Sir Tarn and after he was in all wise made comfortable, Sir Percival and Sir Lamorack departed from that place and went upon their way, riding through the night and all enwrapped around about by the darkness of the night and of the woodlands. * * * * * Thus it was that Sir Lamorack and Sir Percival met at that bridge in the valley; thus they visited together their mother, the prioress of St. Bridget's Priory; thus they destroyed that nest of thieves, and thus they departed once more upon their way. And now followeth the story of how Sir Percival met Sir Ector de Maris; of how Sir Percival joined company with Sir Ector; of how they discovered a certain very wonderful isle in a lake of clear water, and of how Sir Ector had to do with a certain knight who was the champion of that island aforesaid. [Illustration] [Illustration: Sir Percival and Sir Ector look upon the Isle of Joy:] [Illustration] Chapter Second _How Sir Percival and Sir Ector de Maris came to a very wonderful place where was a castle in the midst of a lake._ That night Sir Lamorack and Sir Percival lay in the woodlands, each wrapped in his cloak, and each sleeping very soundly after all the travails of the day. And when the next morning had come Sir Percival awoke a little before the dawning of the day and Sir Lamorack still slept. [Sidenote: _Sir Percival leaveth Sir Lamorack asleep._] Then Sir Percival bethought him that he must again depart in quest of Sir Launcelot and that his brother, Sir Lamorack, was not upon that quest. So he rose very softly and he went aside and donned his armor so quietly that he did not disturb his brother's slumbers. After he had thus donned his armor, he took horse and rode alone into the forest, leaving Sir Lamorack still asleep where he lay. And Sir Percival traversed that woodland for a long while, not knowing whither he went, but trusting ever to God to bring him out thence all in good time. So as he journeyed he came about the prime of day to a certain open place where there was a crossroad and a wayside shrine and a little chapel. And as Sir Percival drew nigh to this place, he beheld that a knight in shining armor was kneeling at that wayside shrine, reciting his orisons. [Sidenote: _Sir Percival meets with Sir Ector de Maris._] Beside the kneeling knight there stood a noble dapple-gray war-horse, and the spear of the knight leaned against the bole of a near-by oak tree, and the shield of the knight hung suspended to the spear. And the knight wore neither helm nor bascinet, wherefore Sir Percival could see his face and so could know who he was. And Sir Percival knew that the knight who kneeled there was Sir Ector de Maris, the brother of Sir Launcelot of the Lake. Now though Sir Ector heard the sound of the footsteps of the horse as Sir Percival drew nigh, yet he neither ceased his orisons nor turned his head, but ever continued very steadfastly to recite his prayers. And so Sir Percival drew rein at a little distance and waited until Sir Ector was done his prayers, nor did he disturb the kneeling knight in any wise until he had crossed himself and arisen to his feet. Then Sir Percival said, "This is well met, Sir Ector," and because the umbril of Sir Percival's helmet was uplifted, Sir Ector knew him and so he said, giving him greeting, "Well met indeed, Sir Percival." Therewith Sir Percival dismounted from his horse, and he came to Sir Ector and clasped Sir Ector in his arms, and each kissed the other upon the cheek as though they had been brothers. After that they went a little to one side and sat them down in the soft long grass of the wayside and beneath the shadow of a wide-spreading tree. Then Sir Percival said to Sir Ector: "Sir, hast thou any news of thy brother, Sir Launcelot?" And Sir Ector said: "Nay, I have no news of him, but I had hoped that you might have news." Sir Percival said, "I have no news," and he said, "Do you still go in quest of that noble and gentle knight your brother?" And Sir Ector said, "Yea." Sir Percival said: "So do I go upon that quest, and I would fain that we might travel somewhile together for the sake of companionship." And Sir Ector said: "So also would I wish it to be." Now as they thus talked there came the hermit of that chapel to them where they sat, and he said to them: "Messires, will ye not break bread with me ere ye depart from this place?" Whereunto they said: "Yea; gladly will we do so." So they all went together to the hermit's cell, and therewith he prepared for them such food as he had at his dwelling-place; to wit, sweet brown bread, with honey of the forest and berries freshly gathered from the thickets. So those two noble knights ate with great appetite and were fully refreshed and their hunger stayed. [Sidenote: _Sir Percival and Sir Ector ride together._] Then, after they had thus eaten their fill, they gave many thanks to the good man for their refreshment and so departed from that pleasant place, riding side by side together, talking in pleasant discourse, and now and then chanting a bit of song, either one alone or both together. Meantime the warm sun shone very brightly, flickering ever and anon through the leaves and blazing of a sudden with a quick and wonderful glory as it catched upon the polished plates of their armor. [Sidenote: _Sir Percival and Sir Ector behold a fair valley._] In this wise Sir Percival and Sir Ector travelled and by and by they came out of that forest. And they travelled for several days, until at last they one day came to a certain place whence they overlooked a valley. Here they drew rein upon the heights and looked down into that valley, and they beheld that it was a very fair place. And in the midst thereof they beheld that there was a lake of water, wonderfully clear and very blue and tranquil, as it were a part of the bright shining sky that lay within the cup of that valley. And they beheld that in the midst of the lake there was an island, and that upon the island there stood a castle, very tall and stately, and with many tall roofs of tile that shone all red like to several separate flames of fire against the mild blue sky behind. And they beheld that there was a little town of houses of stone and brick not far away from that castle, and they beheld that the rest of the island was very fertile and green, like to a pure emerald of bright fertility. And they beheld that there were several groves and plantations of trees and of fruit-trees at several places upon the island, so that, what with this and what with that, it was like a fragment of paradise planted in that place. All these they beheld, as it were, upon the palm of the hand. And after they had gazed for a while, Sir Ector said: "Methinks that yonder is as fair a place as ever I saw in all of my life. Now let us descend thitherward and let us seek to discover to what noble lord yonder island castle belongeth." To the which Sir Percival said, "That meeteth altogether my wishes." So thereupon those two rode down into that valley and so came to the margin of the lake. And they beheld that the waters of the lake were as clear as crystal and that all around the lake was a strand of yellow pebbles that appeared like pebbles of gold in the sunlight, wherefore it was as though that lake was altogether surrounded with the ring of gold. And beyond this strand of pebbles were meadows of long grass and of flowers, and chiefly these flowers were daffodils. [Sidenote: _Sir Percival and Sir Ector ride beside the lake._] So those two knights proceeded along that golden strand, all in the shining sunlight, until, by and by, they came to a certain part of the lake that was nighest to the castle. And the island at that point sloped very gently down to the water, and as these two knights gazed across the waters they saw how that a wide, smooth meadow lay betwixt the castle and the waters of the lake, and that the meadow was besprinkled with an incredible number of bright daffodil flowers like to the meadows upon the other side of that strand of pebbles. And they perceived that there was a lady standing deep in the long grass of the meadow and in the midst of the flowers, and they saw that she wore many ornaments of gold set with jewels and that she carried a sparrow-hawk upon her wrist. [Sidenote: _Sir Percival bespeaketh a lady of Joyous Isle._] [Sidenote: _Of the champion of Joyous Isle._] Then Sir Percival called to that lady across the water, saying, "Lady, what is this castle and who is the lord thereof?" To this the lady also called out in reply (speaking in a voice that was wonderfully high and clear), saying: "This is hight the Joyous Isle and yonder is the castle of Joyous Isle, and the lord of the castle is a very noble knight hight, le Chevalier Malfait. We of this castle are exceedingly proud of that knight, holding him to be the most noble champion in all of the world. For there have been several tournaments and jousts held in these marches, and in none of them hath any one been able to stand against our knight. And many knights have come hither at different times to try an adventure against our knight, but all these hath he overthrown with wonderful skill and strength." Thus spake that lady; and to her Sir Percival said: "Certes, lady, this must be a very noble knight according to your accounting. Now I pray you tell me how came so puissant a knight as that into this remote place?" Quoth she: "I cannot rightly tell you that, only I know that he came hither as a madman and that he was healed of his madness, and that he was wedded to the daughter of the king of this country, who is one of the most beautiful ladies in the world, and that since then he hath been living here at Joyous Isle." Then Sir Percival said: "Lady, we came not hither upon any such adventure as that of trying the skill of your champion, but what you inform us concerning him giveth me a great appetite to try of what mettle he is. Now I pray you tell me, how may I come at this knight so as to adventure myself against him." At this the lady laughed, and she said: "Messire, if such be your wish, you will find yourself very welcome at this place. If you would come at this adventure, you must travel by the margin of the lake a little farther upon the way you are going and until you have come to that part of the lake that is back of the castle. There you will find a ferryman and his two sons. Make your want known to this ferryman and he will take you into his boat and will ferry both you and your two horses across the water of the lake so that you may come to the other side." So spake the lady; and after that Sir Percival gave her gramercy and therewith he and Sir Ector took their departure. And so they travelled some little while by the margin of the lake as the lady with the sparrow-hawk had directed, and by and by they came to that part of the lake that was back of the castle. Here they beheld a vessel such as the lady had described, and they beheld a hut beside the margin of the lake; and when they called there came forth out of the hut the ferryman and two others who were his sons. Of these Sir Percival made demand that they should transport him across the lake to the island and thereupon the ferryman immediately prepared to do so. Then Sir Percival said to Sir Ector: "Sir, I pray you of your courtesy for one thing," and Sir Ector said, "What is that?" Sir Percival said: "I pray you that you will abide here and let me undertake this adventure alone. For I would not have it that two of us together should go forth against this one knight. And indeed I have great hope that I may be successful in this, even though I go thus alone, wherefore it is that I pray you of your courtesy that you will abide here, and patiently await my return." So spake Sir Percival, and Sir Ector said: "Messire, let it be as you say and I will even abide here at this place and await your return. And if you should fail in that which you undertake, then will I also essay this adventure to discover if I may meet with better success." [Sidenote: _Sir Percival passeth to Joyous Isle._] So therewith Sir Percival entered the boat, and the ferryman and his two sons also entered it, and they bent to their oars and in a little while they had rowed Sir Percival across the water to the island that lay upon the farther side. Then when Sir Percival had safely come to the island in that wise, he rode up toward the castle through that very pleasant meadow aforetold of, and so came to the castle gateway. Here he beheld a bugle horn hanging by a chain. Then he took that bugle horn into his hands and blew upon it until the walls of the castle rang with the sound thereof. Anon, in answer to that blast, there came the porter of that castle and looked at Sir Percival through the wicket of the gate. And the porter said: "Messire, what would you have of us of this castle?" Quoth Sir Percival: "Good man, I have heard news of the great prowess of the knight-champion of this castle, and so I have come hither to make a better acquaintance of that prowess. Now I, pray you to go to him and to tell him that there hath come an errant knight who would fain do battle with him in a friendly tilt if so be he will come forth hither without the castle and meet me in the meadow that lieth beneath the walls. For that meadow is a pleasant place, smooth and level, where two knights may have great joy in running atilt in friendly contest." "Messire," quoth the porter, "it needs not that the knight of this castle should come forth out of the castle to meet you. For inside of this castle is a very pleasant tilt yard, and there is a gallery around about the tilt yard whence the lords and ladies of this place may view the contest between you and our knight. Wherefore, I pray you enter and take no fear, for you will be very well received at this place." "I give you gramercy," said Sir Percival, "and I find that this is indeed a very gentle and kindly place whereunto I have come. So I pray you give me way and I will enter as you desire me to do." [Sidenote: _Sir Percival entereth the castle of Joyous Isle._] So anon the portcullis of the castle was raised and the drawbridge was let fall and thereupon Sir Percival rode forward across the drawbridge and entered the castle and the courtyard thereof, the iron hoofs of his horse sounding very loud and noisy upon the stones of the pavement. Then immediately there came several esquires running to him and asked of him what was his will and why he had come to that place. Sir Percival told them what he would have, and that he would have a friendly contest of arms with the knight of that place; whereunto the esquires said, "It shall be as you desire." So two of those esquires ran to find the knight of the castle to tell him how that a challenger was come to run atilt against him, and meantime several other esquires led Sir Percival's horse to the tilt yard of the castle and others still again brought him a cup of fair spiced wine for his refreshment. Anon the folk of the castle began to gather in the balcony that overlooked the tilt yard, and Sir Percival, casting upward his eyes toward those who gathered there, beheld that that was as fair a court of chivalry as ever had looked down upon any battle that he had fought in all of his life. After that, and by and by, there came the knight-champion of the castle, riding into the farther extremity of the tilt yard, and when Sir Percival looked upon him it seemed to him that he had hardly ever seen so noble and haughty a figure as that castle champion presented. [Sidenote: _Sir Percival doeth battle with the champion of Joyous Isle._] Then straightway those two knights prepared each himself for the encounter, and when they were in all ways made ready the marshal of the lists came forward and proclaimed the conditions of battle--that it was to be ahorseback or afoot as the knights-contestant chose. After that proclamation the marshal withdrew a little to one side. Then he called upon those knights to make them ready. Then in another little while, and beholding that they were both ready in all wise, he blew a loud blast upon his trumpet, whereupon in an instant they quitted each his post and launched the one against the other like to two bulls rushing together in a charge. So they two met in the midst of the course with such an uproar of encounter that the ears of those who stood near by were stunned with the noise thereof. In that encounter each knight splintered his lance to the very butt thereof, and at the violence of the blow that each gave the other, the horse of each tottered back upon his haunches and would have fallen but for the address of the knight rider, who quickly recovered him with spur and voice and rein. Then each knight voided his saddle and leaped to the ground, and each drew his sword from its sheath for an encounter afoot. Then flashed their swords like lightning in the sunlight, and blow followed blow with such great spirit and good will that the sound thereof deafened the ears of those who looked down upon that encounter from the balcony. And ever these two champions lashed at the other such buffets that it was a wonder that any skill and address at arms could have turned aside such strokes as fell in that friendly battle. So they two fought for so long a time that those who onlooked were astonished at the strength and the courage and the endurance of those two champions, and in all that while neither knight had suffered aught of harm and neither had had aught of advantage over the other. [Sidenote: _Sir Percival and the champion stint their battle._] Then at last the champion of the castle cried out, "Sir Knight, hold thy hand!" and thereupon Sir Percival ceased his battle and stood leaning upon the pommel of his sword, panting because of the great endeavor which he had put forth during that conflict. Then the knight-champion of the castle said: "Messire, I have met many knights in my day and amongst them I have encountered those who were regarded to be the best knights in the world, yet I make my vow that never until this time have ever I met any knight who hath proved himself to be so strong and so powerful as you have shown yourself to be in this battle. Now I pray you, Messire, that you of your courtesy will declare your name and degree, for I doubt me not that you are one whom we shall find to have conferred great honor upon us by coming to this place." [Sidenote: _Sir Percival declareth himself._] To this Sir Percival said: "Messire, your civility of words is equal to your address at arms. Gladly will I declare my name and degree, and happy will I be if it hath aught of significance to you, for I do not think that even Sir Launcelot of the Lake himself was ever a better knight than you have shown yourself to be. Know you that I am Sir Percival of Gales and that I am son to King Pellinore and brother unto Sir Lamorack of Gales. And now I beseech you upon your part to declare your name and title to me." But to this speech the champion of the castle made no reply. Otherwise, when he heard what Sir Percival said, and when he heard the name and degree of Sir Percival, he gave forth a great cry, either of joy or of something different from joy. Therewith, and thus crying out, he flung away his sword and he flung away his shield, and he ran to Sir Percival and threw himself down upon his knees before Sir Percival and embraced him about the thighs. And he cried out: "What have I done! What have I done to do battle with thee in this wise!" At this Sir Percival was very greatly astonished and he said: "Sir, what is this thou doest to kneel to me? Who art thou who sayst such words as these I hear? Now I pray thee that thou wilt immediately declare thyself to me who thou art!" [Sidenote: _Sir Launcelot declareth himself._] Then that knight, still kneeling, said: "Sir Percival, I am he whom men one time called Sir Launcelot of the Lake." Therewith saying, that knight of the castle lifted up the umbril of his helmet and Sir Percival beheld that it was indeed Sir Launcelot. Then Sir Percival cried out even as Sir Launcelot had done, and thus crying out he said: "At last, at last I have found thee!" Therewith he lifted up Sir Launcelot into his arms, and he embraced Sir Launcelot and kissed him upon the cheek and they wept over one another with a great joy of meeting, and all those in the balcony who beheld that sight wondered what was its occasion. [Sidenote: _Sir Percival beholdeth Elaine the Fair._] Then Sir Launcelot said to Sir Percival: "Sir, let me bring you to my lady." And therewith he took Sir Percival by the hand and led him up into the gallery and to where the Lady Elaine sat in the midst of her court. And Sir Percival looked with a very earnest regard upon that lady, and it appeared to him that he had never before beheld so sweet and gentle and beautiful a countenance as that which he then looked upon. And Sir Percival said: "Lady, now that I see thee I wonder not that Sir Launcelot hath remained thus hidden away from the sight of all of us for these two years past. For if this island wherein ye dwell is a fair paradise then certes art thou a very fitting queen to that dwelling-place." So spake Sir Percival, and after he had spoken the Lady Elaine smiled very kindly upon him and she said: "Messire, your words are very fair and they flatter me far beyond my deserving. Great is your renown amongst us and I declare that you are very welcome to this place. Now I pray you put aside your armor and bathe and refresh yourself, and after that we shall all take gentle sport together." Sir Percival said: "Lady, gladly would I stay with you at this present. But there is awaiting me at another place not far distant from this one whom Sir Launcelot will be even more glad to behold than he was glad to behold me. Now I pray you, suffer me first to go and bring that one hither and then will we both remain with you in greater joy of your company." Quoth Sir Launcelot, "Who is it that could give me more pleasure to see than you, Sir Percival?" "Sir," said Sir Percival, "it is your own brother, Sir Ector. For I left him upon the other side of the water of this lake whilst I came hither alone to try my fortune with you. Now I pray you let me go to him and bring him hitherward so that we may all rejoice together." Then Sir Launcelot cried out: "This is indeed joy upon joy. Now I pray you, Sir Percival, go and bring him!" Therewith Sir Percival departed to fetch Sir Ector thither in accordance with that saying. So Sir Percival rode down through the meadow of the island to the margin of the lake, and when he had come there the ferryman ferried him across the water as they had brought him across before. And Sir Percival found Sir Ector waiting for him, who, when he beheld Sir Percival coming, said: "Sir, what fortune had you in your adventure?" Quoth Sir Percival: "Oh, friend! that fortune which I had was greater than you or I could have deemed to be possible." At these words Sir Ector was greatly astonished, and he said: "What great fortune is this of which thou speakest?" and Sir Percival said: "I will tell thee. Whom thinkest thou I have found upon this adventure? None other than thine own brother, Sir Launcelot, for he it is who is the lord of this castle." Then Sir Ector cried out with astonishment, and he said: "Can this be so indeed?" And then he said: "Let us make haste and go to him upon the wings of the wind." [Sidenote: _Sir Percival bringeth Sir Ector to Joyous Isle._] So again they entered the ferry and were ferried across the water. And after they were upon the farther side they rode together through that meadow of flowers and up to the castle. Now as they drew nigh to the castle in that wise they beheld a great concourse of the castle folk coming forth to meet them and giving great sound of jubilation and rejoicing. At the head of these who approached to meet them came Sir Launcelot and the Lady Elaine, they two riding side by side, Sir Launcelot upon a great black horse, and she upon a white palfrey. And she was clad all in garments of white sarsanet embellished with pearls and embroidered with threads of silver, and she was adorned with ornaments of shining gold and she wore a golden crown upon her head such as was befitting the daughter of a king to wear. Her fair hair was enmeshed in a network of golden threads so that what with this and that her beauty shone from afar with exceeding lustre. And though Sir Ector had beheld her aforetime yet it was as though he had never beheld her until that day, for her joy and her pride of Sir Launcelot and in his meeting Sir Ector and Sir Percival again so illuminated her countenance that it was as though her beauty shone with a singular brightness from within; yea, it was as though her soul itself had illuminated her body of flesh with a pure and shining beauty that was other than of this world. [Sidenote: _Sir Ector and Sir Launcelot meet one another._] So as they met, Sir Launcelot and Sir Ector each leaped from his horse and they ran together and embraced and kissed each other and wept one upon another in such a wise that all of those who looked on wept also for joy of their joy. And then Sir Ector came to the lady and took her by the hand and kissed her hand and kissed it again and yet again. After that they all went up to the castle of the Joyous Isle together, and they entered into the castle with sounds of rejoicing and loud acclaim so that the very walls of the castle seemed, as it were, to cry out with joy. So after they had thus entered the castle, a number of attendants took Sir Percival and Sir Ector and made them comfortable in all wise. And they were given rich robes of royal make for to wear and after that there was feasting and rejoicing beyond measure. Thereafter day followed day in great cheer and mirth and there were many joustings and tournaments held in honor of these two royal knights who had come thither. * * * * * [Sidenote: _Sir Ector bespeaketh Sir Launcelot._] Now one day Sir Launcelot and Sir Ector were walking together in the garden of that fair castle and they were alone, no attendants being with them at that time. Anon Sir Ector said to Sir Launcelot, "My brother, I pray ye read me a riddle." Quoth Sir Launcelot, "What is your riddle?" "It is this," said Sir Ector: "What should one do if a messenger came to him with command from a queen to whom he had sworn duty--that command being that he should show himself at court? Should that one neglect the command that his queen had transmitted to him, or should he obey that command." Then Sir Launcelot turned his face aside so that Sir Ector might not read his eyes, and after a little he said, "I will not return to court." "Why will ye not do so?" said Sir Ector, and Sir Launcelot made reply: "Because a duty that is greater than any queen's command keeps me here with this lady unto whom I have pledged all my truth and all my faith." After that Sir Ector was silent for a little, and then after a little while he said: "Sir, you know very well that I would do naught to advise you against that which I believe to be your duty and your honor. But are you so doubtful of yourself that you fear to perform one duty lest you should fail in another duty? Now we are commanded by that queen whom you swore to serve to search you out and to find you and to tell you that it is her command unto you that you return to the court of the Great King and make your peace with her. Are you then so doubtful of your truth to the Lady Elaine that you fear to obey the command of the Queen?" Then Sir Launcelot cried out, "Say no more to me of this!" and so Sir Ector said no more. So, shortly afterward they parted company. After that they had so parted Sir Launcelot went to a certain chamber of the castle where he was alone and there he communed with his spirit, and these communings were very bitter and sad. Anon came the Lady Elaine to that place and knocked upon the door and demanded entrance, but for a while Sir Launcelot denied her. But ever she knocked, and so after a while he opened the door a little and admitted her into that place where he was. Then the Lady Elaine came close to Sir Launcelot and looked very deeply into his eyes, and by and by she said, "Launcelot, what ails thee?" He said, "My brother hath been talking to me concerning certain matters." She said, "What was it he said to thee?" And Sir Launcelot replied, "I will not tell thee." [Sidenote: _The Lady Elaine bespeaketh Sir Launcelot._] Then the Lady Elaine smiled into Sir Launcelot's face and she said: "It needs not that thou shouldst tell me what thy brother said, for I can guess very well what it was." Then she took Sir Launcelot's head into her embrace and she said, "Launcelot! Launcelot!" and he said, "Elaine! Elaine!" And the Lady Elaine said: "Alas, love, thou must return with these good knights unto the court of the King, for it is thy duty to do so. After that thou mayst return hither, and I pray God that thy staying away from this place may not be for very long." Then Sir Launcelot said: "Elaine, I will not go away from this place unless it be that thou also goest with me. Wherefore, if thou wilt have me go to King Arthur's court, then go thou along with me. Otherwise, if thou wilt not do that, then I will disobey the Queen's commands and will stay forever here with thee." Then the Lady Elaine smiled again though somewhat sadly and she said: "Ah, Launcelot, I am sorry for thee and for thy doubts. But as thou wilt have it so, so let it be and I will go with thee to the court of the King." Therewith she kissed Sir Launcelot upon the face and he kissed her as with a great passion. [Sidenote: _They all depart from Joyous Isle._] So three days after that time all they departed from Joyous Isle--to wit, Sir Launcelot and Sir Percival and Sir Ector and the Lady Elaine--and in the court who went along with them there also travelled Sir Lavaine, the Lady Elaine's brother, who had aforetime been Sir Launcelot's companion at arms in that tournament at Astolat as aforetold of. These with their courts of esquires and ladies and demoiselles wended their way from that place with great state of departure and with all the pomp and circumstance that befitted the high estate of those who travelled. * * * * * So it was that Sir Launcelot was found, and now if you will read this history further you shall hear of a very pleasant adventure that befell them upon their way to the castle of King Arthur and of how Sir Ewaine and the Lady of the Fountain joined them and went with them to the court of the King. [Illustration] [Illustration: Sir Lavaine the Son of Pelles:] [Illustration] Chapter Third _How Sir Launcelot and Sir Percival and Sir Ector and the Lady Elaine progressed to the court of King Arthur, and how a very good adventure befell them upon their way._ Now, as was said, Sir Launcelot and the Lady Elaine departed for Camelot, together with Sir Percival and Sir Ector and Sir Lavaine, for their intent was to return to King Arthur's court. With them went a very noble court of knights and ladies, and of many attendants of all degrees in waiting upon them. So it was that whensoever their cavalcade would make a halt, that place where they would rest would suddenly bloom forth, as it were, with the glory of their coming. For upon such a halt there would immediately be spread a number of pavilions of all sorts and colors for the accommodation of those lords and ladies, wherefore the green fields and meadow-lands would presently be covered all over with a great multitude of gay colors of all sorts, bedazzling the eye with their brightness and their variety. Then all the air would be aflutter with silken pennants and banners, and all would be bright with the shining of armor and the movement of gaily clad figures, and all would be merry with the chatter and music of many voices talking together, and all would be alive with movement and bustle--some running hither and some running thither--and everywhere pages and esquires would be busy polishing pieces of armor, and damsels would be busy in gentle attendance upon the lady. [Sidenote: _How they rest within the forest._] So it was that they made progression in that wise, all gay and debonnaire, and so one day they made halt toward the sloping of the afternoon in a certain very pleasant woodland where a fair fountain of water, as clear as crystal and as cold as ice, came gushing forth from a mossy rock of the woodland. Here was a very pleasant meadow of lush green grass all besprinkled with pretty flowers and around about stood the trees of the forest, ever rustling and murmuring their leaves in the soft and balmy breezes that caused their ancient heads to move, very slowly this way and that, as though they were whispering to one another concerning the doings of those gay travellers aforesaid. Now as those knights and ladies who had been travelling all that day were anhungered with journeying, a repast had been spread in the open air, and all they sat at table with only the blue sky and the bright floating clouds above their heads for a canopy, and only the soft green grass and the pretty flowers beneath their feet for a carpet. And so as they sat, pages and attendants ran hither and thither with plates and dishes and pattens of silver and of gold full of meats of all kinds, and with beakers and pitchers and goblets of silver and of gold full of wines of various sorts; and with these foods the attendants served that noble company as they sat at table. And all the stillness of the forest was filled full of the noise of the chanting of many voices, and of laughter and of snatches of song. What time there stood near by several minstrels who played upon harps for the entertainment of those who ate at the table. [Sidenote: _A strange damsel appeareth in the forest._] So, as they sat, all enjoying themselves with feasting and good cheer, there came forth of a sudden from the forest a very beautiful damsel riding upon a milk-white horse with two esquires in attendance upon her--the one walking upon the one side of her horse, and the other upon the other. This damsel and the esquires were all clad in flame-colored satin and all these were adorned with many ornaments of gold. And the damsel wore about her neck several shining necklaces of gold inset with jewels of divers sorts, and she wore armlets of gold also inset with jewels upon her arms, and her hair was gathered into a net of gold. So it was, what with that flaming raiment and the shining of those several ornaments of gold, that she who came thither was all one living flame of fire. So she drew nigh to them who sat at table, and they beheld that the face of that damsel was of a very singularly beautiful appearance, being like to ivory for whiteness; and they beheld that her lips were like to coral for redness, and that her eyes were like two jewels, very bright and shining. And they beheld that her hands were long and slender, and were adorned with many rings of wrought gold, so that each finger shone, as it were, with pure brightness because of those several hoops of gold that encircled them. Such was the appearance of that damsel and all they who sat there at feast were astonished with wonderment when they beheld her, for they all wist that without doubt she was fay. [Sidenote: _The damsel bespeaketh them._] Now when that damsel had come pretty close to where they sat at their feast, she drew rein and cried out: "God save you, gentles! Now I pray you tell me if there is any knight here who hath a mind for an adventure that would doubtless be very pleasant for him to undertake?" To this Sir Launcelot made reply: "I dare say, fair maiden, that there are several knights here who would take pleasure in assuming any adventure that one so beautiful as you are might call upon him to perform. Speaking for myself, I shall be very glad to assume such an adventure; wherefore, I pray thee, tell me what that adventure is." "I will tell you," said the damsel. "The adventure which I would have you undertake is hight the Adventure of the Fountain, and if you would assume it, you have only to take yonder path that leads through the woodlands in that direction and you shall come to it anon. For if you go in that way you will come, by and by, to a high mound, where you will find a huge black man sitting, watching a herd of cattle. Tell him that you are come to assume the Adventure of the Fountain, and he will direct you farther upon your way." Then Sir Launcelot said: "This is a very strange thing that thou hast set me to undertake. Now I prithee tell me further concerning this adventure, and what will befall after I have bespoken that black herdsman of whom thou tellest." But at this the maiden only laughed and said: "The black man who sits upon the mound, he will tell you all that is necessary for you to know." Thereupon she turned her horse about and immediately departed with those two esquires who attended her. And so presently she reached the edge of the woodland and disappeared into the forest whence she had emerged not a very long while before. And all that court of knights and ladies were equally amazed at her coming and at her going. Then after she had thus gone Sir Launcelot said: "I know not what it is that this damsel has set me to do, but let us abide here to-night as we had purposed, and when to-morrow comes then we will all depart together in quest of this adventure which she calleth the 'Adventure of the Fountain.' For I doubt not that it is some very excellent undertaking that will afford us extraordinary entertainment." [Sidenote: _They depart upon the Adventure of the Fountain._] Accordingly, that night they abided where they were, and when the early breaking of the day had come they departed thence upon the way that the damsel had pointed out. After they had thus departed, they travelled for a considerable distance through the forest in that direction and anon they came to that mound of which the damsel had spoken. And they beheld that the mound stood in a wide open space of the woodland. And they beheld that there were many cattle grazing around about this mound and upon the mound, and they beheld that upon the mound there sat a gigantic being of such a hideous aspect that they were astonished at his appearance. For his skin was wellnigh black, and his half naked body was covered all over with hairs like to the hairs upon the body of an ape. Then, when this being beheld them where they came, he roared at them in a great voice, saying, "Where go ye, little people, and what is your business?" To him Sir Launcelot made reply: "Fellow, I came hither to assay that Adventure of the Fountain and these are my companions who come with me. Now tell me what that adventure is and what I shall do to fulfill it." Then that gigantic oaf bellowed with loud laughter and he cried out: "Seekest thou that adventure? Now I warrant thee, thou wilt be well satisfied when thou hast found it. For so all have been satisfied who have come this way. Take thou yonder path and by and by thou wilt come to a certain valley that is very fair and beautiful. In that valley is a lake and there is a fountain nigh to the lake, and thou mayst know the fountain because a great tree stands beside it and shelters the waters thereof. Beside the fountain is a slab of stone and upon the slab is a silver bowl attached to the slab by a chain of silver. Dip up some water from the fountain into the silver bowl and cast the water upon the slab of stone, and thou shalt straightway meet with an adventure that will, I doubt not, satisfy all thy desires for a long time to come." So spake that gigantic being in a voice like to thunder, and after he had spoken they presently all departed upon further quest of that adventure. [Sidenote: _They behold the valley of the Fountain._] So they travelled a very long distance until by and by they came to that steep hill aforetold of in this history. Thereafter they climbed to the top of this hill and found themselves at a place where the forest ceased and whence beneath them lay a very fair valley. And they perceived from a distance the lake and the fountain of which they had been told, and after that they all rode down in that valley and to the place of the fountain. Here, finding a fair level meadow, they pitched their pavilions around about the place of the fountain and Sir Launcelot and Sir Percival and Sir Ector and their knights armed themselves in all wise so as to be ready for any sort of adventure that might befall. [Sidenote: _Sir Launcelot poureth water upon the slab._] Thus being in all ways prepared, Sir Launcelot approached the fountain, and when he had come to it he found the silver cup chained to the slab of stone as the gigantic herdsman had said that he would find it. So he took the silver cup into his hand, and he dipped up the water of the fountain therein, and he cast that water upon the slab of stone. Then it befell just as it had aforetime befallen with Sir Sagramore and Sir Ewaine. For the earth trembled and shook so that all those who were there were filled with a great terror at the earthquake. Then there arose a mighty wind, so violent that all the pavilions that had been erected were overthrown and blown away before the blast. Then the skies thundered and thick dark clouds gathered over the heavens so that the light was presently altogether obscured, although it was hardly yet come to the prime of the day. After that the rain fell in such a deluge that all they who were there feared for some while that they would be drowned in that rainfall. And ever, as it rained, they heard, as from a distance, the voices of many raised, as it were in lamentation. For all this was just as it had been when Sir Sagramore and Sir Ewaine had come to that place. Then after a while it ceased raining and the clouds cleared away from the sky, and the sun shone forth once more with an extraordinary brilliancy. And anon there came that multitude of birds flying, as aforetold of in this history, and these, descending upon the tree by the fountain, straightway fell to singing with such a piercing rapture of melody that the hearts of those who listened were altogether ravished with the charm of their song. Then, whilst those who were there stood listening to that singing of the birds, they perceived a great distance away the form of a knight who came riding toward that place with great speed. And that knight was clad altogether in black armor and he rode upon a great black horse, and all the trappings and the furniture of that horse were as black as all the other things that belonged to that knight. So that knight came violently riding to where they were, and perceiving that great court of knights and ladies who stood there all drenched and wet with the rain, he cried out in a proud and menacing voice, "Who are ye, and which of ye was it who meddled with this fountain?" To this Sir Launcelot replied, "Sir, it was I." Then the black knight, speaking very fiercely, said: "Know ye that ye have done a very woeful mischief, for, because you have meddled with this fountain, ye have brought a deluge upon this land that hath done great damage to all they that dwell therein. Now make you straightway ready for battle, for I have great hopes of punishing you for the mischief you have done to this land by thus meddling with the fountain." Then Sir Launcelot answered, speaking both with great pride and with dignity of demeanor. "Messire," quoth he, "never yet have I refused any call to battle, nor shall I do so at this present. As for that mischief of which you speak, wit you that I knew not I was making any mischief in what I did. Ne'theless, now that that mischief is done, I am ready to defend mine act since you have called upon me to do so." So saying, Sir Launcelot withdrew to one side in that meadow near to the fountain as aforetold of; and the Knight of the Fountain likewise withdrew himself to that same place, and when they had come there each chose such ground as seemed to him to be best fitted for the encounter. Meantime, all they who were there gathered in a good place whence they might onlook that encounter and behold the upshot of the adventure. So when all was ready for the encounter, as aforesaid, each knight shouted aloud and drave spur to horse and each charged against the other with all the fury of two wild bulls. [Sidenote: _Sir Launcelot doeth battle with the Knight of the Fountain._] So they met in the midst of the course with such a roar of encountering spears and armor that the ears of those who heard it were stunned with the noise thereof. In that encounter the spear of each knight was shattered to splinters up to the hand that held it, and the horse of each sunk back upon his haunches as though he had encountered a stone wall. But each knight recovered his horse with spur and voice and with wonderful skill and dexterity, so that neither horse nor man suffered a fall from that encounter. Then each knight voided his horse and leaped to the earth and each straightway drew his shining sword, all flashing in the bright sunlight. And each rushed upon the other with a great rage for battle, smiting and slashing with their swords, and dealing such dreadful buffets that those who beheld that battle were affrighted at the vehemence with which those two champions fought. So they did combat for a great while and in all that time neither suffered any great harm from the buffets of the other. Then, at last, that knight who did battle against Sir Launcelot cried out, "Stay thy hand for a little, Sir Knight, while I hold speech with thee!" So Sir Launcelot ceased his battle and each knight-champion stood panting, leaning the while upon his sword. Then the Knight of the Fountain said: "I pray thee, Sir Knight, if so be thou wilt do me that courtesy for to tell me thy name. For I declare unto thee that never before this day have I ever met so great a champion in battle." [Sidenote: _Sir Launcelot declareth himself._] Then said Sir Launcelot: "Sir, wit you that I am Sir Launcelot of the Lake. As for you, I know not who you are, only know I for a certainty that you must be some very puissant champion, for never did I encounter a more worthy battle than this that I have met with to-day." Now when the Knight of the Fountain heard the name that Sir Launcelot declared, and when he wist who it was against whom he had been doing battle, he cried out in a loud and piercing voice, "What say you?" And again he cried out, saying: "Art thou indeed Sir Launcelot of the Lake? Then have I been fighting against him whom I love very dearly and whom I have sought for both long and far." So crying out, he threw aside his sword and his shield and ran to Sir Launcelot where he was. And he cast his arms around the body of Sir Launcelot and embraced him as with a great passion of joy. Then Sir Launcelot was greatly astonished to find himself embraced by that strange knight, wherefore he said: "Messire, who art thou, and why dost thou embrace me in this wise?" [Sidenote: _Sir Ewaine declareth himself._] Upon this the Knight of the Fountain uplifted the umbril of his helmet and he said: "Behold me! I am thy one-time companion in arms. I am Ewaine, the son of King Uriens of Gore." Therewith Sir Launcelot beheld the face of Sir Ewaine and knew him, and thus knowing him, he cried out with astonishment even as Sir Ewaine had cried out, saying: "Ewaine, is it thou against whom I have contended? Alas, what have I been doing to fight against thee in this wise!" Therewith he also cast aside his sword and shield and took Sir Ewaine into his arms and embraced him before them all, even as Sir Ewaine had embraced him. Then either kissed the other upon the face, and after that all the others of those who were one-time companions of Sir Ewaine came forth and also gave him greeting, rejoicing beyond measure to see him again. Then Sir Launcelot brought Sir Ewaine to where was the Lady Elaine and he made the one acquainted with the other, and Sir Ewaine took the Lady Elaine's hand into his and kissed it with a great ardor of love. After that they all sat down together in full amity of discourse. Then Sir Launcelot said to Sir Ewaine: "Messire, I prithee tell me how it is that you have come hither and are now dwelling here as the champion of this fountain. For certes, it is a very strange thing to find you thus engaged." [Sidenote: _Sir Ewaine telleth his story._] To this Sir Ewaine made reply, "I will tell thee." And thereupon he told them all that had befallen him since he had left Sir Percival to go upon that Adventure of the Fountain in the which Sir Sagramore had failed to achieve success as aforetold. Meantime all they listened to him with great attention and with close regard. And when he had ended, all said that that was as wonderful an adventure as ever they had heard tell of in all of their lives. Then Sir Ewaine said: "Gentles all, I pray you of your courtesy that you will wend with me to the castle where dwelleth my fair beloved lady, for certes it would be a great honor to her and to me to have you become acquainted with her." [Sidenote: _They come to the castle of the Fountain._] So said Sir Ewaine, and all agreed with great joy to what he said, so shortly afterward they departed from that place and betook their way down that Valley of the Fountain to the castle of the Fountain as Sir Ewaine asked them to do, and they arrived at that place somewhat past the noon of the day. There they were received with great joy and rejoicing, and after that for several days there was feasting and merrymaking and pleasant sports of all sorts at the castle of the Fountain. * * * * * Now after several days had passed thus joyously at the castle of the Fountain, it chanced that Sir Ewaine and his lady and Sir Launcelot and the Lady Elaine were together in the garden of the castle, and no one else was there but they. So as they sat in discourse Sir Launcelot said to Sir Ewaine: "Messire, as we are going to the court of the King, will you not join our company with your fair Lady of the Fountain to accompany us? Certes it is that there would be great joy at court if so be we would all return together in that wise." To this Sir Ewaine said: "Sir, that would indeed be a very good thing for us to do, and we will be glad to go with you as you ask us." [Sidenote: _They all depart from the castle of the Fountain._] So straightway they of that place of the Fountain began to prepare themselves for journey, and three days after all the court of Sir Launcelot and his lady and all the court of Sir Ewaine and his lady made their departure from the Valley of the Fountain and betook their way toward Camelot. Now the way they took led them toward that mound whereon sat that gigantic black man herding his cattle. And when this being perceived all those people passing that way, he sat there and laughed like to the pealing of thunder, though why he laughed not one of them wist, for there was naught of mirth to be seen in their progression. Yet ever that great black creature laughed and laughed until they had passed by and gone, still leaving him laughing in that wise. [Sidenote: _The Lady Vivien hath vanished._] And as they went still farther along that way they came by and by to where was the valley of the Lady Vivien. And they looked for that castle of the Lady Vivien whereunto Sir Ewaine had twice come as aforetold and, lo! it had entirely disappeared. Yea, there was not to be seen nor stick nor stone nor sign of it anywhere, and at that they all greatly marvelled, much wondering what had become of that enchanted place. Nor was it ever known what had become of it, nor was it ever known whether the enchantress had wearied of her mischiefs, or whether she feared the anger of so many who had now been raised up against her. Only this was known to be true, that she had betaken herself and her court and her castle altogether away from that place, nor was she seen there any more again. Moreover, it is to be said at this place that from that time forth the enchantment of the fountain was removed and the cup and the slab of stone disappeared from where they lay, and thenceforward they of the valley were at peace. So endeth that part of the story of the Fountain. [Sidenote: _They behold Camelot again._] Now when that noble concourse of knights and ladies who were in attendance upon Sir Launcelot and Sir Ewaine and their ladies drew nigh to the neighborhood of Camelot (which same was upon the fourth day after they had left the valley of the Lady Vivien) Sir Launcelot sent an herald messenger before them to announce their coming. So it befell that when they came within sight of the town, they beheld a great concourse of knights and esquires of the court who had come forth to meet them. These gave loud acclaim to Sir Launcelot and his companions, crying, "Welcome, ye glorious champions who are returning to us again!" This welcome they gave on behalf of King Arthur, by whom they had been sent, for the King was glad beyond measure to have those champions who were so dear to his heart return to him once more. So it was that those who came to meet them cried out, "Welcome, welcome, ye glorious champions," in that wise. So rejoicing and giving welcome all they progressed toward the King's town--Sir Launcelot and his lady and Sir Ewaine and his lady, and their companions and all their courts, surrounded with great pomp of circumstance by those knights and esquires of the court of King Arthur, who had been sent to meet them. And all they who had thus come forth from the town looked with great curiosity upon the Lady Elaine and the Lady Lesolie and all were astonished at the beauty and the grace of these two high dames. But more especially were they astonished at the beauty of the Lady Elaine, for her loveliness shone like to a star in the midst of her court, wherefore they who looked upon her said to one another: "Certes, even Queen Guinevere herself is not more beautiful than yonder lady." [Sidenote: _They kneel before the King and the Queen._] So they came to the King's town and they entered the town and they entered the castle of the King, and there they found King Arthur and Queen Guinevere sitting in state to receive them. Both the King and the Queen were crowned with golden crowns, and each sat upon a throne to receive those who came in fitting pomp and with sufficient ceremony. So Sir Launcelot and the Lady Elaine and all those who were with them came before the King and Queen and kneeled down before them as they sat high aloft in royal state. Then as they kneeled there the King arose and descended from his throne and came forward and gave great welcome to them all; for his heart was filled with gladness and joy to behold them kneeling before him in that wise. And all that while the Queen's face was smiling like to a beautiful mask. And ever she gazed very steadily at the Lady Elaine, beholding how that the countenance of that lady was exceedingly beautiful and very noble and gentle. And as the Queen gazed thus upon the Lady Elaine she hated her with great bitterness, yet ever she hid that hatred beneath a smiling countenance. That day there was great feasting and rejoicing at the court of the King because of the return of Sir Launcelot and Sir Ewaine and Sir Percival and Sir Ector. And ever the Lady Guinevere took part in that rejoicing, albeit her heart was full of great bitterness and of a sort of despair. * * * * * [Sidenote: _The Queen withdraweth the Lady Elaine from Sir Launcelot._] Now the next day after that day, the Lady Guinevere sent for the Lady Elaine to come to her, and when she was come the Queen said to her: "Lady, I have it in mind to do thee a singular honor that I would bestow upon thee, and this is that thou shouldst be in personal attendance upon me. To this end I have purveyed thee a room next to mine own chamber in mine own part of this castle, and there thou and thy attendants may lodge so that ye shall ever be near to my person. And ever thou shalt be in close attendance upon me and never shalt thou be parted from me for all the time that thou remainest at this place." Thus spake the Lady Guinevere, for so, under the mask of friendliness and pretence of doing honor to the Lady Elaine, she purposed to separate Sir Launcelot from his lady and after that to keep them separate from one another. This she did, though why she should do it she could not rightly tell even to her own heart. * * * * * So it was that Sir Launcelot returned to the court of the King; so it was that they were received at Camelot, and so it was that the Lady Elaine the Fair was separated from Sir Launcelot as I have recounted above. [Illustration] Conclusion Now at this time the Lady Elaine was in very tender health, wherefore, after a day or two or three, she began to repine at being thus separated from Sir Launcelot as aforesaid; wherefore it befell that she grew lonely in that strange place and wept a great deal and ate little and slept little. Now there was at this time with the Lady Elaine that Lady hight Dame Brysen before spoken of--she who went with the Lady Elaine to Sir Launcelot when he lay so nigh to death in the castle of Corbin. This lady saw how it was with the Lady Elaine and how that she pined in that wise for Sir Launcelot, and she wist that the Lady Elaine was like to fall sick unless she had sight of her lord. So Dame Brysen went to Sir Launcelot one day and she said to him: "Sir, if you find not some opportunity to see your lady, she will fall ill and maybe wane away to death because of her longing for you." Sir Launcelot said: "How may I see her?" Dame Brysen said: "Come to me this night in a certain passage of the castle during the mid-watch of the night and I will bring you to her. So you may cherish and comfort her for that while and so she will take good cheer once more." [Sidenote: _How Sir Launcelot visiteth the Lady Elaine._] So that night Sir Launcelot came to the place where Dame Brysen had appointed and Dame Brysen took him to where was the Lady Elaine. And when the Lady Elaine beheld Sir Launcelot she could scarce control the transports of her joy in having him with her once more, for she catched him in her arms and held to him like as one sinking in deep waters holds to another who comes to save him. And ever she cried in her transport, "Thou art here! Thou art here!" And ever Sir Launcelot soothed her and spake words of comfort to her. So at last she took good cheer and smiled and laughed as she was wont to do aforetime. So Sir Launcelot remained with the Lady Elaine for a long while, and Dame Brysen was with them for all that while, and the damsels of the court of the Lady Elaine were with them, for Sir Launcelot did not quit that place until the early watches of the morning were come, what time the Lady Elaine had fallen asleep like to a child who slumbers. Then ere it was come the dawning of the day, Sir Launcelot took his departure and Dame Brysen conducted him thence as she had brought him thither. [Sidenote: _The Queen is angered._] Now there was a fair young damsel of the court of the Queen who acted as a spy upon Sir Launcelot. So when the next morning had come this damsel went to the Queen and told her how Dame Brysen had brought Sir Launcelot to the apartments of the Lady Elaine the night before, and when the Queen heard that news she was wroth as though she were gone wode, yet what she did and what she said and how she behaved hath never been told, for no one beheld her in the madness of her wrath but that damsel who was the spy and one other. Only it is known that after a while the Queen cried out in a voice very harsh and loud: "Where is that false traitor knight, Sir Launcelot! Bring him hither!" And then she said: "Let no one else come in to me but him, and when he comes let us be alone together!" [Sidenote: _Sir Launcelot standeth before the Queen._] So anon came Sir Launcelot conducted to that place where the Queen was, and then all those who were there withdrew, and no one was left in that apartment but Sir Launcelot and the Queen herself. So Sir Launcelot stood before the Queen and he said, "Here am I." Then the Lady Guinevere looked for a long time upon Sir Launcelot, and her eyes were very wide as she stared upon him and her face was white like to wax. Anon she said, speaking in a voice that was very harsh but not loud: "Is it true that thou camest to this part of the castle last night?" and Sir Launcelot said, "Yea, lady." Then the Queen ground her white teeth together, and she said, still speaking in that same voice that was not loud: "Traitor! Traitor! how didst thou dare to come hither without my permission?" Then Sir Launcelot looked very long into the Queen's face, and at last he said, "I am betrayed, it seems." "Yea," said the Queen, "thou art betrayed indeed, but it is thou who hast betrayed thyself." Sir Launcelot said: "In what way have I betrayed myself, and in what way am I a traitor to thee or to anyone? Is not my duty first of all toward that lady to whom I have sworn my duty? What treason did I then do in cherishing her who is sick and weak and sad and helpless in this place where thou keepest her prisoner?" So said Sir Launcelot and after that those two, to wit, the Queen and the knight champion, stared very fiercely at one another for a while. Then by and by the Queen's eyes fell before his eyes, and anon she fell to trembling. Then, of a sudden, she cried out in a very bitter voice: "Ah, Launcelot, Launcelot! May God have pity upon me for I am most unhappy!" Therewith she lifted her handkerchief to her eyes and so covered her face with it. And that while her face was altogether hidden excepting her lips which were all writhed and twisted with her passion. And yet she wept not, but ever her bosom rose and fell very violently as with a convulsion. [Sidenote: _Sir Launcelot pitieth the Queen._] Then Sir Launcelot wist not what to do, albeit his heart was rent with love and pity. Then by and by he came close to her and he said: "Lady, lady! What is this you do! May God have pity on us both, for you tear my heart strings with your grief." Therewith, they two being alone, he sank down upon his knees before her, and he took her hands into his and strove to draw them away from her face. And for a while she would not let him withdraw her hands and then after a while she did let him, and so he held them imprisoned very tight in his own. Yet ever she kept her face turned away from him so that he could see but little of it. So with her face turned away she said after a while, "Launcelot! Launcelot! Art thou not sorry for me?" He said: "Yea, lady, I am sorry for thee and I am sorry for myself, and for which of the two I am more sorry I cannot tell. For God knoweth I would abide by my duty and my faith, and mefeareth thou wouldst have me do otherwise." Then the Queen said: "Launcelot, what is duty and what is faith when we measure these things with the measurement of happiness and unhappiness?" And Sir Launcelot said, "Lady, for God's sake, forbear." [Sidenote: _The Lady Elaine appeareth at that place._] Now as Sir Launcelot said those words he became of a sudden aware that some one was in that room. So he looked up and behold! not far away from them there stood the Lady Elaine, and she was regarding them both and her face was as white as death, for she had entered that place without their knowing and she had heard much of that which had passed. Then Sir Launcelot was aware that she had overheard his words to the Queen and with that he was overwhelmed with confusion and with pity. So he arose from his knees, though not quickly, and stood there before the Lady Elaine with folded arms and with his gaze downcast upon the floor. Then the Queen also looked up and likewise beheld the Lady Elaine where she stood, and therewith her face flamed all red like to fire. Then the Queen arose very haughtily and she said: "Lady, this is well met, for I was about to send for you. Now tell me, was it by your will that this knight came last night to this part of the castle?" and the Lady Elaine said: "Yea, lady, it was by my will he came, for I was sad, and no one but he could comfort me." Then the Queen's eyes sparkled with anger and she said: "Then you have broken an ordinance of the King's court, for well you know that such a thing as that is not permitted. For this I might punish you even unto death an I chose to do so. Yet I will not so punish you, but will have mercy upon you and will spare you. Nevertheless I command you that you quit this place with all expedition that is possible." [Sidenote: _The Lady Elaine chideth the Queen._] So spake the angry Queen. But ever the Lady Elaine looked very proudly upon her. And when the Queen had ended that speech she said: "Lady, it shall be as you ordain, and to-morrow I shall be glad to depart from this place, for it is a place of great unhappiness to me. But tell me this, lady, ere I go: What would you say of one who took from another who harmed her not, all the happiness and joy that that other had in her life? And what would you say if that one who would so rob the other had for herself a lord who was the most noble and the most worthy knight of any in all of the world?" At this speech the eyes of the Queen shone very wild like to the eyes of a hawk. And first she strove to speak and could not, and then she did speak, yet it was as though the words strangled her. And she said, "Go! Leave me! You know not what you say!" and other than that she could not say, but only strove to speak without any sound issuing out from her throat. Then the Lady Elaine turned with great dignity and went away leaving those two alone together, and she neither turned her head nor paused at any time in her going. Then the Queen, turning to Sir Launcelot, said: "Messire, I lay this command upon you, that though your lady shall depart, yet that you shall remain here at this court until such time as I give you leave to depart hence." Then she also turned and went away, and for a while Sir Launcelot remained, standing alone like to a statue of stone. [Sidenote: _The Lady Elaine quitteth the court._] So the next day the Lady Elaine quitted the court of the King but Sir Launcelot remained. And he said not to any one that the Queen had commanded him to stay, for he would not betray her, so it was that all who were of the King's court thought that he stayed of his own will. But ere the court of the Lady Elaine departed from that place Sir Lavaine, the brother of the Lady Elaine, came to Sir Launcelot and no one was present but they two. And Sir Lavaine said to Sir Launcelot: "Messire, do you not go hence with your lady?" and Sir Launcelot said: "Nay, but maybe I shall follow her anon." [Sidenote: _Sir Lavaine accuseth Sir Launcelot of treason._] Then Sir Lavaine said: "Sir, see you not that your lady, my sister, is in exceeding tender health?" and Sir Launcelot said, "Yea, I see it." Then Sir Lavaine said, speaking very fiercely: "What honor hath a man who will leave his own lady for the smiles of another woman? If you do such a thing you are dishonored as a knight and are a traitor to your troth." Then Sir Launcelot looked very steadily at Sir Lavaine and his face was exceedingly white and his eyes were like to coals of fire. Anon he said: "Messire, you speak bitter words, but you are safe from mine anger." Then Sir Lavaine laughed, though not with mirth, and immediately he went away from Sir Launcelot and left him where he was. That same hour the Lady Elaine quitted the court of King Arthur, riding thence in a closed litter so that few, saving those immediately in attendance upon her, could know aught of what she thought or said or did. And yet the whole world might have seen her countenance, for it was very calm and steadfast and without any mark of passion. And all the world might have heard her words for those words were also without passion of any sort. Yea, I believe that at that time her soul itself was altogether cheerful and well-content and without any shadow of sorrow upon it. For once, when Sir Lavaine spoke with great anger and indignation, she chid him for his heat, saying: "My brother, let be. What matters it? Could you but see into the future as I gaze thereinto, you would know that it mattereth but very little indeed that such things as this befall a poor wayfarer in this brief valley of tears." And at another time she said: "My poor lord, Sir Launcelot! Him do I pity indeed, for God is like to chasten him before long, and to bend him and to bruise him as though he were a reed that was bent and bruised so that it may never be able to stand fully erect again. Yet even this mattereth but little; for the span of life is but very short, and all is in the hands of God." So spake the Lady Elaine, very calmly and without passion or sorrow of any sort! For, as aforesaid, I believe that even at that time her eyes penetrated into the future and that she beheld therein what was to befall all of them. Thus they journeyed by easy stages for two days, what time they came out from the mazes of the forest and into an open plain where they beheld a fair priory of the forest set in the midst of fair and fertile fields of corn and of rye. And the walls of the priory gleamed as white as snow in the sunlight, and the red roofs thereof shone like flames of fire against the deep blue sky against which they stood. And the road whereon they travelled went down beside the banks of a smooth and placid river, very bright and shining like to polished silver; and there were willows and aspens upon the one hand and smooth fields of ripening grain upon the other. Now at that time the Lady Elaine was suffering great pangs of sickness, wherefore she said to those in attendance upon her: "Dear friends, it is well that we have come hither to this place. For this is a house of peace, and I am very sick. Wherefore I pray you let me rest here till God shall have dealt with me in my travails in such a manner as He shall see fit." So spake the Lady Elaine, and upon that command they bare her to the gates of the priory. And they bare her into the priory and laid her upon a soft couch and there she had such ease in her sickness as they could bring to her at that time. * * * * * Meantime Sir Launcelot abided at the court of the King, very heavy of heart and very sorrowful of spirit. For his soul was dragged this way and that way. And whether he had gone away from the court or whether he had stayed as he did, in either case he would have been most unhappy. Yet to his present unhappiness was added many pangs like to the pangs of remorse. For he could not tell whether he did altogether ill or somewhat well in remaining at the King's court as he did. Yet ever his thoughts went out after the Lady Elaine and he said to himself: "So soon as I can escape from this place with courtesy to the Queen, I will follow after her." Wherefore had he wist that even then she was lying so sick at the priory in the forest, it may well be believed that he would not have tarried a single moment longer, but would have flown to her upon the wings of the wind. But Sir Launcelot knew not how it was with his lady, and so God was even then preparing a great punishment for him for which he might never hope to escape for as long as he should live. PART VII The Nativity of Galahad _Here followeth the story of the nativity of Sir Galahad and of how Sir Gawaine heard a miraculous prophecy concerning the Achievement of the Holy Grail, and of how it was prophesied that Sir Galahad should achieve that holy chalice. Also it shall be told how the infant Galahad was confided to the care of Sir Bors de Ganis, who alone knew what then became of him, until in due time he was manifested to the world as the greatest and the most puissant knight who ever lived._ [Illustration: Merlin Prophesieth from a Cloud of Mist:] [Illustration] Chapter First _How Sir Bors de Ganis and Sir Gawaine went forth in search of Sir Launcelot. How they parted company, and what befell Sir Gawaine thereafter._ Now the history hath been told of those things that happened to several of the knights who went forth in quest of Sir Launcelot after that he went mad as aforetold; to wit, the history hath been told of Sir Percival and of Sir Ewaine and of Sir Sagramore and of Sir Ector de Maris. Here followeth an account of that which befell Sir Gawaine, when he, together with Sir Bors de Ganis, also went forth in search of Sir Launcelot. After they two had left the court of King Arthur they joined company for a while. Thus travelling together as companions in arms, they met with several adventures, some of which are told in histories of chivalry and some of which are not. In such companionship there passed the spring and the summer and by and by it was the fall of the year. [Sidenote: _How Sir Gawaine and Sir Bors rode forth together._] Now some there be who love the summer time the best and some there be that love the spring; yet others still there be who love the autumn the best of all. And certes each season hath its beauties, so that one cannot wonder that there are some who love the beauties of the fall above the beauties of all other seasons. For in that time of the year there comes the nutting season, when country folk take joy in being abroad in the hazel thickets, gathering the bright brown fruits of the hazel bushes. Then are days so clear and frosty, all early in the morning, that it is as though the whole vault of heaven were made of clear crystal. Then, when you look into the cold blue shadows of the wayside bank, there you behold everywhere the sparkling of many myriads of bright points of light where the thin frosts catch the shining of the early and yet slanting sun. Then do the birds cry with a wilder note as though heralding the approach of dreary winter. Then do the squirrels gambol in the dry, dead foliage in search of their winter store of food. Then is all the world clad very gloriously in russet and gold, and when the bright and jolly sun shines down through the thin yellow leaves of the woodland, all the earth appears to be illuminated with a wonderful splendor of golden light, so that it may be that even the glory of Paradise is not more wonderful than that unusual radiance. Such was the world of autumn in which in the latter part of their journeyings in company those two noble knights made progress together. For anon they would ride along the smooth and dusty highways, where were hedgerows, growing thin of leaves but all bright with red and purple berries; and anon they would be riding through some thin woodland where the dry and fallen leaves rustled under foot with a sound like to a faint thunder of multitudinous rustlings; and anon they would be journeying along the wolds where the wind blew strong and free and the great white clouds sailed very smoothly and solemnly across the sky above their heads. [Sidenote: _They meet Sir Percival and Sir Sagramore._] So travelling ever in that wise--sometimes here, sometimes there--they came one day in the early morning to where there was a smooth and shining lake, the chill waters whereof were all asmoke in the gentle warmth of the newly risen sun. And here were sedge and reeds, all fading brown and yellow, and at many places, wild fowl, disturbed at their coming, would spring up with loud and noisy splashings from the entangled water. So as they went beside that lake they beheld two knights coming toward them, riding side by side in the sunlight. And when they four had met together and had saluted one another and had bespoken one another, they found that those two knights were Sir Percival and Sir Sagramore, and that they also were journeying as armed companions, as aforetold of in this history. So they four went a little farther to where there was a pleasant thatched farmhouse not far distant from the roadside, and there they broke their fast with bread and milk and fresh laid eggs and honey, which the farmer's wife served to them. [Sidenote: _Sir Sagramore telleth of the Adventure of the Fountain._] Then Sir Gawaine and Sir Bors besought Sir Percival and Sir Sagramore for news, and therewith they two told Sir Gawaine and Sir Bors how they had parted with Sir Ewaine and how that he had gone upon that Adventure of the Fountain. Then Sir Sagramore told them how it had befallen with him upon that same adventure, and to all this Sir Gawaine and Sir Bors listened very intently. And after Sir Sagramore had ended his story, Sir Bors and Sir Gawaine asked him many questions concerning those happenings, and he answered all that they asked him. Then Sir Gawaine said: "Well, Messire, I wot that all this mischief of which thou tellest us was brewed by that sorceress the Lady Vivien. Well I know her, and often have I had reason to chide her in times gone by for the mischiefs she was continually plotting against innocent folk. Now I have a mind to turn aside from my present quest and to find that lady and to bring her to repentance. And if I may not bring her to repentance then I shall compel her to undo all these mischiefs she hath done in this matter of the Fountain." Then Sir Sagramore said: "Sir, hearken to me and let be, or else thou wilt entangle thyself in those mischiefs also." [Sidenote: _Sir Gawaine seeketh the Lady Vivien._] So spake Sir Sagramore very wisely, but Sir Gawaine would not listen to what he said; otherwise he declared and affirmed that he would go and find the Lady Vivien and have speech with her so that he would either persuade or else compel her to better conduct. So ere Sir Percival and Sir Sagramore had departed from that farmhouse, Sir Gawaine had diligently inquired the way in which he should go so as to be likely to find the Lady Vivien, and after that he bade Sir Sagramore and Sir Percival farewell, and he bade Sir Bors farewell, and so took horse and rode away in quest of the Lady Vivien. Now after Sir Gawaine had thus parted company with those other knights, he travelled all alone upon his way for the entire day, and that night he lodged in the woodland, near to where there was a fountain of clear pure water. And as he had no other shelter he wrapped himself in his cloak and laid his head upon his helmet and so fell asleep with great comfort and peace of mind. So also he awoke very cheerfully in the dawning of the day, and laying aside his armor he went to the fountain of water near to which he had reposed and bathed himself therein and so was refreshed. [Sidenote: _Sir Gawaine findeth the Lady Vivien._] Now after that and while Sir Gawaine was still unarmed, he was suddenly aware that several people were coming thitherward toward him through the yellow woodlands, and when they had come pretty near he beheld that those who approached were a company in attendance upon a lady. And he beheld that the company and the lady who rode in the midst of that company were clad all in flame-colored satin, so that the entire woodland was illuminated, as it were, by a great shining, flaming fire. And when that lady had come pretty nigh to Sir Gawaine, he knew who she was and wist that she was the Lady Vivien. Then Sir Gawaine went to meet that lady, and he laid his hand upon the bridle rein of her palfrey and he said: "Lady, if I mistake not, thou art the Lady Vivien." Quoth she: "Yea, I am that one, and thou, I perceive, art Sir Gawaine." To the which Sir Gawaine said, "Yea, I am he," and he said, "I have come hither with the especial purpose of having speech with thee." Upon this the Lady Vivien looked at Sir Gawaine very strangely, and by and by she said, "What is it thou wouldst have of me, Messire?" [Sidenote: _Sir Gawaine rebuketh the Lady Vivien._] Sir Gawaine said: "Lady, I am informed that thou hast done much mischief to a certain valley called the Valley of the Fountain, and I know that through this mischief thou hast brought mischance upon many good worthy knights. Now what I would have to say to thee is this: I would beseech thee to remove all of those mischievous enchantments from that Valley of the Fountain and so set that valley free from the ills that happen to it. This I beseech thee of thy gentleness to do, but if thou wilt not do it because I so beseech thee, then I will compel thee here and now to remove those enchantments." Then the Lady Vivien's brows drew together into a frown and her cheeks grew very red and her eyes shown like sparks of fire, and she said: "Hah, Messire, methinks thou art very saucy in thy speech. What is it to thee what mischiefs I may do to others? Lo! I do no mischiefs to thee, wherefore this is none of thy affairs. Now I bid thee straightway to take thy hand from off my bridle rein or else a greater ill than thou hast any thought of will speedily befall thee." Sir Gawaine said: "I will not take away my hand until thou hast promised me to do that thing which I have demanded of thee and to remove the enchantments of the Valley of the Fountain." The Lady Vivien said, "Take away thy hand, Messire!" Sir Gawaine said, "I will not." Then the Lady Vivien cried out: "Thou fool! Then thank thyself for what thou shalt suffer." Now the Lady Vivien had in her hand a long white wand and as she spake she lifted this wand and smote Sir Gawaine with it upon the shoulder. And as she smote him she cried out: "Quit the shape that thou now hast and take instead the shape of a misshapen dwarf." [Sidenote: _The Lady Vivien bewitcheth Sir Gawaine._] Then as she cried in that shrill and piercing voice, there befell a very wonderful thing, for, upon the instant, it happened in that wise as she commanded. For Sir Gawaine immediately began to shrink and to shrivel so that in the space one might count five he had ceased to be what he was and became instead a misshapen and diminutive dwarf. Then all they of the Lady Vivien's party laughed and laughed until all the woods echoed with their mirth. And thus laughing, they took their departure, and rode away from that place, leaving Sir Gawaine standing there all bewildered and astonished with terror at what had befallen him. So he stood for a little, like one in a maze, but after those others had entirely gone, he suddenly awoke, as it were, to his woful case. Then straightway he began running hither and thither, as though he had gone mad. And he ran in this direction and in that direction, seeking for the Lady Vivien, but nowhere could he discover any sign of her or her court. And ever as he ran he cried aloud in a voice of exceeding agony, "Have mercy! Have mercy!" But, as aforesaid, the lady and those who were with her had disappeared, and only the lonely woodlands surrounded him. Yet it appeared to him that he heard the sound of mocking laughter echoing through the forest, though whether that was really so or whether he was cheated by his fancy he could not certainly tell. So after a while Sir Gawaine flung himself down upon the earth and wept with despair. Then after another while he bestirred himself and prayed God for help and wiped his eyes. And after that he gathered together the pieces of his armor which he could not now wear upon his shrunken and misshapen body, and he carried these pieces of armor away and hid them in a cave which he had observed not far distant from that place. Then he mounted upon his horse and rode away, not knowing whither to turn or what to do in the direful trouble that had fallen upon him. Now after he had ridden for a while in that way, perched high upon his horse like some diminutive and withered ape, being still in the woodlands, he was aware of the sound of voices and of horses' hoofs coming toward him and then he was further aware of a company approaching from a distance through the half-naked forest. [Sidenote: _The Forest company behold Sir Gawaine as a dwarf._] Then Sir Gawaine was filled with a great panic of shame, and he thought of naught but how he might hide himself and his misshapen body from those who were coming. But ere he was able to hide himself, those others had catched sight of him. And they saw how singularly small and deformed and withered was his shape, wherefore they shouted aloud and gave chase to him as though he had been a wild creature. So they pursued him for a long distance and at last they came up with him and surrounded him. Then, finding that he could not escape, Sir Gawaine leaped down from his horse's back, and flinging himself upon the ground he covered his face with his hands and sought to bury it, as it were, under the earth, so that they who had caught him might not behold the shame of his misshapen countenance. But they dragged him to his feet and they pulled his hands away from his face and beheld it what it was. Then, when they beheld that his face was like the face of an ape they all shouted aloud again and again with laughter. Then he who was the chief of that party said: "Who are you and how is it that a misshapen dwarf such as you should be riding about here in the forest upon a noble and knightly war-horse?" To the which Sir Gawaine said: "Sir, a great misfortune hath befallen me, and I am not he whom I was a little while ago." So said Sir Gawaine, and when they heard his speech they thought he jested wherefore they laughed again and again with a great uproar of laughter. [Sidenote: _They mock at Sir Gawaine._] Then he who had spoken to Sir Gawaine turned to those others and said, "This poor creature is mad," but Sir Gawaine cried out: "Nay, I am not mad, but very miserable and unfortunate. For this morning I was a noble knight of royal lineage and now I am what you behold me." At this speech they who heard laughed more than ever, for they thought no otherwise than that this poor dwarf was mad and was making sport for them. Then he who had before spoken to Sir Gawaine spake still again, saying: "Sirrah, you are to know that the pet dwarf of the lady of the castle at which we dwell hath died only a few days ago. Now I will that you shall go with us to her, and that you shall serve her instead of the other creature who is dead. For certes you are the smallest and the most misshapen elf that ever I beheld in all of my life. What think you of this? If you go with us you shall have meat and drink in plenty and you shall have good clothes and lodging and fifty bright silver pennies a year for your hire." Then Sir Gawaine cried out in a voice of great anguish: "I will not go with you for such a service. For if you did but know who I am and what it is that hath befallen me, you would know that such as I are not they to take such service upon them, nor am I one to make sport for a lady by exhibiting the miserable condition into which I have fallen from an one time high estate." Thus said Sir Gawaine in a great agony of spirit, but still those that heard him did but laugh. Then seeing that he was of no mind to go with them, they bound his hands and his feet together so that he could not escape and so they constrained him to go whether he would or not. After that they departed out of that forest and away therefrom, and by and by Sir Gawaine beheld that they were approaching a castle and that the castle was a very noble, stately, and lordly dwelling place. [Sidenote: _They bring Sir Gawaine to the castle of a lady._] So they came to the castle and entered into the courtyard thereof, and after they had so arrived, he who was the leader of that party took Sir Gawaine up to a certain place where the lady of the castle was, and he said to her: "Lady, behold this dwarf; we have caught him in the woodlands and have brought him to you to serve you instead of that creature who died a while since. Saw ye ever such a wonderful dwarf as this?" Then the lady of the castle looked upon Sir Gawaine and beheld how exceedingly diminutive he was and how exceedingly misshapen. And she was astonished at his appearance, and she said to him, "Who art thou, and whence comest thou?" She spake with such kindness and gentleness that Sir Gawaine was emboldened to tell her of his misfortune wherefore he cried out: "Lady, if I would tell you you would not believe me, for I am not what I appear to be, but am something altogether different. This morning I was a noble knight, but I have been enchanted and now I am what you behold me." [Sidenote: _The lady pitieth Sir Gawaine._] At this the lady of the castle also thought that Sir Gawaine was certainly mad, wherefore she said: "This poor creature is not in his senses. Take him hence and treat him very kindly. Let him be fed and clothed and then chain him with a very light chain of silver so that he may not escape until he hath become used to this place, and yet so that he may not be burdened with these chains." So spoke the lady very kindly and gently, but Sir Gawaine was filled full of an utter despair at her words. So he was taken away and fed like to some pet creature and he was chained as the lady had said and ever he wept for pure despair. Now the lady of that castle was very tender of heart, wherefore she pitied Sir Gawaine because he appeared to be so misshapen and deformed. So ever she spoke kindly and gently to him and she would not suffer that any of the people of the castle should torment him. Thus it was that though at first Sir Gawaine was minded to escape from the castle, yet afterward he would not escape, for he said to himself: "Why should I leave this place; and where can I, poor wretch that I be, find a better and kinder shelter in my misfortunes than I have at this castle?" So he became gentle and tractable and would not have quitted that place even if he could have done so. [Sidenote: _How Sir Gawaine dwelleth at the castle._] And Sir Gawaine abode in that castle for more than a year, and ever the lady treated him with kindness and with gentle tenderness and ever he treated her with such courtliness as a knight royal might bestow upon a lady. So great was his courtliness of demeanor that the lady marvelled much thereat, yea, insomuch that she said to herself: "Certes this poor creature must have been reared in a noble court or else he must have dwelt a long time in such a place, for to have learned such courtliness of manner as he showeth." And sometimes it befell that the lady would question Sir Gawaine as to what had happened to him in times gone by; but Sir Gawaine had taught himself wisdom upon that point and now he would tell her nothing; for he was aware that whenever he had been moved to speak about himself and what had befallen him, then they who heard him would think him to be mad, and would laugh at him and mock him, wherefore he would no longer give any one the chance to declare that he was mad. So ever he held his peace and ever the lady of the castle wondered how it was that he had come to have so much of gentleness and dignity of demeanor. So that winter and another winter passed, and during all that time Sir Gawaine abode at the castle of the gentle lady as aforesaid. Then came the springtime and the summertime again, and the season when all the trees were green and bosky and when the days were warm and balmy once more. Now it befell about the middle of that summer that the lord and the lady of the castle whereof Sir Gawaine was now the dwarf went forth ahawking, and a very gay court of the castle folk went with them. With these the lady took her dwarf, for it was now come that she could hardly ever bear to be parted from him. And it befell that when the heat of the day had come the lord of the castle gave orders that a pavilion should be pitched in a pleasant shady place, and there he and his lady took their midday meal and rested until the sun should shed a less fervid heat. [Sidenote: _Sir Gawaine beholdeth the golden bird._] That time Sir Gawaine was wandering very sadly about the skirts of the forest, making great moan of that enchantment that lay upon him. So as he wandered he was suddenly aware of a bird with plumage of gold that sat upon the ground at a little distance, regarding him with eyes that were very bright and shining. Now when Sir Gawaine beheld that bird, his heart leaped very strangely in his breast, for he bethought him that this was that same golden bird of the Lady Nymue of the Lake which she had sent to him one time before to guide him to the valley where Sir Pellias was abiding. For it hath been aforetime told in that Book of King Arthur (which hath been written before this book) how that same golden bird had conducted Sir Gawaine and Sir Ewaine and Sir Marhaus of Ireland through the forest to where Sir Pellias was at that time in great trouble and anxiety of soul. So Sir Gawaine, beholding that bird there in the forest, wist that it was the Lady Nymue's bird, and he thought that if he should follow it now, maybe it might bring him to the Lady of the Lake, and that she would release him from his deformity. So Sir Gawaine went back to that pavilion whence he had come, and he took a palfrey that he found there, and no one stayed him, for the dwarf was now permitted to go whithersoever he pleased. So Sir Gawaine mounted the palfrey and departed without saying a single word to any one, and no one stayed him in his going. So Sir Gawaine came again to where he had seen the bird and the bird was still sitting upon the ground where he had first beheld it. [Sidenote: _Sir Gawaine followeth the golden bird into the forest._] Then as Sir Gawaine approached the bird it took wing and flew with shrill chirping to a little distance and then settled again upon the ground. And when Sir Gawaine approached it again, again it took wing and flew chirping to a little distance. So ever it flew and so ever Sir Gawaine followed, and thus it conducted him into the forest and away from that place where was the pavilion of the lord and lady. Thus ever the golden bird led the way and ever Sir Gawaine followed, until, at last, the bird brought Sir Gawaine out of the forest and to a strange place which he had never beheld before. For beyond the edge of the woodland he beheld a dreary valley, naked and bare, and covered all over with a great multitude of stones and rocks. And in that valley could be seen no sign of vegetation or of herbage of any sort, but only those naked and desolate rocks and stones all shining bright in the heat of the sun as though they were ribs of stones shining in a furnace of fire. [Sidenote: _Sir Gawaine beholdeth the cloudy mist._] And Sir Gawaine beheld that in the centre of the valley there was a cloud of thick mist in the shape of a solid pillar of smoke. And he beheld that that cloud of mist moved not in any way but remained fixed in its place as it were a pillar of stone. Then Sir Gawaine looked for that golden bird and he beheld it perched upon the high branches of a tree near by. And he saw that the bird had folded its wings as though to rest, wherefore he knew that there must be somewhat at this place for him to undertake, and that the bird must have conducted him to this place for that purpose. So Sir Gawaine, in that enchanted appearance of a dwarf, went down into the valley and drew near to that pillar of mist. And he came close to the cloud and he stood and looked upon it. Then as he so stood, a voice issued of a sudden out of the midst of the cloud saying, "Gawaine! Gawaine! is it thou who art there?" And Sir Gawaine was astonished beyond all measure that a voice should thus address him from out of the midst of the pillar of cloud, for he had long since ceased to think that any creature, mortal or otherwise, would know him in the guise into which the Lady Vivien had bewitched him. But though he was so astonished, yet he answered in the voice of the dwarf, saying, "Who art thou who callest upon the name of Gawaine, the son of Lot of Orkney?" [Sidenote: _Sir Gawaine heareth the voice of Merlin._] Then the voice replied: "I who speak to thee am Merlin. Here for twelve years have I been lying asleep, enclosed in a coffer of stone, yet once in every six years I awake for one hour of life and at the end of that hour I relapse into sleep again. This is my time for waking, and so hast thou been brought hither that thou mightest hear that prophecy that I have to utter. "And this is my prophecy: [Sidenote: _Of the prophecy of Merlin._] "The Sacred Grail that has been lost to the earth for so long shall be brought back to that earth again. Yea, the time draweth nigh and now is when he who shall achieve the Quest of that Holy Chalice is about to be born into the world." And the voice from out of the cloud continued, saying: "When that babe is born into the world he shall be taken away by that knight who is most worthy to handle him, and after he hath been taken away he shall be hidden by that knight from the eyes of man until his time hath come. "You, who are a sinful man, may not have that babe in your keeping, but there is one who hath but little of sin and he may do so. So do you according to the ordination of this command: "Follow that golden-winged thing that hath conducted you hither and it will lead you to where you may become purified of your enchantment. After that you shall follow that golden bird still farther and it will lead you to where you shall find Sir Bors de Ganis. He it is who is most worthy in all of the world at this present for to handle that babe, and so he shall care for him and shall hide him in a place of safety until his time shall be come. "Bid Sir Bors to follow that golden bird along with you and it shall bring you both to where you shall find that wonderful infant aforesaid. "Thereafter, when that babe shall have been taken away by Sir Bors, go you forth and proclaim to all men that when eighteen years have passed, then shall the Knights of the Round Table depart in quest of the Holy Grail. And do you proclaim this prophecy: that when that Grail hath been recovered, then soon after shall come the end of the Round Table, and so shall end the days of all this chivalry that shall forever be remembered to all the world. "And this is the prophecy of the Grail which you have been brought hither to hear, so go you forth and declare it abroad so that all good worthy knights may know that this prophecy hath been uttered." So spake that voice, and then it ceased and Sir Gawaine listened for a while, but still it spake no more. Then Sir Gawaine cried out aloud: "Merlin, what may I do to free thee from the enchantment that lieth upon thee?" And he waited for a reply, but no reply was vouchsafed him. And he cried out again, "Merlin, what may I do to free thee from where thou liest?" but still no answer was given to him. [Sidenote: _Sir Gawaine striveth to enter the cloud of mist._] Then Sir Gawaine went forward with intent to enter that cloud of mist, but lo! it was like to a wall of adamant and he could nowhere enter into it. And he strove at several places but still there was no place where he might penetrate it. For the enchantment that lay upon that pillar of mist was so potent that it was not possible for any one to enter it saving only the enchantress Vivien, who herself had created that cloud by her powerful enchantments. And ever Sir Gawaine called repeatedly upon the name of Merlin, but at no time did Merlin answer him. Then by and by Sir Gawaine was aware that the golden bird that had brought him to that place was flitting hither and thither near by, as though it were very restless to depart. So Sir Gawaine was aware that it behooved him presently to quit that place whither he might never return again. So once more he called aloud upon Merlin, saying, "Farewell, Merlin," and it appeared to him that he heard a voice, very faint and distant as though sounding from a dream that is fading, and he seemed that voice said, "Farewell." Thereafter Sir Gawaine mounted his palfrey and turned him about and departed from that place, still in the guise of a dwarf, and so that prophecy of Merlin was completed. * * * * * [Sidenote: _Of the sleep of Merlin._] And never more after that time was the voice of Merlin heard again, for no one saving Sir Gawaine ever found that valley with its pillar of cloud. Yet it may be that Merlin did but sleep, for it was prophesied of him that at the ending of the age he should come forth again into the world, but whether he should come forth in the spirit or in the flesh, no one knew. Yea, there be many who opine that Merlin hath awakened again and is alive this very day, for such miracles are performed in these times that it is hardly possible to suppose otherwise than that the spirit of Merlin is in the world once more. Wherefore it is that many suppose that he is now again alive, though haply in the spirit. * * * * * Now followeth the story of the birth of Galahad, who was the most famous knight who ever lived in the world and who achieved the Quest of the Grail as was foretold by Merlin in that prophecy herein recounted. So I pray you to read that story as it shall presently be told. [Illustration] [Illustration: Sir Bors de Ganis, the good:] [Illustration] Chapter Second _How Sir Bors and Sir Gawaine came to a priory in the forest, and how Galahad was born at that place._ [Sidenote: _Sir Gawaine cometh to the magic lake._] So Sir Gawaine followed the golden bird away from that valley of enchantment where Merlin lay bound in sleep in the stone coffer (and concerning that stone coffer and the enchantment of Merlin it was aforetold of at length in the Book of King Arthur). And ever he followed that winged golden creature both long and far, and ever the bird ceased not to flit before him, but led him onward in a certain direction. So thus it befell that toward the evening of that same day Sir Gawaine, still following the golden bird, came out of the forest again and to a wonderful place, lit by a strange golden light that was not like the light of the moon nor like the light of the sun nor like any other kind of light that was to be found in the world of mortal man. For though it was toward evening when Sir Gawaine came to that place, yet everywhere there was that golden radiance both upon earth and in the sky. And in this light Sir Gawaine beheld a wide and circular lake, very still and shining, and without any ripple upon the face thereof, so that it was rather like to a lake of crystal than to a lake of water. And all about the margin of the lake there bloomed an incredible number of tall flowers, both lily flowers and asphodels. Then, as Sir Gawaine drave his horse forward through those flowers, he became aware that this was that magic lake where dwelt the Lady Nymue of the Lake and where dwelt Sir Pellias who was her lord and the knight-champion of the lake--for he had beheld that lake aforetime by moonlight when he had followed Sir Pellias to that place. Now as Sir Gawaine thus advanced amidst the flowers, he was aware that a little distance away there stood a pavilion of green satin adorned with golden figures of cherubim and so he went forward toward that pavilion, for ever the golden bird led him thitherward. So as he came toward that pavilion there issued forth therefrom a lady who came to meet him. And that lady was clad all in a garment of shining green; and she wore about her neck many bright and glistering ornaments of gold inset with stones about her wrists and arms. And her hair was perfectly black and her face was white like to ivory for whiteness and her eyes were black and shining like to two jewels set in ivory. And Sir Gawaine immediately knew that lady who she was and that she was the Lady of the Lake herself; for so she appeared to King Arthur and so she appeared to several others, as you may read of if it should please you in those volumes of this history that were written before this volume. So the Lady of the Lake came forward to meet Sir Gawaine, and she beheld Sir Gawaine how that he was bewitched into the guise of a dwarf as aforetold. And the lady said: "Certes, Messire, this is a great misfortune that hath befallen thee. Now I prithee come with me until I make an end of thy enchantment." So the Lady of the Lake took the horse of Sir Gawaine by the bridle, and she led the horse through those flowers for some little distance, and so brought him to the margin of the waters of the lake. And when they had come there the Lady of the Lake stooped and dipped up some of the water of the lake into her hand; and she flung the water upon Sir Gawaine, crying out in a high and piercing voice: "Cease from thy present shape, and assume that shape that is thine own!" [Sidenote: _The Lady of the Lake healeth Sir Gawaine of his enchantment._] Therewith, upon an instant, the enchantment that had rested upon Sir Gawaine was released from him and he became himself again, resuming his own knightly appearance instead of that semblance of a misshapen dwarf into which the enchantment of the Lady Vivien had cast him. Then Sir Gawaine leaped down from off the back of that poor palfrey upon which he had been riding, and he kneeled down before that fair and gentle Lady of the Lake, and he set the palms of his hands together and gave her words of pure gratitude beyond stint that she had removed that enchantment from him. And ever the Lady of the Lake looked down upon Sir Gawaine and smiled very kindly upon him. And she said: "Messire, abide this night in yonder pavilion, for it hath been prepared for thee to rest in. To-morrow, after thou hast thus rested and refreshed thyself, then thou shalt go forward upon thy way again." [Sidenote: _The Lady of the Lake departeth._] Then the Lady of the Lake gave her hand to Sir Gawaine and he took it and kissed it. And after that she turned and approached the lake, and at that time the sky was all golden both with the glory of the fading day and with that other glory, the strange magic light that embalmed that wonderful lake as aforetold. And Sir Gawaine, still kneeling upon the strand of the lake, beheld that the Lady of the Lake reached the water, and stretched forth her foot and set it upon the surface of the lake as though the water had been a sheet of clear glass. And as soon as that lady thus touched the water of the lake, she immediately disappeared from sight, and thenceforth was seen no more at that time. After that Sir Gawaine arose from where he kneeled, and he went toward the pavilion and as he approached it there came forth two esquires to meet him. And those esquires were people of the lake, for they also were clad in garments of green like the garments of the Lady of the Lake, and those garments also shone with a singular lustre as did her garments. And their hair was perfectly black and each wore a fillet of gold about his head. [Sidenote: _Sir Gawaine is served by the people of the lake._] These came to Sir Gawaine and conducted him to the pavilion and into the pavilion. In the pavilion was a couch and Sir Gawaine seated himself thereon, and after he had done so the two esquires brought a table of gold and placed it before him. Then they spread a napkin of white linen upon the table and anon they set before Sir Gawaine a very bounteous feast of various meats, and of manchets of white bread and of divers wines both red and white. So Sir Gawaine ate and drank and refreshed himself, and meantime the two esquires of the lake served him in all ways. After that Sir Gawaine laid him down to sleep, and he slept very peacefully and gently and without any anxiety whatsoever. And when the morning had come he bestirred himself and presently there came to him those two esquires and aided him to arise. And they brought new rich garments for him to wear, and they brought him food wherewith to refresh himself, and after that they brought him a suit of splendid armor, polished like a mirror and inlaid with various singular devices in gold. Then those esquires of the lake armed Sir Gawaine and brought him forth from the pavilion, and Sir Gawaine beheld a noble and lordly war-horse caparisoned in all ways, and in all ways fitting for a Knight Royal to ride upon. And the esquire said to him: "Sir, this is your horse, and it hath been purveyed expressly for you." So Sir Gawaine viewed the war-horse and saw how noble it was, and he mounted upon it with great joy of possession and he gave thanks without measure to those two esquires who had served him. After that he rode away from that place with such lightness of heart and with such peace and happiness of spirit as doth not often come to any man in this life. [Sidenote: _Sir Gawaine followeth the golden bird once more._] Then presently there came that golden bird once more and flitted before Sir Gawaine as it had aforetime done, chirping very shrilly the while. And Sir Gawaine followed the bird once more as aforetime, and it led him as it had before done ever in a certain direction. So it brought him onward in that wise until about the middle of the day, what time he came forth into an open place of the forest and there beheld before him the forest hermitage several times mentioned in these histories. And Sir Gawaine saw that a noble black war-horse stood beside that forest sanctuary, and he saw that a great spear leaned against a tree beside the hermitage and that a shield hung from the spear. And when Sir Gawaine had come close enough he knew by the device upon that shield that it was Sir Bors de Ganis who was there at the hermitage. Now as Sir Gawaine approached the cell of the hermit of the forest, the horse of Sir Bors neighed aloud, and the horse of Sir Gawaine neighed in answer. Therewith, as though that neighing had been a summons, the door of the hut opened and the hermit appeared in the doorway, shading his eyes with his hand from the glare of the sun. So when he perceived that it was Sir Gawaine who approached that lonely place he cried out aloud: "Welcome Sir Gawaine! Welcome to this place! Sir Bors is here and awaiting thee. For it hath been told him in a dream that thou wouldst meet him here at this time to-day, and so he is here awaiting thy coming in fulfillment of that dream." [Sidenote: _Sir Gawaine meets Sir Bors again._] So Sir Gawaine dismounted from his horse and he entered the cell of the hermit and there he beheld Sir Bors kneeling at prayer at a little altar, and Sir Gawaine stood and waited until Sir Bors had finished his orisons. And when Sir Bors had crossed himself and had arisen to his feet, he turned with great joy and took Sir Gawaine into his arms; and either embraced the other and either kissed the other upon the cheek. After that they sat down and the hermit brought them food and they ate of the simple fare of the hermit's cell, and meantime Sir Gawaine told Sir Bors all that had happened to him since they had parted company. To all that was said Sir Bors listened with deep attention, for he was much, astonished at that which had befallen Sir Gawaine and at the enchantment he had suffered at the hands of the Lady Vivien. And indeed it was, of a surety, a very wonderful adventure, such as any one might well have marvelled to hear tell of. But when Sir Gawaine told Sir Bors concerning the prophecy of Merlin, then Sir Bors became all enwrapped as with a certain exaltation of spirit. Wherefore, when Sir Gawaine had finished that part of his story, Sir Bors cried out: "How wonderful is this miracle that thou tellest me! Know ye that certain things of this sort have been presented before me of late in several dreams, but lo! now they have been manifested to thee in reality." And he said: "Let us straightway arise and go forth hence, for methinks that even now we have tarried too long in performing the bidding of this prophecy." Accordingly they arose and they gave thanks in full measure to that good old hermit and they bade him farewell. Thereafter they went forth and mounted their horses and took shield and spear in hand and departed thence, and after they had so departed, straightway the golden bird appeared once more and flew chirping before them. Then Sir Bors, beholding the bird, said: "Lo! is not yonder the bird that has been sent to lead us upon our way?" And Sir Gawaine said, "Yea; that is it." And then Sir Bors said, "Let us follow it apace." [Sidenote: _Sir Gawaine and Sir Bors follow the golden bird._] [Sidenote: _They come to the priory of the valley._] So they followed the bird, and ever it flew before them, leading them upon the way. Thus they travelled for a long while, until at last, toward the sloping of the afternoon, they became aware that the forest wherein they rode was becoming thinner. And anon they were aware of the ringing of a bell somewhere not a great distance away. And the bird led them toward where that bell was ringing, and so in a little pass they came forth out of the forest and into a very fertile valley. And there was a smooth river, not very broad, that flowed down through the valley, and beside the river there was a fair priory, not large in size but very comely, with white walls and red roofs and many shining windows, very bright in the sun. And all about the priory were fair fields and orchards and gardens, all illuminated very bright and warm, in the full light of the slanting sun that was now turning all the world to gold by its bright, yellow and very glorious shining. So when Sir Bors and Sir Gawaine entered this pleasant plain, the golden bird that had led them thitherward suddenly chirped very loud and shrill, and straightway flew high aloft into the air and immediately disappeared over the tree tops. Thereupon those two champions knew with certainty that this must be the place whither they were to come, and they wist that here they should doubtless find that young child of which the prophecy of Merlin had spoken. So they went forward toward the priory with a certain awe, as not knowing what next of mystery was to happen to them. [Sidenote: _They meet Sir Lavaine._] So as they approached that holy place, the gateway of the priory was suddenly opened, and there came forth a young knight of a very noble and haughty appearance, and both Sir Gawaine and Sir Bors knew that one, that he was Sir Lavaine, the brother of the Lady Elaine, and whilom the companion in arms of Sir Launcelot of the Lake. And as they drew more near they beheld that the face of Sir Lavaine was very sad and that he smiled not at all as he gave them greeting, saying: "Ye are welcome, Messires, and ye come none too soon, for we have been waiting for you since the morning." And he said, "Dismount and come with me." So Sir Bors and Sir Gawaine dismounted from their horses and straightway there came several attendants and took the steeds and led them away to stable. Then Sir Lavaine turned, and he beckoned with his hand, and Sir Bors and Sir Gawaine followed after as he had commanded them to do. So Sir Lavaine brought them through several passageways and from place to place until at last he brought them to a small cell of the priory, very cold and bare and white as snow. [Sidenote: _They behold the Lady Elaine._] In the centre of the cell there lay a couch and upon the couch there lay a figure as still as death and Sir Bors and Sir Gawaine beheld that it was the Lady Elaine who lay there. Her hair lay spread out all over the pillow of the couch, shining like to pure gold, and in the midst of the hair her face shone very white, like to pure clear wax for whiteness. Her eyes looked, as it were, from out of a faint shadow and gazed ever straight before her and she never stirred nor moved her gaze as Sir Bors and Sir Gawaine and Sir Lavaine entered her cell; for it was as though her looks were fixed upon something very strange that she beheld a great distance away. [Sidenote: _They behold the young child._] Then Sir Lavaine, speaking in a whisper, said, "Come near and behold," and thereupon Sir Bors and Sir Gawaine came close to the couch upon which the Lady Elaine lay. So when they had come nigh, Sir Lavaine lifted the coverlet very softly and they beheld that a new-born babe lay beside the lady upon that couch. Then they wist that that babe was the child of Sir Launcelot of the Lake and the Lady Elaine; and they wist that this was the babe of whom Merlin had spoken in his prophecy. For the child was very wonderfully beautiful, and it was as though a certain clear radiance of light shone forth from its face; and it lay so perfectly still that it was like as though it did not live. So Sir Bors and Sir Gawaine knew because of these and several other things that this must indeed be that very child whom they had come to find. Yea, it was as though a voice from a distance said: "Behold! this is that one who shall achieve the Quest of the Holy Grail according to the prophecy of Merlin." So Sir Bors and Sir Gawaine kneeled down beside the bed and set their palms together, and Sir Lavaine stood near them, and for a while all was very silent in that place. Then suddenly the Lady Elaine spake in that silence in a voice very faint and remote but very clear, and as she spake she turned not her eyes toward any one of them, but gazed ever straight before her. And she said, "Sir Bors, art thou there?" and Sir Bors said, "Yea, Lady." [Sidenote: _The Lady Elaine bespeaketh Sir Bors._] Then she said: "Behold this child and look you upon him, for this is he who shall achieve the Quest of the Holy Grail and shall bring it back to the earth again. So he shall become the greatest knight that ever the world beheld. But though he shall be the greatest champion at arms that ever lived, yet also he shall be gentle and meek and without sin, innocent like to a little child. And because he is to be so high in chivalry and so pure of life, therefore his name shall be called Galahad." And she said again, "Sir Bors, art thou there?" and he said, "Yea, Lady." She said: "My time draweth near, for even now I behold the shining gates of Paradise, though it yet is that I behold them faintly, as through a vapor of mist. Yet anon that mist shall pass, and I shall behold those gates very near by and shining in glory; for soon I shall quit this troubled world for that bright and beautiful country. Nevertheless, I shall leave behind me this child who lieth beside me, and his life shall enlighten that world from which I am withdrawing." Then she said for the third time, "Sir Bors, art thou there?" And Sir Bors wept, and he said, "Yea, Lady, I am here." Then the Lady Elaine said: "Take thou this child and bear him hence unto a certain place that thou shalt find. Thou shalt know that place because there shall go before thee a bird with golden plumage, and it shall show thee where thou art to take this child. Leave the child at that place whither the bird shall lead thee, and tell no man where that place is. For this child must hide in secret until the time shall come when he shall be manifested to the world." And she said, "Hearest thou me, Sir Bors?" And Sir Bors, still weeping, said, "Yea, Lady." Then she said: "Go and tarry not in thy going, for the ending is very near. Wait not until that end cometh, but go immediately and do as I have asked thee to do." [Sidenote: _Sir Bors departeth with the young child._] Then, still weeping, Sir Bors arose from where he kneeled, and he took the young child and he wrapped it in his cloak and he went out thence and was gone, taking the babe with him. And this while Sir Gawaine and Sir Lavaine also wept, and ever Sir Gawaine still kneeled and Sir Lavaine stood beside him. Such is the story of the nativity of Sir Galahad, who afterward achieved the Quest of the Holy Grail as was prophesied in the prophecy of Merlin. * * * * * [Sidenote: _The passing of Elaine the Fair._] That same day the Lady Elaine died about the middle watch of the night, departing from this world in great peace and good content, and Sir Gawaine and Sir Lavaine were with her at the time of her passing. Then Sir Gawaine said, weeping, "Let me go and fetch Sir Launcelot of the Lake hither." But Sir Lavaine, speaking very sternly, said: "Let be and bring him not, for he is not worthy to be brought hither. But as for you, do you depart, for I have yet that to do I would do alone. So go you immediately and return unto the court of the King. But when you have come to the King's court, I charge you to say nothing unto any one concerning the birth of the child Galahad, nor of how this sweet, fair lady is no more, for I have a certain thing to do that I would fain perform before those things are declared. So when you have come to court say nothing of these matters of which I have spoken." To the which Sir Gawaine said, "Messire, it shall be as you desire in all things." [Sidenote: _Sir Gawaine departeth from the priory._] So immediately Sir Gawaine went forth and called for his horse, and they brought his horse to him and he mounted and departed from that place, leaving Sir Lavaine alone with his dead. And it remaineth here to be said that Sir Gawaine went directly from that place to the court of the King, and when he had come there he told only of those adventures that had happened to him when the Lady Vivien had bewitched him. But of those other matters: to wit, of the nativity of Galahad and of the death of the Lady Elaine, he said naught to any one but concealed those things for the time being in his own heart. Yet ever he pondered those things and meditated upon them in the silent watches of the night. For the thought of those things filled him at once with joy and with a sort of terror; with hope and with a manner of despair; wherefore his spirit was troubled because of those things which he had beheld, for he knew not what their portent might be. [Illustration: The Barge of the Dead] [Illustration] Conclusion Now after Sir Bors had departed and after Sir Gawaine had departed as aforesaid--the one at the one time and the other at the other--there came several of those of the priory to that cell of death. And they lifted up that still and peaceful figure and bare it away to the chapel of the priory. And they laid it upon a bier in the chapel and lit candles around about the bier, and they chanted all night in the chapel a requiem to the repose of the gentle soul that was gone. And when the morning light had dawned Sir Lavaine came to that chapel when the candles were still alight in the dull gray of the early day and he kneeled for a long time in prayer beside the bier. Thereafter and when he had ended his prayers, he arose and departed from that place, and he went to the people of the priory, and he said to them, "Whither is it that this river floweth?" They say: "It floweth down from this place past the King's town of Camelot, and thence it floweth onward until it floweth into the sea to the southward." [Sidenote: _Sir Lavaine findeth a boat._] Sir Lavaine said, "Is there ere a boat at this place that may float upon the river?" And they say to him: "Yea, Messire, there is a barge and there is a man that saileth that barge and that man is deaf and dumb from birth." At that Sir Lavaine said: "I pray you to bring me to where that deaf and dumb bargeman is." So one of those to whom he spake took him to a certain place where was that barge, and the deaf and dumb bargeman. And the bargeman was a very old man with a long beard as white as snow and he gazed very steadfastly upon Sir Lavaine as he drew near thitherward. So Sir Lavaine came close to the bargeman and he made signs to him, asking him if he would ferry him down the stream to the King's town, and the dumb bargeman understood what Sir Lavaine would have and he made signs in answer that it should be as Sir Lavaine desired. [Sidenote: _Sir Lavaine with the dead lady departeth in the barge._] After that Sir Lavaine gave command that the barge should be hung and draped all with white samite embroidered with silver and he gave command that a couch of white samite should be established upon the barge, and the covering of the couch was also embroidered with silver. So when all was in readiness there came forth a procession from the chapel, bearing that still and silent figure, and they brought it to the barge and laid it upon the couch of white samite that had been prepared for it. Thereafter Sir Lavaine entered the barge and took his station in the bow of the boat and the deaf and dumb man took his station in the stern thereof. Then the bargeman trimmed the sail and so the barge drew slowly away from that place, many standing upon the landing-stage and watching its departure. [Sidenote: _So they descend the flood._] And after that the barge floated gently down the smooth stream of the river, and ever the deaf and dumb man guided it upon its way. And anon they floated down betwixt banks of rushes, with here and there a row of pollard willow-trees and thickets of alder. And all about them was the pleasant weather of the summertime, with everything abloom with grace and beauty. Then anon, departing from those marshy stretches with their rushes and their willows and their alders, they drifted past some open meadow-lands, with fields and uplands all trembling in the still hot sunlight. And after that they came to a more populous country where were several small towns and villages with here and there a stone bridge crossing the river. And at those places of habitation many came and stood upon a bridge beneath which they passed, and others stood upon the smooth and grassy banks of the stream and gazed in awe at that wonderful barge as it drifted by adown the flood. And they who thus gazed would whisper and marvel at what they beheld and would cross themselves for awe and terror. So ever they floated onward until at last they came to within sight of the town of Camelot. After that, in a little they came to the town and as they passed by the town walls, lo! a great multitude of people came and stood upon the walls and gazed down upon that white bedraped barge and those who were within. And all the people whispered to one another in awe, saying: "What is this and what doth it portend? Is this real or is it a vision that we behold?" [Sidenote: _So they come to Camelot._] But ever that barge drifted onward past the walls and past those who stood thereon, and so, at last, it came to a landing-place of stone steps not far distant from the castle of the King. There the dumb bargeman made fast the barge to the iron rings of the landing-stage, and so that strange voyage was ended. Now at that time King Arthur and many of the lords and some of the ladies of his court sat at feast in the royal hall of the castle, and amongst those was Sir Launcelot and Queen Guinevere. So as they sat thus, there came one of a sudden running into the hall as in affright, and thereat all looked upon him and wondered wherefore he came into the hall in that way. Then King Arthur said, "What ails thee that thou comest hither to us thus?" [Sidenote: _King Arthur heareth news of the barge._] Then he who came kneeled before King Arthur, and he said: "Lord, here is a wonderful thing. For down by the river there hath come a barge to the landing-stairs of the castle, and that barge is hung all with white samite embroidered with silver. And in the barge and upon a couch of white samite there lieth a dead lady so beautiful that I do not think her like is to be found in all of the earth. And a dumb man sits in the stern of the boat, and a noble young knight sits in the bow of the boat with his face shrouded in his mantle as though for grief. And that knight sits there as silent and as motionless as the dead lady, and the dumb man sits there also, like to an image of a man rather than a man of flesh and blood. Wherefore it is that I have come hither to bring you word of this wonderful thing." Then King Arthur said: "This is indeed a most singular story that thou tellest us. Now let us all straightway go and see what this portendeth." So the King arose from where he sat, and he descended therefrom, and he went forth out of the hall, and all who were there went with him. [Sidenote: _King Arthur and his court go to where is the barge._] Now first of all there went King Arthur, and among those who were last there went Sir Launcelot of the Lake. For when he had heard of that dead lady he bethought him of the Lady Elaine and of how she was even then in tender health, wherefore he repented him with great bitterness of heart that he was not with her at that time instead of lingering at court as he did. And he said to himself: "Suppose that she should die like to this dead lady in the barge--what would I do if that should have happened unto me?" So it was that his feet lagged because of his heavy thoughts, and so it was that he was near the last who came to the riverside where was that barge as aforesaid. Now, there were many of the towns folk standing there, but upon King Arthur's coming all those made way for him, and so he came and stood upon the upper step of the landing-stairs and looked down into the boat. And he beheld that figure that was lying there and knew it that it was the Lady Elaine who lay there dead. Then the King looked for a little upon that dead figure as it were in a sort of terror, and then he said, "Where is Sir Launcelot?" [Sidenote: _Sir Launcelot beholdeth the dead._] Now when the King so spake, they who stood there made way, and Sir Launcelot came through the press and stood also at the head of the stairs and looked down into the barge. Then of a sudden--as it were in an instant of time--he beheld with his very eyes that thing which he had been thinking of anon; for there before him and beneath him lay in very truth the dead image of that dear lady of whom he had been thinking only a moment before. Then it was as though Sir Launcelot had suddenly been struck with a shaft of death, for he neither moved nor stirred. Nay, it was not to be perceived that he even so much as breathed. But ever he stood there gazing down into that boat as though he had forgotten for that while that there was anybody else in all of the world saving only himself and that dead lady. And many of those who were there looked upon the face of Sir Launcelot, and they beheld that his countenance was altogether as white as the face of that dead figure who lay in the barge beneath them. [Sidenote: _Sir Lavaine accuseth Sir Launcelot._] Then a great hush of silence fell over all and every voice was stilled, and at that hush of silence Sir Lavaine lifted the hood from his face and looked up from where he sat in the boat at the feet of the dead lady, and so beheld Sir Launcelot where he stood. Then upon the instant Sir Lavaine stood up in the barge and he cried out in a great loud harsh voice: "Hah! art thou there, thou traitor knight? Behold the work that thou hast done; for this that thou beholdest is thy handiwork. Thou hast betrayed this lady's love for the love of another, and so thou hast brought her to her death!" So said Sir Lavaine before all those who were there, but it was as though Sir Launcelot heard him not, for ever he stood as though he were a dead man and not a living man of flesh and blood. Then of a sudden he awoke, as it were, to life, and he clasped the back of his hands across his eyes, and cried out in a voice as though that voice tore his heart asunder, "Remorse! Remorse! Remorse!" saying those words three times over in that wise. Then he shut his lips tight as though to say no more, and thereupon turned and went away from that place. [Sidenote: _Sir Launcelot departeth._] And he turned neither to this side nor to that, but went straight to the castle of the King, and there ordered that his horse should be brought forth to him upon the instant. So when his horse was brought he mounted it and rode away; and he bade farewell to no one, and no one was there when he thus departed. So for a long while Sir Launcelot rode he knew not whither, but after a while he found himself in the forest not far away from the cell of the hermit of the forest. And he beheld the hermit of the forest, that he stood in an open plat of grass in front of his cell and that he was feeding the wild birds of the woodland; for the little feathered creatures were gathered in great multitudes about him, some resting upon his head and some upon his shoulders and some upon his hands. And a wild doe and a fawn of the forest browsed near by and all was full of peace and good content. But at the coming of Sir Launcelot, all those wild creatures took alarm; the birds they flew chirping away, and the doe and the fawn they fled away into the thickets of the forest. For they wist, by some instinct, that a man of sin and sorrow was coming thitherward; wherefore they were afeared and fled away in that wise. But Sir Launcelot thought nothing of this, but leaped from his horse, and ran to the hermit and flung himself down upon the ground before him and embraced him about the feet. And the hermit was greatly astonished and said, "What ails thee, Sir Launcelot?" Whereunto Sir Launcelot cried out: "Woe is me! Woe is me! I have sinned very grievously and have been grievously punished and now my heart is broken!" Then the hermit perceived that some great misfortune had befallen Sir Launcelot, wherefore he lifted Sir Launcelot to his feet and after that he brought him into his cell. And after they were in the cell together, he said: "Now tell me what ails thee, Sir Launcelot. For I believe that in telling me thou shalt find a great deal of ease." So Sir Launcelot confessed everything to the hermit--yea, everything to the very bottom of his soul, and the good, holy man hearkened to him. Then after Sir Launcelot had said all that lay upon his heart, the hermit sat for a while in silence, communing with his spirit. And after a while he said: "Messire, God telleth me that if thy sin hath been grievous, so also hath thy punishment been full sore. Wherefore meseemeth I speak what God would have me say when I tell thee that though neither thou nor any man may undo that which is done, nor recommit that which is committed, yet there is this which thou or any man mayest do. Thou mayst bathe thy soul in repentance as in a bath of clear water (for repentance is not remorse but something very different from remorse), and that having so bathed thyself thou mayst clothe thyself as in a fresh raiment of new resolve. So bathed and so clad, thou mayst stand once more upon thy feet and mayst look up to God and say: 'Lo, God! I am Thy handiwork. I have sinned and have done great evil, yet I am still Thy handiwork, who hath made me what I am. So, though I may not undo that which I have done, yet I may, with Thy aid, do better hereafter than I have done heretofore.' "For every man may sin, and yet again may sin; yet still is he God's handiwork, and still God is near by His handiwork to aid him ever to a fresh endeavor to righteousness. "So, though thou hast sinned, thou art still the creation of God and may yet do His will in the world who hath sent thee hither." Then Sir Launcelot wept, and he said, "There is much comfort in thy words." After that he abode for three days in the cell of the hermit and at the end of that time he went forth again into the world, a broken yet a contrite man, and one full of a strong resolve to make good the life that God thenceforth intended him to live. So by and by you shall hear of further adventures that befell him; yet not at this place. So it was with Sir Launcelot, and now it only remaineth to be said that, after his departure from the King's court as aforesaid, they brought the dead figure of the Lady Elaine to the minster at Camelot and there high mass was said for the peace of her pure and gentle soul. So for two days (what time Sir Launcelot was bathing himself in the waters of repentance as aforetold) that figure lay in state in the minster and with many candles burning about it, and then it was buried in the minster and a monument of marble was erected to the memory of that kind and loving spirit that had gone. * * * * * So endeth the history of the Nativity of Galahad and so therewith this book also cometh to an end. Yet after a while, if God giveth me life to finish that work which I have undertaken in writing these histories (and I pray He may give me to finish that and several other things), then I shall tell you many things more than these. For I shall tell you how Sir Launcelot came back again into the world, and I shall tell you of the history of the Quest of the Grail, and I shall tell you of other knights who came in later days to make the court of King Arthur even more glorious than it was before. Already two histories have been written concerning these things and this makes the third, and another, I believe, will complete that work which I have assigned myself to do; wherefore, as was said, I pray that God may grant that I shall be able to finish that fourth book and so end my work that I have here undertaken. Amen. THE END * * * * * Transcriber's Notes: Punctuation has been standardised. Spelling inconsistencies occur throughout this text. Page 11, "Befel" changed to "Befell" (What Befell him) Page 32, "ne'ertheless" changed to "ne'theless" (ne'theless, I cannot find) Page 36, "shie d" changed to "shield" (bare that shield.) Page 78, "Lynnette" changed to "Lynette" (Lynette telleth Sir) Page 84, "Grandregarde" changed to "Grandregard" (hight Granderegard) Page 98, "Axaltalese" changed to "Axatalese" (Gringamore said to Axatalese) Page 98, "Layonesse" changed to "Layonnesse" (Layonnesse and the damsel) Page 99, "Layonesse" changed to "Layonnesse" (my sister, the Lady Layonnesse) Page 101, "the" changed to "then" (even then upon her way) Page 102, "Geharis" changed to "Gaheris" (Sir Gaheris wondered) Page 139, "Palamedes" changed to "Palamydes" (meeting Sir Palamydes) Page 151, "thust" changed to "thrust" (thrust into her bosom) Page 153, "Chavelier" changed to "Chevalier" (in which le Chevalier) Page 176, "Adred" changed to "adread" (The lady is adread) Page 181, "than" changed to "that" (that the other was) Page 195, "knowst" changed to "knowest" (How knowest thou) Page 214, "travered" changed to "traversed" (had traversed various) Page 275, "Percivant" changed to "Percevant" (captive was Sir Percevant) Page 282, "Le" changed to "le" (hight, le Chevalier) Page 297, "Ne'ertheless" changed to "Ne'theless" (Ne'theless, now that)